by E M Lindsey
“He’s at Fitz’s booth.”
Wilder looked up at Theo’s face. “He’s what?”
‘Fitz’s booth,’ Theo spelled on his fingers. “He’s looking at scarves. Why don’t you say hi, and I’ll watch your booth?”
Wilder glanced through the slit in the back of his booth tent that had a direct line to Fitz’s. It was a smaller square, just a short table with an awning and a finger-painted sign he was pretty sure Parker made that read, Fitz’s Knitz. Fitz was standing behind his table wearing a small frown, saying something Wilder couldn’t read off his lips from there, and Lorenzo was running his hands over one of the scarves.
He looked gorgeous, even from behind, with his artfully messy hair and his tight, stone-washed jeans. His forearms were slender but muscular, and his fingers were long and thin. Wilder wanted to feel them on his body, wanted to know what Lorenzo smelled like up close, with his nose buried in the man’s neck.
He was in so much trouble.
Stepping back, he opened his mouth to say no, but the look on Theo’s face said that if he didn’t, Theo would make him pay for it. And maybe his friend was being a bit cruel, but maybe—somewhere deep down—Wilder was ready to take a step he hadn’t let himself in years.
‘Fine.’ His thumb tapped his chest a little too hard, but he barely felt it. Brushing past Theo, he walked around the side of his table, then down the aisle behind his booth and caught Fitz’s eye as he approached.
Fitz’s middle finger dragged up the side of his chest. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ Wilder signed back, and he knew Fitz’s lexicon didn’t extend much further than that—but it was something.
And it had caught Lorenzo’s eye, whose head whipped around, and his eyes widened. He took a step back, and he wasn’t limping as badly as before, so Wilder hoped it meant that his pain was less. He had the mad urge to look down at his crotch and see if he looked bigger, but he wasn’t a fool.
“Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say hi,” Wilder said as he stepped closer. “You looking to buy?”
Lorenzo swallowed thickly, then shrugged. “I like these, but this guy is trying to talk me out of buying one.”
Wilder looked up at Fitz, who was smiling helplessly. “They’re terrible.”
“They’re interesting,” Lorenzo argued, and where anyone else might have been trying to be nice, Wilder knew Lorenzo wasn’t motivated for that. He was staring at Fitz’s work like it meant something—like there was a hidden pattern in the stitches that no one had figured out. “I want at least two.”
Fitz sighed, then took the two that Lorenzo had been touching and shoved them into a paper bag, pushing it toward him. “There you go.” When Lorenzo reached for his wallet, Fitz shook his head. “Your money’s no good here.”
Lorenzo’s fingers twitched, but the motion didn’t stop, and he pulled out two twenties. “I’m sure you’ll find use for it somewhere.” He slapped the bills on the table and then grabbed the bag, stalking off.
Fitz stared after him, mouth slightly parted, and then he looked back at Wilder. “Do you know what the fuck that was about?”
“It might have been about the incident?” Wilder offered, not sure if Parker had spilled the truth yet.
Fitz’s brow furrowed. “The…Tavern thing?”
Something about Fitz not knowing made Wilder’s chest unknot, and he shook his head. “Uh, no. No, he had a bad day, and he probably thought you were doing it out of pity.”
Grabbing the twenties, Fitz shoved them at Wilder and held them against his chest until Wilder took them. “Go take that sorry ass man out for dinner or something. He’s walking and talking like he has an actual stick up his ass.”
Wilder tried not to wince, because it was true. Lorenzo was prickly, and he was still moving with a slight limp. He curled the cash into his palm, then shoved it in his pocket and resolved to find a way to give it back to Fitz somehow. He definitely wanted to take Lorenzo to dinner, but not on Fitz’s dime.
With a quick wave, Wilder weaved through the increasing crowd and managed to catch up to Lorenzo, who had found his same bus bench and was sitting there with the bag between his spread thighs. He had half a scarf out and was running his fingers over the fringes—all of them mismatched in color and length—and a mess. And yet, it was oddly fitting for Lorenzo.
He slowed a bit as he approached, and he watched Lorenzo stiffen when the other man realized he was there, but his presence wasn’t immediately rejected. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Lorenzo snorted and shook his head. “People only say that when they’re nervous.”
Wilder bit his lip, then sat down. “Yeah well, you make me nervous.”
At that, Lorenzo laughed—a full-bodied sound that was more vibration than noise, and it hit Wilder in the center of his chest. “Are you worried that my bad luck is catching?”
“I’m worried that you’re going to panic and leave without giving this place a chance,” he said. Without giving me a chance, but he wasn’t going to say that aloud. Not yet. “How are you feeling?”
“Dr. Alling gave me narcotics,” Lorenzo answered with a shrug.
Wilder’s lips twitched. “It’s weird to hear anyone call him Dr. Alling. He’s…”
“A mess?” Lorenzo offered.
“Unconventional.”
Lorenzo’s shoulders rose and fell, and Wilder assumed he sighed. ‘I thought it was going to be worse than it was, but I was hoping he wouldn’t tell anyone.’
‘I don’t think he did,’ Wilder replied. ‘Fitz didn’t know.’
Lorenzo scoffed. ‘So why the free scarves?’
‘Because he’s only ever charged two people in his life, and one of those people is the man he’s going to marry.’
Lorenzo’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’
‘Because they didn’t really like each other very much when they first met.’ Wilder dropped his hands into his lap, then reached over and pulled one of the scarves out. Although they were poor stitching and didn’t seem to have much in the way of consistency in color or even yarn texture, there was something unique about them that Wilder had always loved. He knew the teasing was in good fun, but he liked that Lorenzo saw something more in them. He saw something of worth.
‘They’re actually interesting,’ Lorenzo signed. ‘Different. I like that. I know a lot of people who would like that.’
‘He’s not in it for money,’ Wilder signed, trying to keep his face gentle.
Lorenzo shrugged. ‘I understood what he was saying, but he should still get paid for the work.’
Wilder bit his lip, then decided it didn’t really matter since Fitz had never hidden himself from anyone in Cherry Creek. “He was burned in a fire when he was a kid—fourteen or fifteen, I think? He was in therapy for a long time, and he does this mostly to help keep his fingers from getting too stiff.”
“Like Raphael with the massages?”
Wilder’s brows shot up. “The what?” He felt a sudden and unexpected rush of jealousy—the image of Lorenzo stripped down and Raphael’s hands all over him. And it wasn’t his place but…
“He gave me a pedicure and then later he massaged my hands after the whole…goat thing,” he grimaced. “He said he did them for a long time because it helped his hands…or something.” Lorenzo let out a laugh Wilder could see more than hear, it was so soft. “I was kind of out of it by the time he was finished with my right hand.”
Wilder felt himself calm, even though the ground beneath him felt shaky. “He’s a good guy.” And god—he meant it, even if he didn’t want to right then. “He seems to like you.”
“God knows why,” Lorenzo said. He took the scarf back and shoved the bag between his feet, turning to face Wilder better. “The first time I met him, I fell down the fucking stairs. The second time I met him, I embarrassed myself in front of the entire Tavern. And the fourth time we hung out was because I had my dick bashed to pieces by a goat. There’s no way he should want to be my friend.�
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“You don’t have to be a certain way for people to like you,” Wilder pointed out.
Lorenzo shrugged. “Maybe in your world. And maybe that’s what I need to learn, I don’t know. I don’t really have friends like that. People who want to be around you without wanting something. Back home, they either want money, sex, or both. And I don’t think it’s ever been genuine.”
Wilder flushed deep inside because in truth, he wasn’t sure what it was about Lorenzo he liked—but he knew the feeling was more than friendship. So, did that make him as bad as all those other people in Lorenzo’s life? “I think a lot of places—it’s kill or be killed, you know? People tend to step on each other as a means of survival. And Cherry Creek is not perfect. Everyone’s closet has a skeleton or two—including mine.”
Lorenzo bit his lip, and Wilder didn’t miss the way he glanced down at his scar. He wasn’t ashamed of them, but there were moments—a lot like this one—where he was glad the rest were covered by his clothes. People knew he’d been through something, but they didn’t feel compelled to ask about the details when they couldn’t see the physical extent of how badly Scott had hurt him.
“I was in a bad relationship,” Wilder started, and Lorenzo shook his head.
“No, you don’t need to.”
Wilder lifted his hands. ‘I was in a bad relationship,’ he began again, and being able to say it all in sign and be understood—even if he had to go slow—was like a balm to his soul. ‘Years ago. I was young when we met, and I was looking for an escape because I didn’t get along with my parents.’ Wilder took a breath, but it felt powerful to see that his hands weren’t shaking. ‘He was nice at first, but after a while, it gradually changed. I tried to leave one night, and he didn’t like that. And I got hurt.’
Lorenzo grimaced, but it looked more like it was from anger instead of pity. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He went to jail for about eighteen months, and then served some probation. I moved back in with my parents, and I re-up a restraining order once every twelve months. He will occasionally get my number or my email address and try to contact me, but he’s lost his power over me.’
Lorenzo’s hands clenched into fists, then relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’
Wilder wanted to brush him off, because he always hated the ‘I’m sorries’ from people. But it was more than that—especially in ASL. Lorenzo’s fist rubbed over his chest in a fierce circle that said so much more than those two, superfluous, spoken words. It meant sympathy, empathy. It meant touching his own heart the way he might touch Wilder’s to soothe those old wounds that still existed, scabbed over and mostly dead.
‘I left my parents and came here not long after that and opened up the shop,’ Wilder went on. ‘It hasn’t been perfect. People didn’t want me here—they wanted Simon to stay or Levi to take over the place. But they got used to me eventually.’
Lorenzo laughed, this time a bit louder, and a little kinder. ‘Is that what I should do? Hang tight until they get used to me?’
‘It’s an option,’ Wilder pointed out. ‘You’ve made friends.’
Lorenzo bit his lip, then nodded. ‘That means something.’
‘And you don’t have to hang out with masochistic goats if you don’t want to,’ Wilder pointed out.
This time, Lorenzo’s laugh boomed from his chest, wild and all-encompassing. ‘Okay.’
‘But maybe…you might also want to have dinner. With me,’ he added after a second.
Lorenzo’s lips parted and chest expanded like he sucked in his breath. ‘Why?’
‘Because as far as I know, we’re both humans who eat human food, and I know a couple of decent places. Here and down the hill,’ he added, in case Lorenzo wasn’t ready to face the Cherry Creek nightlife just yet.
After a beat, Lorenzo nodded. ‘Tomorrow?’
Tomorrow would work—he would make it work. It had been years since Wilder had thought of anything except his bakery, and his quiet life, and his Tuesday wine nights with Theo, Eddie, and Andy. The newness was nerve wracking and knee-trembling, but he wanted it. He hadn’t realized how starving he was for a new step, for proof to himself and to anyone who had known him before that Scott hadn’t entirely destroyed him. That he had managed to save all the pieces of himself, even if they didn’t fit together the same way anymore.
When he’d seen this man, looking like a lost puppy on a park bench, he’d only wanted to offer a cupcake and a kind word. He’d had no idea the potential it had to become something so much more.
Chapter Nine
It wasn’t a date. It most definitely was not a date, but it felt like a damn date, and that had him panicking almost beyond reason. Eventually, Lorenzo rushed downstairs and slammed himself against Raphael’s desk, careful not to jostle his still-aching dick as he met the other man’s wide gaze.
“Help.”
Raphael cleared his throat and rolled back in his chair. “Help?”
“I have a thing.”
“You have a thing?” Raphael’s lips twitched. “You really need to be more specific.”
“Dinner. Tonight. Uh,” Lorenzo sat back and ran his hand through his hair. “It’s not a date?”
“Are you asking me?” His tone was more amused than anything, which only served to make Lorenzo more panicked.
“I don’t know. I’m think I’m freaking out.”
With a small sigh, Raphael wheeled around his desk and dragged his gaze up and down Lorenzo’s body. “Give me five minutes.”
Sagging against the desk, Lorenzo tried to calm himself down because he had no right to get worked up in the first place. Wilder was being nice—Wilder felt sorry for him, with good reason. But he also seemed like maybe he kind of liked having Lorenzo around, and even if it wasn’t romantic, it was the first time Lorenzo realized he was going to have to impress someone simply by being himself.
And that was terrifying, because he didn’t have much self. Before his money, he’d been a pliable stoner who worked customer service and always had a couch for friends to crash on. After money, he’d been a walking ATM—or a walking orgasm. Even Gabby—and god he did adore her—wouldn’t have bothered to stick around if he hadn’t put her through school.
The tuition checks had earned him plenty of blow jobs and late-night Chinese take-out and reality TV binges, but he had no illusions about why she was with him. To her—he was a glorified sugar daddy. He was a pretty wallet, but ultimately just a sad old man with no direction.
So why did Wilder want this at all? Pity was one thing, but he wanted Lorenzo to stay, and he didn’t think it was to change the way Lorenzo thought about Cherry Creek.
After all—he was nothing. He was no one.
What did it matter?
“You look like you’re about to have an actual breakdown,” Raphael said, jarring Lorenzo from his thoughts.
Lorenzo cleared his throat, annoyed that it was tight and hot. “It’s just been a day. This is normally how I calm myself down.”
“That surprises me in no way,” Raphael said with a grin. “Come on. Jayden’s back here, and he’s going to do your hair, and then I’ll give you a facial. The proper kind, not the come kind.”
Lorenzo’s cheeks flushed hotly. “Are you always like this?”
“Yes.” Raphael rolled ahead of Lorenzo with long strides of his chair and came to a stop at the doorway of a back room. Just inside was a tall, thin man with soft, long hair—black with tinted beetle-blue highlights. It accentuated how pale he was, and how dark his eyes were, but his smile was as soft and friendly as his posture was intimidating. “This is Jayden. Jayden, this is Lorenzo—the squatter.”
Lorenzo’s mouth dropped open to defend himself, but Jayden just laughed and gave the chair a pat. “Come on, gorgeous. You don’t need much, but I can fix you up.” Raphael was gone before Lorenzo could protest, so he sank into the chair and closed his eyes as the stylist began to run fingers through his hair. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jayden said
after a beat.
Lorenzo scoffed. “I have no doubt. I didn’t exactly make a great impression.”
“No, but you made a big one. My sisters are still talking about it.”
Lorenzo’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at Jayden in the mirror. “Your sisters?”
“Rose and Sonia. They own the Tavern,” he said. He rubbed a few locks of Lorenzo’s hair between his fingers.
‘Fuck,’ Lorenzo mouthed. “You know I didn’t mean it, right? I didn’t…it was a bad night, and…”
Jayden’s chuckle quieted his words, and he laid his hands on Lorenzo’s shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going to shave you bald or dye you green—though you could rock a fantasy color so hard. But Raphael explained everything, and Sonia feels really bad about the pine nuts.”
Lorenzo’s cheeks heated, and he glanced away. “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”
Jayden simply hummed and then grabbed a comb from his drawer and began to drag it through his locks. “You don’t color your hair.”
Lorenzo shook his head. “Not yet, but I will. My older brother, Pietro—he went grey at twenty-three, and I was always terrified. He looks amazing with it, but I don’t think I could pull it off.”
“It happens to us all, but you shouldn’t be ashamed of it. You wear youth like a shield.”
Lorenzo bit the inside of his cheek, feeling his defenses rise. He’d known enough stylists in his day that tried to act like therapists, and there was something about Jayden that cut to the quick. Mostly because he wasn’t wrong. Lorenzo was into his forties but looking at his life, no one would have known. He hadn’t done anything a grown adult should have done. He was a glorified teenager with daddy’s black card and no curfew.
It was embarrassing. He had no idea how he’d managed to fall so far off the path his brothers and sisters walked.
