His name is Jamie. He’s twenty-three—much younger than what I usually go for, but once he’s latched onto my side, I can’t seem to shake him loose. The more whiskey I drink, the harder it is to push him away, until he’s perched on my lap at the bar, my arm around his waist and his ass bumping up against the erection jammed down the front of my jeans. I want to wrap this one up, take him home with me. I can imagine all too easily what it would be like to wake up to those blue, blue eyes. Every time Jamie laughs, I bury my nose in his curls and breathe deep his clean, boyish scent. I want him—more than Timothy or Kevin, more than Paul last night, more than Joey at the moment, I want this kid. I need him. My hand strays to the bulge in his crotch and with an affectionate squeeze, I breathe int
