|Designated Driver by Julian Keys|
In the days before the inebriated had apps to summon a ride, there were designated drivers. Eric is one such, a shy and gay chauffeur who rarely gets propositioned by men unless they’re drunk. He has learned the hard way, however, not to accept such invitations.
And yet, one morning, Eric finds himself in bed beside a very naked man, a man who was anything but sober the night before. It’s Arthur, a handsome customer and friend; Eric has long been hopelessly in love with Arthur. Problem is, Eric doesn’t think Arthur is at all interested in him or that he’s going to be happy with him… if, that is, Arthur can remember what happened between them the night before.
Yet even as Eric tries to sneak away, Arthur wakes, demanding answers. Now Eric must navigate his way through the story, managing every twist and turn. If he doesn’t, it could mean the end of their friendship and of his one chance at true love.
“Bed.” And before I knew it, I was in bed with him. He lay atop me, kissing and cuddling me. Even though I knew he was drunk, it was nice to imagine he actually liked me. Nice to feel safe and cared for in his arms.
I went to sleep. That was my mistake.
The next morning, March 9th, I was woken by a snarl. “What the fuck?” I squinted to see Mike propped up on an arm, red-eyed and glaring at me. The hard light of day was pouring into the room, which probably wasn’t helping his hangover.
“Um, good morning,” I murmured, and tried to slip out of bed.
He grabbed me by the throat. He had huge hands and I have a very skinny neck. I gasped and tried to pry off his fingers.
“Did we fuck last night?” he demanded.
My heart was racing. I tried shaking my head.
“Y-you fucked me,” I managed to gasp.
He shoved me off the bed. I landed hard and tried to crawl away, but he was already out and standing over me. He was as naked as I was, but he didn’t look vulnerable. His fist came down, getting me in the back. I screamed.
Then he grabbed me by my skinny arm, so hard I thought he was going to break it. “I must have been really, really drunk,” he said, “and you must have known it, because I don’t fuck desperate sluts like you. I don’t invite them into my home. I don’t invite them into my bed. And I don’t let them suck my cock.”
“I didn’t—you didn’t! I mean—.”
“I don’t fuck their asses either!” Mike backhanded me. Then he kicked and punched, till I was huddled in the corner, protecting my head and shaking. I thought he was going to kill me.
“Get the fuck out!” he barked.
I scrambled for my clothes and got my jeans on before ending up on his front porch.
“You say one word about this to anyone, and you’re dead,” he promised, and slammed shut the door.