Page 2 of Man of His Dreams
“And if a walkway has support poles underneath, it’s a gallery. Sometimes words can have more than one meaning, can’t they? Like dream, for instance. That can signify all sorts of things.” The smile increased a notch or two, as if this man also enjoyed a good squabble over something insignificant.
“Fine. Whatever you want to call it, my suitcase isn’t here.”
“Maybe you’re better off without the baggage.” The man had an accent. At first Flip thought it was New York, before he realized that it was, of course, New Orleans.
Flip rolled his eyes at the man’s comment. “I don’t want my subconscious making a whole metaphorical thing over this. I’m missing my real, physical suitcase, which contains most of my earthly possessions and is sitting in O’Hare.”
The man came a step closer. “I’m not your subconscious.”
“Yeah?” Now Flip crossed his arms.
He could smell the man’s cologne—something with spicy, woodsy notes—and somewhere nearby a car stereo banged out a song with a lot of bass. The gallery floor felt a little gritty under his bare feet; the humid air hugged his bare skin. He couldn’t recall ever having a dream with such complex sensory information. And although he’d had lucid dreams before, he’d always awakened as soon as he realized what was going on. Not this time.
“What’s your name?” the man asked as he moved closer.
“Flip.”
That brought a laugh. “What?”
“It’s short for Phillip. A stupid childhood nickname that stuck, and since I’m not too fond of either Phillip or Phil, I haven’t tried to shake it.” It was also the name that appeared on his book covers.
“Good to meet you, Flip. They used to call me Scratch. ’Cause I know how to cure an itch.”
The smile turned into a leer, and Flip was so bemused by the whole situation that he accepted the proffered handshake. Scratch had long, slender fingers with a strong grip.
“Flip and Scratch,” Flip muttered. “Sounds like cartoon characters or a really bad board game.”
“Where you from, Flip?”
“California.”
“Always wanted to go there. Never made it.”
Flip felt a little sorry for him, which was ridiculous. “You can go anytime.”
“Nah. Too late. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Scratch now stood so close that Flip could finally make out his features. He had an elegant beauty, like a boy-band heartthrob aged gracefully into his early thirties. Delicate arched eyebrows, a strong nose, the kind of mouth that romantic poets liked to describe. Dark eyes, unfathomably deep, which might have been terrifying if not for his easy grin.
“What you doin’ here in my city, kid?” Scratch’s accent had thickened.
Flip decided he might as well be honest in his sleep. “Withdrawing.”
“From what?”
“Bad decisions.”
Scratch’s low laughter sent a frisson down Flip’s spine. “This here ain’t no good place for hiding from bad decisions. It’s a place for making ’em—and not regretting ’em either.” He reached up and ran his thumb across the stubble on Flip’s jawline.
And Flip woke up, finding himself in that enormous bed, lost between time zones, and with his cock achingly hard.
Chapter
Two
The suitcase remained in Chicago.
Flip should have gone shopping for essentials as soon as he was up and moving in the morning, but he couldn’t get himself into the mood. Instead, after pulling on the fresh set of clothes from his carry-on, he had a pastry and coffee at a charming café on Ursuline Street and then wandered.