On the Steamy Side

by Louisa Edwards

  “Grant,” Devon cut in. “Take Christian down to the basement and show him where we keep the cases of liquor.”

  Thus outmaneuvered, Grant shot a glance at Lilah, as if to confirm she’d be okay left alone on the other side of the bar with the mean, mean man.

  Devon wanted to snarl that she’d be fine, but he held his tongue through sheer force of will. Lilah gave Grant a reassuring smile that had Devon catching a rumbling growl in his chest before it could vocalize, and walked over to him.

  “Yes, Mr. Sparks?”

  She was all chilly formality. So that’s how they were going to play it? Fine, he could work with that.

  Working not to snap, Devon said, “I hope your hand is okay. Wouldn’t want you to have cracked a bone or anything.”

  That brought a slight, pretty pink to her cheeks, although her green eyes never flinched.

  “Thank you for your concern, but it’s not necessary. I assure you, I’m perfectly all right.” She swallowed, the click of her throat audible to Devon, who was paying such avid attention he’d swear he could count the flecks of gray in her irises. “And yourself?”

  Sweet Lilah Jane. Couldn’t keep a good mad on for longer than a few minutes. Devon wanted to smile but he forced his expression to remain grave. “I’m very well, thank you.”

  Lilah seemed thrown, as if she’d expected this encounter to go very differently. Probably she’d envisioned it with more yelling and throwing of barware. He was sort of amazed she’d chosen to sit near anything breakable, given his reputation.

  “Good. That’s … good,” she said. “Um. Is the restaurant open for lunch service today?”

  “Sunday brunch,” he told her. “Boring. Nothing but eggs Benedict and smoked salmon as far as the eye can see. Don’t worry, though, I’ve got some plans to spice up the menu a bit.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Devon thought he saw Grant wince, but he paid it no mind. The man wasn’t a chef; what the hell did he know about setting a menu?

  “I guess Tucker and I should be going soon. Is there anything you want us to get done today?”

  Devon paused. “Like … what? Homework?”

  Lilah gave him a look. “Yes. Other than shopping for new clothes and a toy or two, how would you prefer your son spends his time?”

  Crap. “Whatever you think is best.”

  There, that ought to do it.

  Lilah sighed.

  Evidently not.

  “Devon.” At least she wasn’t still calling him Mr. Sparks. “Boys Tucker’s age need structure. They need to know what their boundaries are so they feel safe and secure enough to test them out.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, a little desperately. “Let’s go with that.”

  “With what? You haven’t given me any … okay. You know what? Don’t worry about it. I’ll work something out for today. But Devon, you and me, we are going to have to talk about this. He’s your son, I know you care about him, and you are by God going to show it by setting some ground rules for him while he lives with you.”

  Lilah’s eyes were flashing, her rosebud of a mouth furled in bossy disapproval. Devon wanted to bend her over the nearest flat surface and kiss her senseless. What the hell was happening to him?

  In an attempt to gain control of the runaway situation, Devon said, “You’re on. Let’s talk about it tonight after dinner service.”

  Lilah relaxed out of full-on Amazon mode. “Really? That would be fantastic, if you won’t be too tired when you get home.”

  “Oh, not at home,” Devon said. “The whole crew is going out after dinner service. To Chapel.” He looked at Christian, willing him to go along with it. “To show our appreciation for Christian here, taking time away from his bar to help out at Market.”

  “Right,” said Chris, expression bland. “Your hooligan brigade plus my tiny bar equals good, clean fun all around.”

  Grant bristled. “That dump of yours wouldn’t know good, clean fun if it were full of roller-skating nuns,” he shot back.

  “Your idea of fun and mine are obviously a little different,” Christian drawled.

  Lilah gave them an uncertain glance. Leaning closer, Devon distracted her from the bickering men by dropping his voice and saying, “I have to be there tonight; I’m sort of the unofficial host of the party, you might say. I’d like it if you’d meet me there. Around midnight?”

  “That late?” Lilah’s voice was faint. Devon wet his lower lip slowly, testing the waters, and nearly grinned when her gaze followed the glide of his tongue. “I mean … what about Tucker?”

  “I’ll call my assistant. Daniel can come over and babysit while you’re out.”

  “Has Tucker ever met your assistant?” Lilah fretted. She appeared to be trying to come up with reasons not to meet him at Chapel. “I wouldn’t want him to be freaked out by having a stranger show up.”

  “At midnight? Surely he’l be long asleep.” Sensing her wavering, Devon couldn’t help but push. “I’m not asking you out on a date, Lilah. I’m asking you there as your employer, to discuss matters pertaining to your job. This is when it’s convenient for me. I want you to be there.”

  As expected, his high-handedness raised flags of color in her rounded cheeks. Lilah tilted her chin up.

  “Of course, Mr. Sparks. I wouldn’t dream of disobeying my employer.”

  With a regal nod to the guys by the bar, Lilah turned on her heel. Just as she got to the kitchen door, Devon called, “See you at midnight, Cinderella. Don’t be late.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lilah had never seen so many people wearing so very little. The dark, smoky interior of Chapel was packed with sweaty, thrashing bodies in various states of undress.

  Surely Devon didn’t intend to try and have a serious discussion here. And yet she realized that some of the half-naked bodies around her were attached to vaguely familiar faces, people she knew from Market. They all looked extremely different without their trim, tidy chef’s whites.

  Wild music pounded from a tiny, elevated stage in one corner of the room where a woman with bright orange hair and a sparkly nose ring was wailing into a microphone. Her band was arrayed behind her, and Lilah was surprised to recognize Frankie hunched over a bass guitar and rocking out to the beat. A small but energetic mosh pit seethed around the stage.

  Lilah spotted Jess Wake, the server whose station she’d abandoned halfway through her one and only dinner service, sitting at a round table with a dark-haired man she thought she remembered from the Market kitchen. They were talking animatedly, and she wondered how they could hear each other through the din. As she watched, Jess’s gaze wandered from his friend to linger on the band.

  Searching the crowd for Devon, Lilah found Grant instead. He’d found a seat well away from the speakers and was glaring morosely into a martini glass half full of disconcertingly blue liquid.

  Relieved, Lilah pushed her way through the throng to get to him. “This is quite a scene,” she yelled above the cacophony.

  “Lolly!” Grant looked as happy to see her as she was to see him. “Have a seat, sweetie.”

  “I can’t, I’ve got to find Devon. He asked me to come so we could talk about Tucker.”

  “Right.” Grant was skeptical. “He wants to have a nice little chat at a hundred decibels. I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

  Lilah prayed it was too dark to show the uncertainty she knew must be written all over her face. She had no idea what she was getting into, or where it was going, but she’d discovered herself helpless to stop it. “I expected more of a party atmosphere here,” she said, changing the subject gracelessly. “Even considering how loud and crazy it is, no one looks particularly jubilant.”

  “We usually come to Chapel to blow off steam after a good service,” Grant said. “When the night goes well, you’re wired, pumped up with energy and adrenaline, so far beyond exhausted that sleep becomes impossible.”

  Lilah studied the intense looks on the faces around her
. “And if the night goes badly?”

  “You get this.” Grant looked like he wanted to make a sweeping arm gesture, but was too bushed to manage it. “All the rowdy, none of the fun. They’re taking out their frustrations and mistakes on the dance floor, our eardrums, and massive amounts of alcohol.”

  “So service didn’t go well.”

  “It was a fiasco. Starting with Devon’s refusal to serve anything resembling brunch food at brunch and carrying all the way through to his perversion of the regulars’ menu favorites with flavored foams and weird sauce reductions. I’m telling you, Lilah, every third plate was sent back to the kitchen. The line was in chaos, every chef on it was practically in tears. Devon got more and more grim as the night went on, but he never backed down and let the guys start doing what the customers have come to expect from Market—simple food, done superlatively well. I mean, mercy, I know it’s only the second night. But I’m not sure the restaurant can survive much more of this. I’m not sure I can survive it.”

  “Sounds like y’all took a good licking tonight,” Lilah said, her heart beating too hard and fast in her chest. The disloyalty of it made her throat ache, but as badly as she felt for poor Grant, all Lilah really wanted to do was find Devon and see how he was doing.

  About ready to keel over, she was willing to bet. And covering it with arrogance and cold indifference.

  “And what made it worse,” Grant moaned, “was that he was there. Through the whole thing, being all …”

  “Wait, who?” Lilah was confused. “Devon?”

  “No, him!” Grant jerked his head toward the bar. “Christian Colby.”

  The way he spat the name, malevolently caressing each syllable, gave Lilah the shivers. “What on earth did that bartender do to make you hate him so much?”

  “Look at him!” Grant exclaimed. “Standing there, pouring drinks, all sympathetic and quiet. Looks like the kinda guy you could tell anything to, doesn’t he?”

  Lilah tried to read between the lines. “Grant, sugar. Are you trying to tell me that bartender is blackmailing you?”

  “No!” Grant looked genuinely horrified. “Oh, mercy, I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  “But what could he possible have on you?” Lilah protested. “You’re, like, the sweetest, nicest man who ever lived.”

  Grant squirmed in his chair. “Not that nice. Come on, Lolly, I mean, I’m human. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, like anyone else. I just … wish I didn’t have to be reminded of them every single time I look at Chris Colby.”

  Mystified, Lilah swiveled in her chair, searching out Christian Colby with new interest. He was holding up a cocktail shaker as if offering the contents to one of his customers. Lilah cocked her head and tried to see what it was about the man that turned Grant into a whack-a-doo.

  The bartender reminded Lilah of some of the guys her aunt hired in the summers to help work the farm. Handsome in a rough way, she decided, more cowboy than she’d ever expected to see in Manhattan.

  Christian shook his head and reached behind the bar for a glass bottle. He uncapped it and poured a long stream into a short glass. He leaned on the bar and pushed the glass forward with a sympathetic smile, and for no reason she could articulate, Lilah’s breath came faster. She craned her neck to see who took the drink, but there were too many people in the way.

  “Do you see what I mean?” Grant asked. There was something perilously close to hysteria in his voice.

  “I can’t work with him every day. I just can’t.”

  It was Devon, she was sure of it. Like someone had flipped a switch that started an electrical current flowing between her body and Devon’s, Lilah was suddenly absolutely certain she’d find him at the bar, tossing back whatever liquor it was that Christian had just served.

  She got up and stood looking down at her best friend. “I love you to pieces, Grant, you know that, right? But sugar, you’re not making a lick of sense.”

  Grant scowled down at the scarred tabletop rather than meeting Lilah’s eyes. “Look. Colby knows something about me, okay? Something I never should’ve done, much less told anyone about, but it’s over and done with now. No good can come of raking it all up. Can we just leave it at that?”

  Lilah studied her best friend’s face. He looked miserable. She hated to see him like that, but she wasn’t sure what else to do or say. Unless … “Wait. Is this about … do you like him? Or does he have something against you because of … you know, that?” Wow, awkward much?

  Color bloomed along Grant’s cheekbones. “Geez, Lolly. No, it’s not about that.”

  “Okay.” Lilah was relieved. She’d always known her best friend preferred boys to girls; it was part of him, something she accepted without question. But, in true Southern fashion, they’d never explicitly spoken of it. She only knew she hated the idea of anyone looking down on Grant or disliking him for being gay.

  “Look,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about it. There’s no point.”

  Lilah stared at his stony face. He really wasn’t going to confide in her. Stung, Lilah said, “Fine. I’m going to give you tonight to wallow, but tomorrow I want you back in top Grant form. Get a hold of yourself!

  Christian Colby won’t be around forever; this is only temporary.”

  “Is that what you’re telling yourself?” Grant glared at her. Lilah couldn’t remember him ever looking at her like that before. “It’s not forever, it’s not even real, so you can have a fling with your boss and it’ll all be okay because you know going into it that it’s temporary.”

  The sounds of the bar faded like Lilah was suddenly plunged underwater. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She didn’t know what to say.

  Grant gentled his tone. “A one-night stand is one thing. But you’re living in the man’s apartment now. Seeing him every day. Hon, leaving aside the fact that Devon Sparks is a complete and utter prick and I don’t know what you see in him, you have to know that just because it’s temporary doesn’t mean your actions won’t have consequences. And I’m not talking bun-in-oven consequences because you’re smarter than that. But do you really think you’re the kind of girl who can have an affair and not be devastated when it’s over?”

  If Grant had dashed his blue drink in her face, Lilah couldn’t have been more shocked. She felt like he’d reached into her most deeply held secret wishes and dragged them into the harsh light of reality. Scraped raw, like the hulledout inside of a sugar snap pea.

  And then the empty hollow under her breastbone started to fill up with the cleansing fire of determination.

  “I never have been before,” she said, amazed at the steadiness of her voice. “But then, I’ve never been all that happy, either, have I? I came to New York to change, to build a new life as a new version of myself. It would be pretty pointless to have come all this way and then make all the same, safe choices I would’ve made back in Spotswood County. As King Lear would say, nothing comes from nothing. If I never risk anything, how can I expect anything wonderful to happen?”

  That wasn’t how Grant expected her to respond; Lilah could tell by the way he blinked like she’d whomped him upside the head.

  “Wow. All righty, then. Have a good night and call me tomorrow.”

  Lilah had to laugh. “That’s it? We’re in the middle of our first fight ever and you just cave?”

  “What do you want me to say?” He ran his fingers through the ring of condensation his glass had left on the table. “You’re a big girl, Lolly, and you’re going to do whatever you’re going to do. I can’t protect you, and maybe you’re right, maybe I shouldn’t even try.”

  Lilah relaxed, even though excitement continued to fizz through her veins. They were okay. “After all, it’s better to take a chance and see what comes of it, right?”

  Grant rested his head on one slender hand, his mouth curved in the saddest smile Lilah had ever seen.

  “If you say so. I hope you don’t regret what you have to do to get your chance. Go on, at
least one of us oughta get lucky tonight.”

  Back home, a comment like that might have made her blush, but here, tonight, Lilah felt a strangely exhilarating freedom. She laughed and bent her head to give Grant a smacking kiss on the mouth.

  Framing his so-familiar, beloved face between her palms, she looked him in the eye and said, “Don’t think you’re getting away with holding out on me forever. Like I said, one night to wallow. Tomorrow, you and me? We’re gonna work through this together.”

  Grant made a kissy face at her. “Oh, I think we’ll stick to your secrets, Lolls. You’ll have much more interesting things to share than I will, I’m sure.”

  “Let’s hope so.” She winked and ruffled his hair up, quick-stepping out of reach to avoid his outraged swipe.

  Waving bye over her shoulder, Lilah ducked back into the crowd and started muscling her way to the bar.

  Lilah Jane Tunkle was in the mood to make a bad decision.

  The beat of the music pounded out of the drums, into the cheap, tacked-together floor of the makeshift stage, and up through the worn soles of Frankie’s gray checked Vans. He felt the beat, breathed it, and matched it with his fingers flying up and down the neck of his bass guitar.

  Squeezing his eyes shut against the stinging sweat that wanted to drip from his tangled black hair, Frankie fought to lose himself in the music.

  It was good stuff Dreck was playing tonight, and the rest of the band was on top of their game, pouring energy and life into every bleeding note, but even though Frankie’s fingers followed the beat automatically, pounding the frets and strumming the licks that kept everything moving and throbbing, he couldn’t seem to let go.

  Usually, playing bass was like drowning, everything muffled except for the rhythm and the interplay between the instruments. In practice sessions—not that Dreck practiced overmuch, no one in the band was too concerned with skill level—the drowning was almost peaceful, but in front of a live audience, Frankie loved to thrash against the waves that wanted to pull him under.

  The eyes on him, the bodies throwing themselves around, flashing skin and heat and leather in what could only loosely be characterized as dancing—those things usually sent Frankie into ecstatic dervish mode, at once immersed in the music and in tune with the crowd.