Page 36 of Romeo vs Romeo

Roman

Luke Whitaker’s signing event attracted well over five hundred people. Poor Rafael needed to drive to the storage locker six blocks away to fetch more books. Twice.

Mama Viv’s idea to hold the signing on her stage was a stroke of brilliance. Our petition had been registered earlier this week, so the event that kicked it off was perfect. The author of some of the most beloved queer fantasy graphic novels could bring a crowd to Neon Nights on short notice, it turned out.

Bradley found a clever way to offer the visitors discounted drinks without losing money on them, and Tristan and I decided to set up the petition signing table for everyone who had their book signed. Luke took the time to tell every single person who approached him about the troubles Neon Nights faced, so our petition received signatures from all of his readers.

Rafael documented the events in all his spare minutes when he wasn’t hauling extra inventory. He filmed Luke’s speech about the event at the start of the signing and photographed people who were willing to be photographed.

Tristan and I kept getting more water to our table because speaking so much with everyone was a much thirstier business than I’d imagined. This was no die-in on the street. This was real work.

“I’m just saying, it’s been a few days,” Tristan said.

I looked into my best friend’s eyes reproachfully. It stung that he was right. “Maybe it’s time for Cedric to come out,” I said. It was spiteful and unnecessary, and I regretted it immediately.

Tristan stiffened a little. “Give him time, Rome. We both need to process it.”

“I know,” I said in a soft voice. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Tristan nodded understandingly. “You’re on edge. I get it.”

“It sucks,” I admitted, shifting a little to face him. Our tables were joined together and covered with a big, white cloth that was cluttered with petition papers and flyers we were handing out. “Everett’s parents are super religious. And I mean serious, devout Catholics. He’s struggling with that.”

“I understand,” Tristan said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just worried that we don’t have a way to contact him.”

“He’ll show up,” I said with the sort of firmness I didn’t feel.

Everett had been so reluctant to leave that night after we’d had sex. It was almost like he feared something on instinct or premonition. My heart lurched whenever I thought of him. What if it had been too soon after all? What if he’d gotten caught somehow? What if…?

I had hoped to see him earlier this week. After Saturday night, I had somehow assumed he would find excuses to come and find me. I had expected him to be around more and to see what the plans were. The corkboard was installed by the bar with the events we were planning and the volunteer signup book that Bradley curated. On Tuesday, we’d staged an impromptu protest on Billionaires’ Row one morning, catching a good sight of Harold Langley as he was leaving his residence up in the clouds. He was aware of us, I knew. I had just hoped to share that small, victorious moment with the person who was never too absent from my mind.

“Hey,” Tristan said urgently.

I looked at his worried expression, then followed his gaze to the front door of the bar. There, walking like he carried all the burdens of the universe, was Everett. He wore a black shirttucked into his light gray pants, and a dark burgundy sweater hung from around his shoulders, its sleeves tied over Everett’s big chest. He looked like a preppy frat boy and a total wet dream of mine. His pants were tight, his shirt fitted, and his haircut fresh. Just seeing him dialed up the everlasting desire that simmered within me.

“You’re blushing,” Tristan said.

“Bite me,” I said.

My friend poked me in the ribs, and I yelped, immediately embarrassed. Everett had a grim expression on his face as he pushed through the crowd of Luke’s excited fans. They seemed to part before him without really noticing what they were doing. Everett had this immense aura in the dusk glow that poured through the windows that made him look fiery. His eyes were on me as he crossed the room.

“There he is,” I said, grinning like a schoolboy faced with his biggest crush.

Everett’s intense gaze never left my eyes. His words then set fire to my soul. “I missed you.” His voice was deep and heavy, like he was relaying the most important information ever. To me, perhaps it was just that.

I had nothing clever to say to him. The reply was a simple, unstoppable smile.

“Are you busy?” Everett asked.

I looked at the papers scattered before me and the small cluster of people who were heading toward our table. “A little. You could sign the petition while you’re there.”

“Later,” Everett said, tension rippling over his face. “I’ll sign it later. But… Oh, sorry.” He stepped aside while three girls and two guys approached the table, asking if they could sign the petition to protect Neon Nights.

Tristan and I got down to talking to the group as it split into two lines, one for me and one for Tris. We explained thegrave need for volunteers, picket-line attendees, and awareness campaigners. These five happily signed the petition and moved over to Bradley to sign up for volunteering.

I looked up at Everett. “The corkboard is up with the schedule. I’d love to see you tomorrow for the ball. Sodom and Gomorrah are coming from Vegas to perform.”

Everett’s facial muscles tensed, but he nodded as if to confirm he would be here.

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