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  “Better not be jerking off on my sheets.”

  “The fuck do you want? Thought you had today off. Go spend it trading places with your rich boyfriend’s other lapdog.”

  Jamie slammed the door open. “The Queer Angels Miracle Network came through. You got a job.” He waved his phone at Scott as he struggled free of the squishy vinyl.

  “What kind?”

  “Barback. Some place called Schim’s Tavern, up in Charles Village. Near Johns Hopkins.”

  Now on his feet, Scott grabbed for the phone, but Jamie jerked it away.

  “Checked it out. Kind of a dive. Some noise complaints when they have live music.” Jamie’s phone buzzed and he swiped at it. “Go up today after two. Ask for Chai. And don’t give her any shit about her name.” He frowned. “Tell her the Rooster sent you and don’t argue with her.” He looked at Scott. “If they’re dealing out of there, I don’t want to fucking know. Watch your ass.”

  That might have been good enough for Jamie, but Scott hadn’t stayed alive this long just taking other people’s words for things. While Jamie was in the shower, Scott snuck into Jamie’s room and scooped up the phone from where it was charging on his nightstand. The code was easy enough to crack. Since the phone looked new, Scott put in the date Jamie’s dad had died. Dates had always stuck in Scott’s head. January 10, last time he saw his mom. October 22, night they called him about his sister.

  September 14, the day Liam left him.

  Scott was a little disappointed that Jamie’s boyfriend was just listed under “Gavin” and not something Scott could mock him for like “Sugarlips.” Gavin’s texts were the most recent. Scott scrolled up.

  If you think the place is okay, here’s the rest of the message from Beach. See you in a bit.

  The next was a copied image of a text from “Beach.”

  Apparently this is a covert op. The contact is Chai. Don’t make fun of her name. The code is “Rooster sent me.” Also, don’t disagree with anything she says. You have to tell me how this all turns out. For my memoirs, of course. Love to Sergeant Boyfriend.

  Scott put the phone back on the nightstand and slipped back out of Jamie’s room. Whoever Beach was, he sounded like a dick, but Gavin didn’t seem like a guy who would fuck someone over without good reason, and if Scott had ever met anyone more anti-practical-joke than Jamie, it was news to Scott.

  What the hell. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do than feed the squirrels.

  Chapter Eight

  SCHIM’S TAVERN was in an old building on the corner of two side streets. Glass windows in front gave it a look like one of those old corner markets. Before picking a spot for the Mustang, Scott cruised the block. A 7-Eleven on North Howard, some row houses, an abandoned one-story warehouse of some kind. Schim’s bricks had been painted blue at some point, but the sun had blistered and faded them on one side. The bar shared an alley with a tire store and a wall with a barber shop that led to more row houses.

  There were two bikes, Triumphs, in a spot near the front. Scott took the next spot down, then admired the custom paint on one of the Triumphs’ tanks. There was enough wear on both to say they were ridden, not just for show. Scott scanned the signs in the windows and doors for any indication it was an MC hangout. Most of the stickers and posters advertised beer and upcoming bands, but the door had a row of service stickers. One big US veteran eagle sticker next to a POW-MIA emblem, then ones for Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan.

  Everything didn’t have to remind him of Liam, but the fucking universe was giving it a damned good shot.

  The AC unit sticking out over the front door pissed down his neck, so he stopped pussying around, yanked on the handle, and stepped inside. His eyes took a while to adjust from the bright sun to the dark inside. A long wooden bar with about twenty different taps stretched to his right, the flags on the ceiling matching the stickers on the door. A woman with her hands braced on the lacquered wood peered at him. She had springy orangish curls and pale brown skin covered in freckles. Her eyes looked friendly, but her voice was suspicious. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah. I’m looking for Chai. Here about the barback job.”

  She came around the end of the bar and studied him. They were alone in the bar except for a guy running a broom across a stage in back.

  “How’d you hear about the job?”

  Scott felt like an idiot but said, “Uh, the Rooster sent me.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Here’s your interview. Swap out the Doggie Style. My brother Reeve’ll show you where to put the empty. Reeve.”

  The guy on the stage turned and stepped down, moving through a beam of sunlight. There were twice as many freckles across his cheeks as on his sister’s. He wore his hair in long dreads, parts dark brown, parts dyed blond and red, all of it pulled back in a ponytail. His eyes, damn. Scott didn’t spend a lot of time checking out a dude’s face if he wanted to hook up. But Reeve’s eyes were stupidly pretty, big and dark with thick lashes that looked like they brushed his high cheekbones. Jesus. Scott wanted to snarl to hide the warmth in his cheeks.

  “Barback? Thank Cthulhu. I almost broke my hand this weekend.” Reeve’s grin made his eyes even prettier.

  “Maybe,” his sister warned. “He’s changing out a keg. Make yourself useful.”

  Reeve led the way to a hallway and then a door. “It’s only eight stairs. I’ll help you drag it if you want.”

  Scott knew a test when one got shoved in his face. “I can handle it.”

  The cellar was cool, with a cement floor, and not surprisingly smelled like a brewery. There were kegs stacked two high along one wall and liquor cases along the other. A dolly leaned against a keg. The Flying Dog Doggie Style keg was on the bottom row, but Scott hadn’t been expecting anything easy.

  It wasn’t that bad to lift, and he had a momentary thought of hoisting it up the stairs without the dolly, but two steps toward the dolly took care of that stupid idea. He strapped it down with the bungee cords and dragged it up, one step at a time, then wheeled it behind the bar. He’d never set a tap, but looking at the hookup, he figured it out and got them swapped. When he straightened, Chai slapped an application form on the bar in front of him.

  He looked down at it, and at the space for his social security number so the fucking IRS could keep peeling away half the eleven dollars an hour he’d be making.

  Chai put her hand over the application. “Few house rules you need to know first.” She pointed at two pictures behind the bar. “That’s my grandfather, Pop Schim.”

  The one framed pic looked like every Army graduation picture Scott had seen. Another one showed a much older guy working the taps, his right arm a prosthesis that ended in a hook. And all at once Scott got it: “Rooster,” like the Alice in Chains song about Vietnam. He wasn’t stupid enough to say that out loud.

  “If someone toasts him, we all stop and toast him.”

  Scott nodded.

  “Two, no disrespecting other vets. Everybody keeps their politics out of the fucking bar.”

  “Got it.”

  “Which is not to say we don’t sometimes need help with some stupid motherfucker who needs to get tossed.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  Chai gave him a steady look, then snorted a laugh. “Yeah. I bet. Don’t do it unless you’re asked.” She took her hand off the application and handed him a pen.

  He stared down at the lines and boxes, tapping the pen. He needed a job, right? What the hell difference did it make if he was never going to get out from under that fucking tax bill?

  Chai’s hand covered the application again. “Problem?”

  “Nah.”

  “Where’d you serve?” Chai asked.

  Scott could give two shits about what people thought was honorable or right. He’d never been able to afford that kind of bullshit. But this wasn’t something he could lie about.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Fine. You don’t have to talk about it.”
r />   She pulled the application away.

  Well, so much for that.

  But Chai didn’t throw him out. “Sometimes we get volunteers. We reimburse them for their expenses in cash.”

  “Like what kind of cash?”

  “You got a place to stay?”

  Scott shrugged.

  Chai folded her arms. “I got a cot in a storeroom. We could use the nighttime security. You give me 3:00 p.m. till closing. You get the spot to crash and seventy bucks a night. But you drink our stock and you’re out. Deal?”

  It wasn’t minimum wage, but without the garnishment, he’d get to keep everything he made, maybe enough save up enough to get an apartment again.

  “Um”—he dragged a hand through the flop of hair he hadn’t bothered to glue up—“I drive my old neighbor to the store on Mondays.”

  “Lucky you. We’re closed Mondays.”

  Swear to God, if one more person tried to tell him how fucking lucky he was….

  “You got a name?” Chai stuck out her hand.

  “Scott.”

  “Reeve’ll show you the cot. Don’t park in the back on Tuesdays. Deliveries. And hey, Scott.” She poked the pocket of his shirt where his cigarettes were. “You fall asleep smoking and set this place on fire, you better hope you die in it. It’ll be a whole lot less painful than what I’ll do to you if you live.”

  The room was narrow, little more than double the width of the ancient Army cot against the wall. There was an industrial sink at the back, shelves stuffed with paper goods and glassware along the other wall.

  Reeve shut the door and leaned against it.

  Scott arched the brow that had the scar from some asshole’s ring his first time in holding.

  Under the freckles, Reeve’s cheeks flushed. Yeah, the guy had sexy eyes and full soft lips, but Scott could honestly say he wasn’t in the mood.

  Reeve looked away. “Uh, yeah, I’m not gay, more like flexible, you know, but—”

  Scott put a palm on the door near Reeve’s shoulder and leaned. Heat licked across his balls from the way Reeve looked up at him. Not that Scott would do anything about it. He needed this job. “The kind of flexible where I suck your dick now but then we don’t ever talk about it?”

  “No,” Reeve blurted, then swallowed and licked his lips. He probably wasn’t even twenty, and prettier than Scott’s usual taste, but there was something about the guy that made it hard not to pay attention. “I’m not saying that,” Reeve said. “I—saw you looking at me and I wanted—just I’ve got other stuff going on right now, so not that I don’t, but not right now.”

  Scott had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He pushed away from the wall. “That’s good. Because I’m afraid your sister would run up on me if I touched you.”

  “Run up on you? Dude, where’d you grow up?”

  Scott shrugged. “Hell.”

  “Oh, local? Me too.” Reeve offered a fist to bump.

  Scott shook his head and bumped back.

  THE THIRD morning at Schim’s, Scott woke up with a leg slung over the side of the cot and his face smushed against a wall. A not completely unpleasant buzz ran along his jaw. As his brain started firing on all cylinders, he worked out what was causing it. Deep throbbing bass. Not from the street but through the walls.

  The stage at the back of the bar. Bands. Right.

  Oh shit. What time was it?

  He lunged for his phone and the cot flipped, sending him crashing onto the industrial cement floor. It hurt like fuck, but he’d rather damage himself than crush his cigarettes or even his cheapass prepay phone.

  The bass stopped.

  Christ, it was only 11:00 a.m.

  Scott hadn’t managed to drop off before the too-damned-chirpy sparrows nesting under the eaves had woken up to bitch at each other over whose turn it was to feed the kids. He got himself and the cot upright. The music started again. Not just bass this time. Full melody, tickling his memory, but again it cut off just before Scott could name it.

  Some rock band practicing or tuning. Based on names like Purple Suck and Rage Mist littering the posters and stickers he’d seen in the back hall and men’s room, he’d figured the bands that played at Schim’s were either metal or punk.

  As he moved to the sink to wash the sweat and stink off him best he could with a bar towel, more tuning and feedback echoed through the pipes. By the time Scott went into the men’s room to piss, they’d moved on to playing a few bars.

  “We need it dirtier for Mac’s pickup.” Reeve’s voice. He had a weird nasal hum Scott could recognize even on the speakers. More strummed bars. “Yeah. Let’s try that.”

  Scott was curious, but he also really wanted to go out to smoke. If he stuck his head into the bar, he could see himself getting roped into being a roadie. They’d probably be setting up for a while.

  The band crashed into the opening of an old Puddle of Mudd song. Just the first six notes sparked an explosion of memory. Hell, how many times had he and Liam fucked to that song?

  Even more reason to go outside. Except if he didn’t listen to the rest of the song, it was like letting the memories win. Maybe the band would fuck it up. Maybe Reeve would sing it in that nasally voice and Scott would be free of it. Fuck if he was going to suffer the damned earworm all day.

  The voice that rumbled in on the first verse made the hair stand up all over Scott’s arms and neck. Gaining strength, the singer crooned, and Scott swore his ’hawk would lift on its own.

  He rounded the corner into the bar.

  Liam, lips close enough to suck off the damned microphone, dipped to a smoky, throaty whisper before slamming into the chorus.

  Liam tore into the melody, sang the words he’d breathed into Scott’s ear, as deep into him as Liam’s dick had ever been in his ass. The past swallowed Scott up so completely he could feel it in his stomach. The shuddery tension, the fight in him finally surrendering under Liam’s body holding him down, giving him a safe place to let go and come apart because Liam would always be there to look out for him.

  Now Liam was up there in front of Scott, hands working the neck and strings of the guitar cradled against him as he issued the same sexy promise in the lyrics, then let the pain of loss scream through.

  Scott had spent six years killing and burying every stupid soft thing Liam had dragged out. Hope and love and belonging. Goddamn the bastard for showing up everywhere in Scott’s life like they were still sharing it.

  “Fuck you.” Scott whispered it, because he didn’t even want to give Liam the knowledge that Scott gave a shit, that it mattered if Liam could stand up there and sing that song in some cover band, share those feelings between them with random drunk people swaying along with the music.

  But the words fell into the lull between the chorus and the second verse, and Liam turned and stared right at Scott.

  So he said it again and left.

  Chapter Nine

  LIAM JOLTED toward the edge of the stage as Scott disappeared. He wanted to jump down and run after him. Amp lines and his leg held him back. By the time Reeve, Dev, and Mac lurched to a stop, Liam was carefully settling the Epiphone Casino that Reeve had loaned him in its stand on the stage.

  “Exactly what the fuck is he doing here?” Deon shoved away from the table where he’d been sitting.

  “Some fucking closed rehearsal, man,” Dev muttered from behind his kit.

  Reeve looked from Liam to Deon. “He works here.” Reeve slipped the strap of his bass off his neck. “Didn’t you—”

  “Can we take five, please?” Liam would explain things to Deon. He didn’t need to hear it from Reeve.

  “Yeah, whatever. I need to get right.” Mac jerked free of her Gibson.

  “Yeah, yeah. I just want to get through at least one set before we all take off, all right?”

  As Liam stepped down from the stage, Dev started complaining. “Reeve, seriously, man, I’m not sure this is going to work out.”

  But Dev’s is
sues were going to have to wait until Liam got the rest of this sorted out.

  Deon wasn’t waiting this time. “So your ex just happens to work here?”

  “Can we wait so Reeve doesn’t end up writing a song about this?” Liam tried humor, but from the look on Deon’s face, that wasn’t going to fly. “C’mon.” He sighed and led Deon through the side door to the alley.

  Deon shook Liam’s arm away as soon as they were outside. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “First of all, you know goddamned well where I have been the last four nights—and the days too, since you drive me to work.”

  Liam had run out of excuses for avoiding Deon on Monday. But the sex was so perfunctory it hadn’t made either of them feel any better.

  It had been a big shock running into Scott. But he hadn’t wanted to make Deon overthink things. Even if Liam wanted to get back together, Scott was never going to forgive him, assuming Liam ever had a chance to explain in a way that didn’t end up with them tearing bigger holes in each other. He just needed time to sort himself out.

  Deon’s eyes were full of the same hurt they’d held when Liam found himself running out of excuses to stay at his mom’s.

  The look dragged out an instant apology. “I know you didn’t accuse me of cheating. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I making you be somewhere you don’t want to be?”

  “No.” Liam would make it be true. He reached out to squeeze Deon’s hand. “I want to be with you. Look, I didn’t even know Scott would take the job.”

  Deon jerked his hand back. “You asked the Schimikowskis to hire him?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What exactly?” Deon folded his arms.

  Liam forced his own body language to stay open. Both of them getting defensive wouldn’t fix anything.

  “I have to explain this first. My mom—when Scott and I were together—my mom was holding down a job, but she was using. I was out of high school, but technically she still had me as a dependent and I couldn’t get much financial aid. And I didn’t want to live with her. Scott worked from two in the morning to six at night so I could go to school full-time.”