Page 17 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

“Great. Paul, grab the tequilas?”

Once he left, Jude picks up the rag he’d left in the disinfectant and redid all his work. Her gaze sweeps her empty empire.

“How’s the cross-fit class going? Anyone drop yet?”

“My students don’t quit,” I scoff. I love bitching about the overcrowded cross-fit class and Jude—because she’s a good friend, great boss, and exceptional bartender—listens attentively as I tell the tale.

Until the door chimes as a customer enters.

The entry wall blocks him from my view, but Jude cackles, “Oh, here’s someone for you, Chard. This cheap bastard comes in every Tuesday to see the teaser, but never to the show.”

A little guy came into the bar, returning her wave. Not “little” like Paul’s boyfriend. Not soft. His jaw and nose could cut wire. Scrappy. Except he’s nestled in a cozy green flannel and a coat several sizes too big. Trying to be mistaken for a butch dyke, but wearing a thick beard. He’s out of place, not just in a gay bar, but with himself.

“How’s your week been, Larry?” Jude asks.

“Pretty damn dead. With this congress, there’s not—” The man notices me leaning on the bar and he forgets it’s impolite to stare.

Jude calls him back with a warm, “The usual? Sour and a cheesesteak?”

“Yup.” He stands at the bar, as far from me as possible.

I study him in the mirror. The dude’s face is wrecked. Scarred by dozens of little gashes and divots, including one big white spot breaking up his left eyebrow. His upper lip is permanently split, like a piercing gone wrong. Must have been in a car crash.

In the mirror, his eyes meet mine. Pale blue, cold, and angry.

I don’t look away at once, maintaining eye contact with his reflection. I’m not used to people frowning at me. It makes me uneasy.

Paul emerges, arms full of tequila bottles.

Feeling uneasy makes me mischievous. “I guess you can blow me since you’re providing the liquor.”

Those angry baby blues swivel away from the mirror as the guy turns toward me in shock. “What?”

“But that’s a lot of tequila, even for me, Paul.” I act like I’d only just saw the little man sitting there. “Sorry, I was teasing my buddy.”

“Who still has a boyfriend.” Paul wanders back into the storeroom for another armful.

“You ever meet Chard in person, Larry?” Jude set his drink on the bar.

“No.” He doesn’t touch it until she skewers a cherry on a tiny straw and drops that into the glass. “Seen him dance.”

I smile over, turn to accept his praise, and extend my hand. “Chard Stagger.”

He takes my hand. “Laurence Trockel.”

That name is unfortunate.

Something’s wrong with his fingers. The tips of the gloves are empty. What the hell is this guy?

I smile brighter to drive away any revulsion I betrayed. “Trockel? Interesting name.”

“It’s awkward, but it’s mine.”

The only name more awkward I can think of is Jeremy Sowenburger, but I don’t trot my real name out for strangers. “What brings you to East Quay every Tuesday?”

“What do you think?”

Oh, hostile … sexy!

---