Page 1 of The Cartographer

Chapter One

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Ishould goto bed. If I were one of my clients, I’d tell myself to go to bed. Which would explain why I’m standing in front of a bar I’ve never been to, where I likely won’t know anyone. Straight from the airport, not bothering to stop at home because all I’ve got is my messenger bag.

The bar isn’t as polished as the places I usually frequent, but it’ll do. I don’t want to see anyone I have a relationship with right now. It’s not often I get worn out, but a weekend at a funeral… That’ll do it. Even if it’s in paradise. Maybe especially if it’s in paradise, because death shouldn’t happen in a place like that. But I suppose people die everywhere, all the time.

This is why I can’t go home yet. Have to get some of this leftover melancholy out of my system before I ruffle Matthew’s mother-hen feathers. He’d mean well, but I don’t feel like being clucked over. So I tug open the door, the curved metal of the handle smooth and slick under my touch, and walk through the door.

The bar’s dark, but even so, scanning the room, I don’t see anyone familiar. For the most part, I enjoy running into clients in the wild. I take their cues, either making conversation or not. Mostly not. I’m a shameful secret for many of them. I get it. I provide a service. An essential one, if they’re to be believed, but a secret one nonetheless.

I’m very good with secrets.

There’s an empty booth at the back. I head toward it because having your back to the wall is always a good idea. But a movement behind the bar attracts my attention and I hesitate. Handsome man. Black, tall, built. His black T-shirt is stretched taut over his broad chest, and he looks harried, even though he’s got a bright, white smile plastered on his clean-shaven face. But there aren’t many people crowding the wooden counter—oak probably? Reclaimed? Because that’s the kind of place this is.

A familiar voice sounds at the back of my head:What is he worried about? What does he need? Helping people is the best and most important thing you can ever do.

I slacken my tie and tip my head as I undo the first button of my shirt, loosening my collar.Leave it, Walter.I came here because I need not to care about someone else for a couple of hours. No shame in that.

But that stupid voice—it won’t shut up. It never does. Besides, nothing makes me feel better than being in control, and helping someone is a good way to gain control.

So I change course, sling my messenger bag under an empty stool at the far end of the bar, take a seat, and watch. The guy’s a mix of graceful economy of movement—I’m guessing military, but maybe a serious athlete—and uncertainty. As if he has no idea what he’s doing. New? It’s a Sunday night, not a bad time to start a new guy.

He wipes his hands on the short grey apron tied around his hips and spins, looking for something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t find it because his eyes land on me. In that blink, I can tell: gay. Or some stripe of queer. Whatever he is, he likes the look of me.

Sure he does. There’s a slight constriction in my chest, a silent laugh. I’m worn out. I should be at home, having Matthew undress me and catching up on the non-urgent communiques I let slide while I was in Kona. Instead, I’m in some random-ass bar, trolling this bartender who seems out of place somehow. Vanilla, for all I know. I raise an eyebrow and tip my head toward the couple he was serving.Back to work, barkeep.

He blinks at me again, shakes his head, the hint of a smile curling up one side of his full mouth. The possibility of the words “yes, sir” coming out of that mouth enters my mind and…yes. A possibility. He finds the bottle opener he’d been looking for, cracks a couple of craft beers, and hands them over to the couple before heading over to me.

“What can I get for you?”

You, on your knees in the bathroom in five minutes?

If there were another person working the bar, I might say it. It works more often than you’d think.

“Manhattan.”

What I’d really like is a Laureate. I could be at home, having Matthew make up a batch, but instead I’m perched on an uncomfortable, vinyl-covered barstool and wondering what the bartender’s shaved head would feel like under my fingertips while he eagerly undid my belt. Would he enjoy it if I slipped it out from the beltloops and put it around his neck? Not tight. I don’t do breathplay with newbies—or hardly anyone, really—but I could tighten it enough to make him feel vulnerable, controlled, mine. Maybe he’d like that.

I study him as he makes the drink, and I get the impression he’s not new. No, it’s worse than that. There’s enough confidence, competence, in the way he carries himself he could pull it off if that were the only issue. I suspect not only is this guy new atthisbar, but he’s not, in fact, a bartender at all. The moment he reaches for the gin, I’m sure. I let him do it because sometimes you’ve got to give people enough rope to hang themselves before you show them how to tie a knot.

He brings it over, and I pay cash, telling him to keep it, which is a better-than-necessary tip he thanks me for. I’d like to invite him to linger, but he drops a nod and turns to the register to ring in the sale. Before he can turn back or I can ask a leading question I bet would have him elbows on the bar and looking at me with intent, there’s a commotion at the door and a crowd of people surge inside. This is clearly not their first stop.

Since I can’t flirt with my bartender, I take a sip of my drink and…fuck. That is disgusting. I didn’t think it’d be good, but it’s blatantly atrocious. If I were a better person, I’d let it go. Slip off the stool and head home where I belong, where Matthew is undoubtedly waiting for me. I’d texted him to let him know I wasn’t coming home right away, but I shouldn’t keep him up too late.

There’s something about this man that calls to me, though. Maybe the vulnerability or maybe the tats snaking up his arms and under those sleeves. I want to know what they say. I want to know his story. Such a weakness, this need to seep into people’s hearts and minds and souls until I can crack them wide open like water that freezes in a rock.

I get his attention with a raised finger, and he heads over, glancing over his shoulder at the rowdy crowd making their way over.

“Something else?”

“No. This…” I tap the bar next to the martini glass of death, shaking my head. “This is not a Manhattan. This is more like a Camden.”

Geography humor. I wish India were sitting next to me; she’d appreciate it. Or not. She doesn’t have much of a sense of humor these days.

I pitched my tone harsh, and the way his face crumples—as if he’d be blushing if his skin weren’t quite so dark—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it. Very much.

“I—I’m sorry, sir, I—”

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