Live for the Day by Sarah Masters Page A

quick glance at his midsection in my peripheral. Shouldn’t have done that, really, what with his belt being right there, the buckle peering out from the space between his jacket opening. I tensed, expecting confrontation, and thought it best that I wait it out, see what he had to say then piss off back to work.
    “Mind if I sit with you?” he asked and gestured to the seat opposite mine.
    Between a rock and a hard place, that’s where I was. I didn’t want his company but at the same time I bloody did—wanted it more than I liked to admit. It came to something, didn’t it, when being a grown man was exactly the same as being a little kid? All the feelings were there—anxiety, panic, the need to get up and run.
    “If you want,” I said. “I mean, it’s not like I can stop you, is it?”
    “You could.” He sat, placing his sandwich on the table, the paper bag acting as a plate. “And if you don’t want me here, it’s easy enough for me to get up and walk away. No skin off my nose.”
    A part of me wanted to believe he was being genuine—a sodding big part—but the rest had decided he was up to no good. I’d been through it all before, and I resigned myself to going through it again. The false hand of friendship that would quickly change to the slap of spite.
    Only this time I wasn’t prepared to sit there until he decided to strike the first verbal blow.
    “Look, if you’ve got something to say, just say it, all right?” I still wasn’t looking at him. My baguette was more interesting, ham and lettuce spilling out of it, the suspicion of a tomato just beneath the top half. Somewhere in there was a bit of cucumber, and if I was lucky and the old lady who’d made my lunch hadn’t forgotten, a few spring onions.
    “I’ve got lots to say, Trev.”
    Here we go…
    “But I’m not sure you’d want to hear it all.”
    “Probably not, but what’s one more queer-hater to add to my list of people to avoid?” Shit, I sounded a right sour fucker, but life these days had taught me to defend myself. Be on the defensive.
    “Queer-hater?” He laughed quietly.
    It unnerved me. I prodded at my baguette, tucking some lettuce back inside. “Yes, queer-hater. You know, people who don’t like gays. So just do me a favor and spew it all out—you’ll feel better afterwards, I’m sure—then we can both get on with our lives.”
    “Bloody hell, you’ve had one hell of a number done on you, haven’t you?”
    “Something like that.”
    “I wouldn’t want to add to that.”
    I whipped my head up to stare at him, wanting to catch his expression and judge whether he was being sincere. Seemed he was, going by the soft smile and what I could only wish in my wildest dreams was compassion in his brown eyes. Could have knocked me down with a feather, seriously.
    “Oh right,” I said. “So you’re all right about gays, then?”
    “I’d have to be, wouldn’t I?”
    “Not necessarily. A lot of people aren’t.”
    “Don’t I know it, but it’s how you deal with it that matters.” His smile widened. “Sticking two fingers up at the world works wonders. Oh, and shaking your arse at straight men is another. Scares the fuck out of them. Makes them think you want them.”
    I frowned. He’s gay? Was I going to fall for what he’d said? Was I fuck. “If this is just another tactic I’ve so far not experienced, where you make out you’re bent then admit you’re straight, get a move on with it, will you?”
    He pursed his lips. I took a proper look at him then. Average fella, someone you wouldn’t glance twice at. Brown hair, a bit shaggy and in need of a trim, brown eyes, slim nose, rounded chin. Some would say he needed to lose a few pounds, but not me. He had a nick from a razor on his neck. All in all, just a bloke.
    “Been put through the wringer, haven’t you?” he asked then bit into his sandwich. Tuna mayo, heavy on the mayo.
    I sniffed, my stomach growling, reminding me that my baguette was