Page 3 of The Cartographer

“You could say so.”

“You don’t need to keep secrets from me, Hart. I’m good with secrets.”

He looks up, eyes slightly hooded, and it pulls at the same damn heartstring. He’s worried and stressed and trying to do the best he can.Help him.I say his name again, because it’s a human thing above all:I recognize you, I see you, my thoughts are on you. Yet it’s also a dominance thing: every time I say your name, you belong to me a little more. I make you feel more comfortable, safer. I create conditions under which you can give yourself over to me.

Even with my coaxing, he doesn’t answer, so I take a step back. “Start with an easier one then. What’s your first name?”

He smirks, and in the next breath, he looks bigger. Stands up straight, squares powerful shoulders, and lifts his chin. He’s magnificent. “Easier?”

I’ve hit a nerve. Good.

He turns to a trio who’ve wandered up to the bar, pulls a few pints for them, and makes change before turning his attention back to me.

“How about if you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine?”

Bargaining. I’ll let him get away with it for now, but before long, he’ll learn. I don’t barter. And he’ll be begging to give me what I want soon enough.

I hold out a hand. “Reyes Llewelyn Walter, barkeep for hire.”

He snorts and takes my hand. I exert a precise amount of pressure, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull a face. Instead, a small gap forms at the center of his lips and it’s as good a cue as any to rev my engines. Yes, Hart may be just my sort.

“My friends call me Allie.” His tone makes it clear I’m not one of his friends, and I don’t feel I’ve earned that privilege either.

“You owe me more than that.”

His eyes narrow, the nearly black irises becoming slices of suspicion.How much can I trust this guy?

I want to tell him he can trust me with anything, everything. Lots of people do. I can’t, though, because that’s one of the reasons they trust me. Because I understand discretion and keeping my goddamn mouth shut.

“Aloysius Emmett Hart III.”

A tiny chamber in my heart fills up with the knowledge. Another secret to be tucked away, kept safe. I’ll never tell, though I’ll go visit the gift he’s given occasionally. Treasure it. “Hart it is.”

Never too early to teach him I won’t hurt him, I’ll respect his boundaries. We’re not friends yet. Likely never will be. But I’ll call him Allie someday, somewhere outside of my head.

The suspicion has faded but isn’t gone entirely. “You don’t look like a bartender.”

“I’m not. Why would you say that?”

“I know what kind of money a bartender makes. Your clothes are way too nice.”

Is his sister in financial trouble?

“I do okay for myself. So tell me about this favor.”

He hesitates, and I wait. People want to confess. They do. Most of them, you just need to give them time. Or a nudge and then they’ll spill. Sometimes spew. My friend Allie here looks as though he’s been sitting on too much and might blow any minute. I can wait all night. I’ve done it before, will no doubt do it again. Patience, an essential virtue in my line of work.

He checks me, double-checks me with his eyes. “My sister—she has lupus. She does her best to take care of herself and avoid flare-ups, but she’s a war widow with two kids so life can be rough. And when she gets too stressed… Fevers, fatigue, her joints and muscles hurt. Makes it hard to come to work, you know? Her boss is a real asshole. Told her if she misses another shift, she’s done. So when I get a call from Kendra saying she can barely get out of bed to make the kids lunch, what am I supposed to do? She needs the money.”

Another group spills into the bar, bigger and louder than the first. Who are these people and what the fuck are they doing getting wasted on a Sunday night? They don’t head to the bar but claim some seats in the back corner, near the booth I should’ve sat in instead of letting my dick lead me over to Hart.

A waitress claims them, probably thrilled to be getting so many customers on a Sunday night. From the way the men in the group—mostly single, if the lack of rings is any indication—stare at her…well, she’ll be bringing home good money. If Allie can keep his shit together. The urge to stay, help him, is strong, but it’s late. Matthew. My first responsibility is to Matthew.

So I nod. I won’t be getting off in the back alley, backroom, or bathroom tonight. “Good man.”

A shrill voice at the other end of the bar distracts him, and I take the opportunity to dig out whatever cash I have in my wallet. Three hundred eighty-seven dollars. When I travel, I like to keep a decent amount of cash on hand. With a quick check of my phone, I verify there’s a car with the service I use not so far away, so I don’t need to take money for a cab. I leave the lot under my half-full glass behind the bar and sneak away, hoping Hart doesn’t see me abandon him.

Chapter Two

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