My heart is beating so hard as I walk through the door Ryan's holding open for me. The greeter at the restaurant smiles warmly at us, as if she's trying to let me know it'll be okay. She walks us to the patio area and there they are: all my fellow freaks. They don't look freaky. They look normal. Even the ones wearing leather and collars and wigs.
"Hi Ryan. This must be Miriam?" I hear a man say. I turn to my right and he's smiling warmly at me, holding out his hand.
"Yes," I say. I'm afraid to say any more.
"Hi. I'm Joe," he says as we shake hands, "I'm glad you could make it." His hand is warm and dry.
"I am, too," I say, though I'm still unsure.
Joe gives a short little laugh and says, "It's alright. Everyone here is very respectful. Ryan and I will look out for you."
For some reason, knowing Joe is looking out for me makes me feel a lot better. Ryan's, well, Ryan. My friend with benefits. The guy who knows me well enough to know I should go to a thing called a munch, but not the guy who would make sure I left in one piece. He's not the type who would look out for anyone once he's got someone else to focus on. In bed, that's a good thing. At a social gathering, it's not.
In fact, in less than a minute after seating ourselves and giving the server our drink orders, Ryan's already excused himself to go talk to a cute, young couple a few tables away.
But then, in less time than that, his seat is taken by a man about my age. Slightly balding, slightly plump, but nicely dressed.
"Mind if I join you? I'm David Brecht," he says, extending his hand. There's a gin and tonic in his other hand.
"Miriam Myrrh," I hear myself say as I meet his gaze. His eyes are relaxed, confident, terrifyingly wonderful. I realize I really am in the right place.
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