Apartment 1209

object of sexual pursuit? Luckily the coffee perked me up enough to converse on a basic level. I was still pretty tired.
    Finally, Mr. Conway showed up with my key. He said I could make one copy of it and bring it back to him by end of day tomorrow.
    “I’m sure Mr. Holloway’s been keeping you entertained,” he said as he looked my savior over with barely concealed contempt.
    “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Conway?” Ryan asked, with a look of concern.
    “Nothing,” the other man mumbled. He glanced at me, then turned and walked away, whispering something under his breath that I couldn’t catch.
    I looked at Ryan. “That was weird.”
    He nodded. “He’s a strange guy.”
    “Well, thanks for helping me out, and for the coffee.”
    “It was great to finally meet you, Henry. Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime?”
    Was he asking me on a date?
    Again, the stuttering: “Well, I… sure, but I don’t have a lot of time. I work at a call centre in the morning, walk dogs at lunchtime, and go to school in the afternoon. Usually, I have a shift at Boston Pizza in the evening.”
    He stared at me. “My, you are a busy fellow. No wonder you’re so tired.”
    As if on cue I had to cover a yawn. “I do want to go out with you, I just don’t know when I can,” I admitted, honestly. After my previous misinterpretation, I thought I’d better check. “You are asking me out, right?”
    He smiled. “Oh yes. Well, why don’t you contact me when you have a spare hour sometime? You know where I live. If I’m not home, slip a note under the door.”
    Why did that sound so dirty?
    “Okay.” I said. “Thanks again.”
    “Please be more careful with your key, Henry. I’d hate to think of you stuck outside again.”
    “It was luck that you came along.”
    “Very.”
    I turned and walked away, hearing the door close behind me. I knew I wouldn’t fall asleep anytime soon, tired though I was.
    ****
    I didn’t really have time to think about Ryan’s offer for the next several days. My work and school commitments kept me busy and I never seemed to pass him in the building to even say a quick hello.
    On Friday, during my shift bussing tables at Boston Pizza, my co-worker, Frank, noticed I was a little distracted when he caught me forgetting to put out cutlery on my just-wiped tables.
    “Henry, what the hell has got you all daydream-y anyway?” he asked. “You finally get a boyfriend?”
    I blushed, shaking my head. Frank was gay too, but enjoyed the freedom of one-night stands and getting groped in back rooms more than I did. Hell, I didn’t even have time for that .
    I guess he could tell from my shamefaced denial that something was up, because he didn’t let it go.
    “You met someone, though, right?” He regarded me intently as I shrugged. “Someone hot?”
    I met his gaze with what must have been an open confession.
    “I knew it! Who is he?” he asked, sitting down in the booth I was cleaning.
    “Just this guy in my building.”
    “Really? That’s convenient. What’s his name? A fellow student or a working stiff?” He grinned at his pun.
    I shrugged again. “He’s older. He works, I guess. He said his name was Ryan Holloway.”
    Frank stared at me, and I realized quickly it wasn’t just shock that I’d actually spoken to a hot guy. His face paled and his mouth dropped open for a moment, then closed.
    He coughed. “Did you say Ryan Holloway?”
    I nodded, confused and a little anxious all of a sudden. I stopped wiping the table and just stared at Frank’s startled expression. He emitted an impressed sigh/whistle as he slowly reached into his back pocket and pulled something out. He unfolded the piece of paper and held it up before me. “Does he look like this?”
    My mouth went dry as I examined the full-page ad for some downtown establishment named… Holloway’s.
    Oh, fuck.
    It was my sexy neighbor. But he wasn’t wearing jeans and a T-shirt in this picture. He wore a leather harness, leather pants and heavy motorcycle boots.
    He looked… even hotter. At his big, booted feet kneeled a young man, about my age, with spiky blond hair and a dog collar, his hands resting reverently on Ryan’s hips, cheek pressed against the older man’s leathered thigh.
    “What is that?”
    “Is this him ? Seriously, is this the Ryan Holloway you’re talking about?”
    “Yes,” I stammered.
    “Fuck!” he exclaimed, regarding me with sudden respect. “You little shit.”
    I looked at him,