Orange

Hey guys. Been a little while. Sorry. First year of teaching has been hectic. I do have good news though: the good things have begun. Enjoy. :)

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Six months have passed since the courtroom, so it’s been almost nine months since the motel. It’s a Saturday now. I’ve done nothing because I don’t even know who I am anymore. I went from ex-drug addict, with a boyfriend, a writing career, and happy enough to ex-drug addict taking depression meds, has a restraining order out on an ex, can’t write, multiple rape victim. My life fucking sucks. I hate it. It took me so long to build my life into something that I could be at least moderately proud of and now, now that is all gone. All because I was the only person walking down that street. Did I not mention? I was a victim of chance. Not a preplanned hit. They asked my kidnapping rapist why he picked me, and he said, “’Cause he was good-looking and we wanted a man. There he was, so I took him.” Yep. That’s why. Because I was there. Well, now I’m sitting in a coffee shop, more because I want Mark to leave me alone about getting out of the apartment than any actual desire to be here. I used to visit this place all the time and the people still remember me. I had to answer a lot of questions about where I’d been (I’ve had some personal health issues), where is Jack (we broke up, yep, so sad), and did I still like the same drink (yep, but add a shot of espresso please, I need the energy). Now I was finally sitting here at a table, waiting on my drink and watching my cursor taunt me, still.

“Here’s your drink sir!” a cheerful voice declares as my coffee is set down. “The other baristas said to give you this complementary pastry as a welcome back gift. I guess you came in here a lot. I’m new though. My name is Lakota, but most people just call me Kota.”

“Hi Kota. I’m…” my voice dies off as I look up at the man standing next to me. He is the pinnacle of everything I ever considered to be my type. Tall (taller than me and I’m 6 feet tall), slender but if his arms are any indication, well-toned, a tan that seems to be natural, dark, long hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a strong jawline. Somehow, even with the darker complexion, he has storm-grey eyes. He appears to be of Native American descent. For the first time since even before my encounter, I feel a strong attraction to a man.

“Do you have a name or do you not have one? It’ll be really hard for us to talk if you don’t have a name.” Kota has an amused smile on that perfect face of his and I blush (yes, I freaking blush) in embarrassment.

“Cilian. My name is Cilian.” I give a small, still terribly embarrassed smile.

“Nice to meet you Cilian. So what are you working on there Cil?”

I start a little at the nickname but reply, “Uh, I’m a writer. Well, I was. Been having problems with that lately. Kind of a dry spell.” I want to smack myself in the head as that innuendo came out. As it is, my blush just gets worse rather than dying down.

“A writer. Sexy. I hope you dry spell ends soon.” Kota eyes have a mischievous glint in them. Just then, a barista (Katie, I remember her) calls his name. “Well, I gotta get back to work. See you around Cil.”

First off, I’m a gay man. Second, Kota is my type, so you can be sure I checked out his ass. And yes, it was as perfect as the rest of him. Unfortunately, my blush continued when he turned and caught me staring. Well, I know that it’ll come to no good, but I know I’ll be coming back here. A lot.