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Kyle Garrick isn't a chaser.
No, his prerogative is always being the one who gets chased, by women, men, everyone in between, brand deals, agencies, designers, you name it.
Lately though, he's been feeling off balance. Maybe it's because he's taking some time off, so rather than strutting through the streets of Lisbon, he's been doing his best to lay low as he visits his best friends, Alex and Farah.
Per usual, Price, his manager, has been a saint of man, expertly diverting any attention as to his whereabouts and leaving him to enjoy his well earned vacation. For the most part, at least.
There's a bar he's been frequenting during his stay, something popular enough to have crowds inside but with patrons polite enough to leave him well alone, something that has become quite the rarity for him.
Still, Kyle is used to getting what he wants.
It's something that comes naturally to him, his slightly spoiled nature something Price, Alex and Farah tease him for, but with a face like his, it's hard for people to say no to him.
So, when he gives the ruggedly handsome bartender his best bedroom eyes for the third night in a row and all he receives in return is a polite smile and another dirty martini, he's feeling quite frustrated.
Alex is laughing his ass off back in the booth, and Farah is doing a poor job of concealing her own laughter.
Johnny, as the bartenders name tag had read, has long since returned to work, paying their table absolutely no attention whatsoever. Price, on the other hand, looks fascinated.
"I've never seen someone so indifferent to your charms," he says, eyes still tracking the fluffy mohawk and golden skin behind the counter.
"I think we need to put him under a microscope and study him in a lab." Alex nodded decisively, ignoring Kyle's whine of protest and his childish pouting.
Despite his earlier defeat, Kyle continued to watch Johnny the Bartender, eyes glued to the man's sizeable muscles, tanned skin and the more intimate things he'd noticed after night's spent watching him; the faded military tattoo on his forearm, how the prosthesis on his left hand grips glasses and blenders in a mimicry of flesh and blood, the deep Scottish brogue of his voice.
Alex's voice broke into his observations, because that's all they are, observations, a questioning look on his face.
"What's got you up in arms about that guy? Just about everyone here has made goo-goo eyes at you, why not just go for someone else?" Kyle glared at him while Price laughed.
Farah was quick to interject, a smug smile of her own on her lips. "Oh Alex, you should know by now that wanting what he can't have is Gaz' most human trait," she teased, much to his chagrin. Naturally, he gave as good as he got, and they began bickering just loud enough for the tables around them to listen in.
Somewhere during the course of the argument, Price had wandered up to the bar and started a conversation with Johnny himself. Kyle could feel the horror slide over his features as his managers hand gestured towards their table, barely resisting the undignified urge to run away screaming.
Nothing comes of it though, and Kyle is almost embarrassed at his overreaction when he realizes Price was just grabbing them another round.
Thankful that the bar's lighting is low enough the furious blush he's sporting can't be made out on his dark skin, Kyle take the opportunity to redirect the conversation, grilling Farah about how her work with refugees from Urzikstan has been going. She eyes him suspiciously, likely seeing the diversion for what it is, but doesn't say anything.
As he suspected it would happen, after a few minutes passion begins to fill her voice, Alex stares at her with a disgusting amount of adoration, and Price begins to ask questions that wrap the whole table into debates over morality, legality, and ethics.
Kyle's dilemma over Johnny the Bartender is largely forgotten, until he remembers his promise to pick up the tab.
"Please bruv, I'll owe you one, a huge favor! Please, Alex?" Holding out his black card, Kyle musters the best puppy eyes he had, buy to no avail. Alex is too wasted to do anything other than obey Farah's every direction like some kind of lapdog, and Kyle's the one paying for it.
He rolls his eyes as they step through the door, Farah offering him a mocking wave while Alex does his best impression of a ragdoll.
Johnny the Bartender is wiping down the counter, arms rippling with every movement. Price left an hour ago, talking to someone on the phone about PR, something Kyle's sure he'll hear about tomorrow, so the model is well and truly on his own.
You are one of the most sought after male models in all of Europe. He's just some decent looking bartender in Portugal. Get your shit together.
Making his way over to the bar, Kyle does his best to look like he hadn't just given himself a drunken pep-talk.
"Hey, here you pay your tab?" Johnny miraculously cuts in before he can say anything stupid like 'Hey, can I lick the sweat off your face?' so he just nods dumbly, staring into the most piercing blue eyes he's ever seen.
"I'll have that right out for you in a moment, darlin'," he says with a wink, plucking the card from Kyle's suddenly frozen fingers, leaving the model to hope the high pitched ringing he can hear is just in his head and not actually the whine that so desperately wants to come out of his throat.
Moments, or maybe hours, later, Johnny returns with his card, handing it back wrapped in his receipt.
"Right, cheers," is all Kyle's mind can come up with as he heads for the door, definitely not swinging his hips.
"Hope to see you next time," the Scottish voice calls out behind him. Kyle thinks he says something clever in return, but he's too embarrassed and wasted too dwell on it.
The fresh air of the street washes over him gently, and Kyle takes a deep breath, heading back to his flat.
Just before he's about to shove the receipt in the garbage and call it a night, making good on his plans to sleep until five pm the next day, a flash of bright blue on the back catches his eye.
There, on the bottom in near unintelligible hand writing, is a note addressed to him.
Kyle, I'm sorry I appeared so standoffish, the bar has been unreasonably busy the last few nights you've come in. My nights off are Wednesday and Thursday, and my number is xxx-xxx-xxxx. Let me make it up to you? - Johnny
The whoop Kyle let's out echoes across the street and he practically skips home, falling into bed with a smile on his lips and a new number in his phone.
Kyle Garrick: I know a great American place nearby where I've got an in with the owner. Wednesday at 6:30 work for you?
Johnny MacTavish: Sounds wonderful. See you then :)