Page 7 of The Associate

“If so,maybeI’ll buy the first round.” Joe winked and shuffled around his car toward the driver’s side door. “If not, you have a good evening.”

“Thanks.”

Conor walked slowly, listening for cues of Joe’s departure—the initial rev of his car’s engine, the scrape of tires turning in place, and the eventual push forward into traffic. When he thought it safe, he spun on his heel and watched the car shrink into the distance a block before turning out of sight.

“Keep walking, Conor,” he told himself, and every step back to the house took on weight as he contemplated the alternatives. With his father settled into his hospice bed and left to fate, there wasn’t much for him except a vigil. His father, ever the bartender, would no doubt berate him for passing up an invitation to a drink, one with a handsome young man at that.

Indeed, the lecture he predicted played out the moment he arrived home to check on his parents. Conor sat at his father’s beside, holding his frail hand, and took the admonishments in stride.

“Son, there are better things to do than watch an old man die.”

“Da,I love you,” Conor said, flicking his gaze toward his mother, silent and watchful in her corner chair. “It would be selfish of me to leave you and Mam in your time of need.”

Hugh’s laugh devolved into a coughing fit, sending Conor into greater worry. He refused the glass of water Conor poured for him but allowed a swipe across his mouth with a tissue to pick up the spittle. “What can you do, Con?” Hugh asked, his voice a deep rasp. “You’re not a doctor, or a priest, and I’ve long ago given up on miracles.”

Conor’s heart sank to hear the resignation. Seventy-two wasn’t old anymore, and people bounced back from hospice care. “This doesn’t sound like the same man who taught me to stick up for myself when classmates bullied me.”

The smile Hugh spread brought some life to his face. His too-pale skin and thinning hair, more gold than the same vibrant red on Conor’s head, countered the brief moment of vigor. “Con,” he said, “I’d rather you spend a Friday night drinking and dancing with a fine-looking man than watching your father fade away. Would it help if I told you it’s my dying wish?”

“So it’s not for me to move back and take over Lonnegan’s myself?”

Hugh let his smile fall. “One thing at a time,” he said, and put his energy into squeezing Conor’s hand. “Go see about your new gentleman friend. If I’m alive tomorrow, you can spill all the dirty details.”

“Fine. If you’re lucky, I’ll fall madly in love with the first person I see.” Conor kissed his father’s brow, then repeated the gesture with his mam before his reluctant exit from the house to call a car.

Chapter Three

Three establishments catering to the LGBTQIA community operated within San Gaetano territory, all of which paid some kind of protection to the family. If any of their owners or patrons experienced harassment, vandalism, or more severe hate crimes, it didn’t occur via directives from any of Salvatore’s capos or from the don himself. From what Gio gathered through the grapevines, the owners of those bars paid on time and minded their own damn affairs.

Gio respected that, but he was smart enough to stay the hell away from the neighborhood gay hangouts. He abstained from the hookup apps as well, for fear of his capo or another connected man glimpsing it on his phone. Life as a wiseguy came with a full set of risks, but advertise your homosexuality and you may as well put a target on your back for your enemiesandallies to find. While made men earned the privilege of protection, off limits for unsanctioned hits, Gio doubted he’d gain immunity that way if anyone knew the truth.

Don Salvatore lived by the credo emblazoned on many a conservative bumper sticker—Marriage = 1 Man + 1 Woman—and expected his underlings to abide. Like a man wasn’t truly a man unless he banged broads in his youth and sired a brood with an amiable, church-going wife once he’d sown his oats.

Of course, if said oat-sower still had a few seeds left in the pouch and saw it necessary to do a little gardening on the side,shebetter be pretty, on the pill, and discreet.

Fuck if Gio intended to carry on the family’s time-honored traditions of wife, kids and mistress. He’d known from an early age that he preferred his own kind. Despite his desires, he grew strong and hung tough with his hetero counterparts. He well regarded his superiors in most respects, but this one.

How laughable to think, in this day and age, that homosexuality equated to weakness? Often Gio bit his lip during meetings with fellow associates when talked turned dirty, and his peers bragged of shaking down a “coupla swishy fags” because the mood hit them. Were Gio bolder, he’d take his cohorts to JT’s one night and introduce them to the retired SEALs and the construction workers with whom he enjoyed nodding acquaintanceships.

As for men, Gio knew what he liked when it came to sexual partners. He craved the heat of large, strong hands palming his ass, the rough abrasion of whiskers along his skin, the energetic slap of skin on skin as a hung top pounded his hole. When his first choice in type wasn’t available, he found satisfaction with others. Confidence attracted him as much as looks, that and a good sense of humor. Since his first kiss with a boy at fourteen, he’d dallied with a variety of men.

Gio admired men, period. Gym rats, shaggy-chested bears, flexible twinks. Asians, African-Americans, Latinos, Jews, Christians, atheists, frat boys, older queens, blonds and brunettes. He had yet, though, to have a redhead fuck him. He hoped that changed.

As he idled at the last traffic light before the bridge, he called up the image of Conor’s retreating form following their introduction. To say the tall ginger had caught his attention when spotted outside Lonnegan’s was an understatement. Gio’s heart had yet to slow down. That accent, too. Gio bet the man tasted like Irish cream.

Conor ticked every box on Gio’s list for an ideal hookup. He gave an assertive handshake and looked Gio in the eye when they spoke. Confidence,check. He radiated an air of mystery, which indicated a preference toward discretion,check.He possessed a beautiful face highlighted by a plush Cupid’s bow mouth made for sucking cock.

Double check.

Gio hoped Conor showed up at JT’s tonight. Himself, too, if he didn’t rear-end the truck taking its sweet time crossing the intersection onto the bridge. JT’s on the River took up prime real estate outside his family’s territory, near a cluster of galleries and eclectic boutiques and thrift stores. In the interest of attracting older Zoomers and young Millennials, the city was working with business owners to establish the area as an arts district. Yet, JT’s stood as a landmark to the gay community long before the AIDS crisis, and Gio’s existence. History kept the bar in its place, and respect grew around it.

He parked at the edge of the riverfront building’s lot, as far from lampposts as possible. He used his family-sanctioned driver’s license, with a variation of his real name and different birth date, at the ID check and soaked in the lively, black-lit atmosphere. A bass-heavy house mix thumped over loud chatter and cheers. Bodies crowded the main bar and filled nearly every booth along the walls. JT’s patronage was predominantly men and it looked that way tonight. Those in white and light-shade clothing gave off a neon glow under the UV lighting, adding to the venue’s retro disco aura. Gio loved it.

No sense in wasting his Friday night. Gio shouldered past groups of men swaying in place and tipping back longneck bottles and rocks glasses. He caught the eye of the weekend bartender, the doughy but pleasant Dwayne, and opened a tab.

“You see a tall redhead come in here?” he asked, loud enough to hear over the music.

Dwayne wore several slim neon glowsticks, fastened together like bracelets, on his wrists. He flashed a smile that showed off his double chin. “Natural or dyed? Copper, strawberry blonde, or auburn?” He cut his hand through air in a wide arc. “Take your pick.”

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