by J. P. Oliver
I thought of staying; of kicking around at my folks’ place until I found a spot for myself—maybe a studio downtown with a shop underneath, where I could open one more parlor to work out of. Maybe, in this situation, I’d be a better son and be around to help with the yardwork and have family dinners. Maybe, in this situation, I’d move in with Victor, and we would do it all. Maybe we would do nothing. Maybe we would only do exactly as much as either of us wanted or could handle.
I thought of the Chinese food on his sofa, the scary movies, the long nights on one bike, held close as we ripped a seam in the black mountains and counted stars and fooled around in the grass in ways that made me feel ageless and young and permanent.
I thought of how deeply he smelled of old wood and whiskey. How good it felt to have him hold me down and hold me close. How good it felt to have him slide inside and say my name like I was the only thing in the world he’d ever know.
Arousal sparked inside me as I washed the dishes and my folks puttered their way to the living room to watch the news and whatever reruns were on cable that night. It was different than the first time I’d seen Victor. This time, the arousal was deeper, more… affected.
Affectionate, I thought. It’s more affectionate this time.
The idea of leaving North Creek was hard, but the idea of leaving Victor was worse.
I want to stay.
Pausing at the sink, I dropped the dish into the water and called, “Hey! I’m going out!”
I grabbed the keys.
I want to stay in North Creek.
“Okay!” Robert called back, waving over the back of the sofa. “Drive safe, son.”
My thoughts were spinning as I pushed out the front door into the crisp, cool twilight, a swarm as I straddled my bike. I needed to ride, I needed something real and grounding and familiar. The fear of realizing everything at once was too much, too real.
I revved the engine and peeled into the coming night.
I want to stay with Victor.
“What’ll it be, pal?”
I shrugged my leather jacket off, melting into the warmth that exuded from the inside of the Speakeasy. It hung off the back of my bar stool as I looked up at the man before the menu board: Daniel Cross.
We were a few years off from each other, but like most people in North Creek, we knew of each other. Passed by one another at parties. He was the oldest of the Cross brothers, a healthy thirty-five, and smokin’ hot like the rest of the Savage-Cross family: auburn hair that hung just a little past his ears, swept in a mess that screamed, I either just had great sex or I ran my fingers through my hair just two seconds ago. He was tatted and about Victor’s height and had those famous Cross green eyes.
“Shit,” I said. “Didn’t know you’d be tending bar tonight.”
The recognition swept over his face a beat later. “Oh, well, I’ll be damned.”
“Adrian,” I supplied.
“Fuck, right. Adrian.” He held his hand out and I met his hearty shake. “Heard you were back in town, but I didn’t recognize you. You don’t look like you did in high school.”
I chuckled, arms crossing over the bar. “Thank God for that.”
He snorted. “C’mon. It wasn’t so bad.”
“Nah, I guess not,” I said. “But I think I do much better now without the flare jeans with all those studs and hoops on them.”
Daniel laughed and grabbed at a rocks glass. “What’ll it be?”
“Just a bit of whiskey,” I said. “One from the family distillery.”
“Ah.” Daniel was a bit of a showboat. He pulled out the bottle, spun it fluidly twice, and poured with a little flourish before nudging it to me. “Speaking of the family.”
I took a sip, the ice bitingly cold against my lips. “Yeah.”
“A little bird told me,” and he leaned in a bit closer, grin mischievous, “that you’ve been rolling around town with my cousin since you got back and that you two have been connected at the hip ever since. That true?”
I eyed him over the rim of my glass, brow raised.
It was slow in here at this hour, even on a Saturday. I blamed the chill outside. A few older women guzzled beers and shot at the pool table, the occasional crack of their game mingling with the low chatter and soft rock, the sort of oldies we grew up listening to in our parents’ cars. From the little kitchen in the back, the heavy scent of deep-fried appetizers mingled with yeasty beer, and the crack-and-spit of an old man chowing down on sunflower seeds was audible. Slow meant the bartenders had too much time on their hands. Slow meant Daniel Cross was looking to gossip.
“Which cousin?” I asked.
He deflated, head hanging. “C’mon. Level with me.”
I shot him another silent, petulant look.
Daniel pursed his lips, annoyed. “Victor.”
“Oh.” I took another sip. “That one.”
Daniel sighed, picked up a glass that did not need cleaning, and started cleaning it anyway.
“We’ve been hanging out,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “That’s all. I’m just in town to help out my folks around the house.”
It wasn’t as exciting an answer as he was hoping for, but it was an answer.
I took another sip to drown out the voice in my head that asked why I was starting to get cold feet; why I’d been so freaked by the idea of staying with Victor that I had to take a ride to clear my head; why the idea of people gossiping about us being attached at the hip only made things feel stranger.
Daniel left to tend to other patrons as the hours crept from five to six. The first rush of people fresh from work started to trickle into the bar, happy to be done with their reluctant Saturday shifts. In between them, Daniel would stop by to chat and catch up: how his family was holding up, how work was, who was dating who now. The typical fare of bullshit and other people’s business.
I kept the conversation level when it turned to me. I talked family and work, but nothing more, nothing deeper; it was just easier to keep things non-Victor-related and non-Troy or Falcon Grim-related. Keep it vague and keep it in safe territory.
As Daniel swapped my empty glass for a plain old-fashioned glass of ice water, I saw him grin and nod at the door. When I looked, Dominic Savage was waving gently and already making his way over.
“Well, well,” Daniel chuckled, “what brings Mr. Tall, Dark, and Ugly to my humble bar at this hour?”
Pushing the dark bangs from his face, Dominic laughed. “Fuck you, dude. I just wanted an after-work drink, that’s all.”
“Consider it on the house, cousin. The usual?”
“You’re too good to me, Daniel,” he laughed.
Dominic had a clear, bright sort of face. The kind that was just outwardly kind and expressive. He glanced at the seat next to me, and then up to me directly, questioning: is this seat taken? Do you mind?
I nodded at him and he settled into the bar stool, unzipping his bomber.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
I froze, finger on the rim of my glass. “What?”
When I looked at Dom, it was hesitantly. Nervously; wondering what the fuck that was supposed to mean. Unfairly, I imagined Winston Savage—or some wildly sadistic part of him—existing inside of Dominic, which was ridiculous; he never had a reputation for being anything other than perfectly nice and a little bit of a jokester.
He grinned and plucked a napkin from its copper dispenser.
“Victor texted me today. Mentioned you weren’t answering any of his texts.”
I thought about it. Patted my pocket, my other pocket, my jeans.
“Oh…” I said, dumbfounded. “Oh, fuck.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t think he’s freaking out.” Laughing, Dom wiped the remaining motor oil from between his fingers; a workplace hazard. “But I’d definitely give him a call.”
I sighed, rubbing the side of my temple. “Right. Yeah.”
“Hey.”
“Hm?” I looked up at him.
>
Dom studied me, weighing something that seemed important. He only broke this concentration once, to thank Daniel as he breezed past with a beer, moving along to tend to the growing crowd.
“About Victor,” Dominic finally said.
I wasn’t big on patience. I knew it was a virtue and everything, but when someone had something to say, I wanted them to just fucking say it. The waiting—the anticipation—was the worst kind. If it was bad news, I wanted it to just be out there. Let me deal with it. Let me brace against it quickly and not feel sick with waiting.
That’s how I felt at that moment: sick with waiting.
“Yeah,” I said, prompting.
“It’s none of my business, whatever you two are doing. I get that, but he’s my brother,” Dominic said, grinning a little. “My older brother, sure, but he’s always looked out for me, so I look out for him. When I can. So this is just me looking out for him when I say: he doesn’t do casual dating.”
I nodded, feeling disjointed. “Okay.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what you have talked about, if you’ve even been fooling around or whatever.” He took a long sip, shaking his head. “None of my business, like I said. I know he can be sorta private. But I just wanted to let you know. I don’t want him getting hurt or disappointed if he—well, I’ll just say he’s a long-term type of guy, so—”
“I know.”
I paused, realizing I’d really just said that; realizing that I did know that somehow. We never talked about it outright. I was in the moment like I always was, enjoying myself and enjoying Victor’s company, but… I thought about it. What spooked me when it came to words like serious and boyfriend and anything that reeked of commitment.
It wasn’t that I was afraid of Victor being another one of my shitty exes.
It was that he wasn’t an abuser like the rest of them.
It was that he was serious and long-term.
It was that he was never like anyone I’d ever dated before.
And, God, did I fucking need that.
“Oh.” Dom relaxed a bit and grinned. “Okay. Cool. I—I wasn’t trying to be intense or an asshole or anything, I just wanted to be a good brother—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I patted at my pockets, pulled out a twenty, and grabbed my jacket and keys. Slamming the twenty on the counter, I pointed to Dominic as I rushed out of my seat. “Hey. Make sure Daniel gets that.”
“This?” Dominic asked, plucking the bill up.
“Yeah! I’ve got someplace to be, but…” I was already backing towards the door, shouting over the rising noise of the bar. “Tell him to keep the change!”
15
Victor
Saturday was my full free day off from the distillery.
Sundays meant I didn’t have to go into the office, but I usually did work at my home office—checked emails, sent messages, made calls and to-do lists and notes for Beth to look over on Monday—but Saturdays meant total freedom, which meant an abundance of free time to do whatever I wanted: bum around, run errands, watch TV in my boxers all day, work on the Harley Sportster.
Today, I was doing just that, but while my hands were busy all day, my head was occupied by something else entirely: Adrian wasn’t calling me back.
I woke up thinking of him. I knew I wanted to ride the Sportster some more. Inviting him over to lend a hand seemed natural. And if I enjoyed his company and thought of kissing him as we passed tools to each other, well, that was just a bonus.
I texted him before I hopped in the shower, and again when I pulled the canvas off. Nothing ever came. As the afternoon passed, I’d tried calling him twice, but he never answered. I even went so far as to leave a voice message, and it only occurred to me after I hung up that I was starting to sound like a clingy boyfriend.
That gave me pause, the thought startling.
Boyfriend. When the hell did that happen? I spent the rest of the cool afternoon reckoning with the stomach-turning, lightheaded realization that I liked him more than I thought I did.
That couldn’t happen. It shouldn’t happen. Trusting and falling in love only meant getting hurt. I knew it from all the people who’d done it to me already: from Winston and from my ex. Different relationships, but the same cycles: trusting, manipulating, hurting. Maybe that was what Adrian was going to do next: hurt me.
It won’t even be his fault, I told myself. You knew you weren’t supposed to let yourself get this involved.
I was so deep down the rabbit hole of that bleak thought that I didn’t even hear the rural silence break on the back of a motorcycle engine, soft and far away, riding up the hill, until the headlight was tracing down my driveway. I stood and held a hand against the white of it.
As it died, it revealed Adrian, dismounting from his bike and setting his helmet on the back, dark hair a mess from being inside it.
“Adrian,” I said, all that fear rushing back in a very tangible way.
He grinned, hands in his pockets as he walked up to me, almost fearless.
“Heard you were looking for me,” he said, stopping short of the garage. “Sorry for not answering. I didn’t have my phone on me, and I was helping my Pops. And I went for a ride to clear my head after…”
Something was different about him; I realized it the moment he started apologizing. Being around an abusive, toxic personality like Winston’s for so long made reading people second nature; I always had to be able to tell when he was off, anticipate the worst, think of how to counter his cruelty.
Adrian wasn’t cruel, but I sensed something was off about him now.
Rapid-fire, I tried to think of why he would drive all the way out here if something was wrong with him, if something was off. There was only one logical conclusion; one reason people ever showed up in person after ignoring the other all day; one reason why he might have never picked up the phone and needed to clear his head.
Adrian Cole was here to break up with me.
“Adrian,” I started, swallowing around the sick realization. “I—”
“I hate to say something,” he started.
“Look.” I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I… I know being around me can sometimes be a lot. I get anxious and weird and shit, and there’s so much going on with my family, but uh… I don’t know. I’ve liked what we’ve been doing lately. I don’t know what that’s been exactly—”
“Victor.”
“But… it’s been nice. Better than most things I’ve had in the past. Better than most relationships I’ve had in the past. And I don’t wanna use that word if it scares you, because, fuck, it scares me, too, but—”
“Victor.”
I paused; Adrian paused; the whole world paused.
And then he smiled.
“I fucking like you.” He laughed, sort of nervous, grinning down at his boot as he nudged a nearby pebble. “Fuck. I like you so much, Victor, it’s fucked up. It freaked , but I saw your cousin and your brother and then I just realized that, so…”
We looked at each other.
I didn’t feel any less relaxed, but I did feel relief of some sort.
“You talked to my brother?”
“Dominic.” Adrian shrugged. “Not about this, really.”
“Oh.”
The breeze picked up and the garage caught it like a wind tunnel. It blew Adrian’s hair and nudged him closer, nature pushing him towards the warmth of my home.
“You want to come inside?” I asked, nodding towards the door. “Have a beer?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking a little tense but smiling. “Hell, yeah.”
I shut the garage and he followed me in, the house silent and cozy compared to the concrete and twilight and grease. I grimaced at my hands as he peeled out of his jacket, shivering at the temperature change. This time, he didn’t linger behind me in the mudroom or hall as I went to grab our beers; he just welcomed himself to the sofa and flopped down with a content sigh.
“Your place always smells so nice.”
I rinsed my hands in the sink, chuckling. “It doesn’t smell like anything to me.”
“That’s because you live here. You’re used to it, dumbass.”
I plucked two beers from the fridge, and when I got to the living room, he was already sprawled across the cushions. I liked the way he looked on it; I liked how him being there made my house feel so different; not so lonely.
Adrian held his hand out. “Beer me, baby.”
We cracked them open and he lifted his legs for me to sit. As I pulled them into my lap, he signed happily. The feeling was mutual. His legs were warm and weighted and comforting. The scene felt so… domestic.
“So,” I said, breaking the silence as I sipped. “You like me.”
He snorted softly. “Yeah. I guess I do like you.”
We glanced at each other, warm. Affection sparked inside me like fireworks.
“You know that’s mutual, right?” I asked quietly.
With a soft hum, Adrian sat up and leaned against the cushioned back, toying with the neck of his bottle. Running a thumb along the label and thinking. He looked nervous; it was so unlike him to be nervous.
“I told you I freaked out about it,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“And I told you about the guys I used to date. The types of guys and why I didn’t know why I always ended up with them?” Adrian looked at me and I nodded, hand on his knee. He blew out a breath. “Yeah. So you know. There was this one guy, uh… Jason.”
The name sounded like it tasted wrong. He said it like you said something foul or poisonous, like he didn’t want it to take up more space in his mouth than was necessary.
“Okay,” I said, soft and encouraging.
“He was a real prick. Like, king of the pricks. Met him in a bar, seemed like a great guy. We bonded over bikes and shit. He even came in and asked for me to tattoo him personally. I hadn’t done it in a while, so I thought it was great, plus we were flirting. We ended up fooling around for two weeks.” Adrian scoffed and looked away, like he was deeply ashamed of this fact. “We fooled around in my store for two weeks. How fucking unprofessional is that, right? And then we started dating for real, and I thought, fuck, this is really good.”
