Page 52 of Wild Obsession

Concern creases Cameron’s face, the same concernI’ve had to deal with for two days. I’m pretty over it.

“If you wait, I could go with you or…” he says.

“I’m fine,” I cut in. “It’s one drink. I won’t be gone long.”

“You’re sure.”

“Totally.”

He doesn’t look confident in my response, but he accepts it, and that’s all that really matters. I take my opening and get out of the motel room, charging across the parking lot and toward the bar. It doesn’t look like much, especially after all the bars we’ve played shows in. It’s shaped more like a barn or a stable than a bar, a broad building with a peaked roof. It’s even called “The Stable,” so maybe it truly was a barn at some point.

I head inside before I can think too hard about it. It doesn’t matter if it’s the worst bar on the planet. All that matters is them selling me the liquid courage I require to go knock on Keannen’s door.

I hesitate when I step inside, however. Country music plays softly. Everything is made of wood, from the simple, plain tables and chairs to the bar stretching along one wall. Neon signs advertise beer brands, but that’s about all the place offers by way of decoration. The ceiling looms high overhead thanks to that peaked roof, and two struggling fans push the stale, warm air around the room.

More than one patron eyes me when I enter.

Do I look that out of place? I threw on jeans, a T-shirtand a hoodie, figuring that was neutral clothing just about anywhere in the country, but most of the (primarily male) clientele of the bar are wearing black jeans and leather jackets. Loud logos splash across the backs of some of those jackets, and suddenly I recall seeing more than a couple motorcycles lined up outside the place. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but maybe this bar caters to a specific set of clientele, clientele I’m certainly not a part of.

I try to shake it off. I’m here to get a drink. Anyone can sit down and get a drink. Besides, I’ve got to be the most boring-looking guy on the planet. Brown hair, brown eyes, a bit of stubble. About the only thing that sets me apart is the freckles.

Is that why Keannen can be so casual? Am I simply not interesting enough, not attractive enough, not edgy enough? He must attract men with piercings and tattoos and interesting hair cuts. It’s no wonder I would bore him.

That fear pushes me toward the bar. The stares of the patrons are nothing compared to the anxiety burrowing through my chest at the thought of not being good enough for Keannen. Of course I’m not good enough. I’ve never been good enough, not for him, not for my parents, not for my band. I’ve been the weak link in every relationship in my life.

I slide onto a stool at the bar. The bartender is bored enough to notice me after a minute and ask what I’d like.

“Whatever you can make that has whiskey init,” I say.

He nods and leaves, but before he finishes with my drink, someone sits beside me. I glance surreptitiously to the side to find a big guy in one of those fancy leather jackets sitting way too close. Several open stools stand on either side of us. We’re the only two people at the bar, but he’s chosen to sit directly beside me.

I sit up straighter. The bartender returns with a glass of amber liquid, and I throw down a couple bills for him, telling him to keep the change. He nods his thanks, then shoots the guy beside me a look.

“Dean,” the bartender says, but somehow it sounds more like a warning than a greeting.

Whatever he thinks of the guy sitting next to me, he leaves when a customer waves for him at the other end of the bar.

“What are you doing here?” Dean says without preamble.

“Sorry?” It comes out automatically, and judging by Dean’s scowl, it does not do me any favors.

The big man leans closer. “I asked what you’re doing here.”

His eyes sweep swiftly up and down me, and recognition hits me like a blinding flash of light. He’s looking at me like I don’t belong here. He’s looking at me like he can tell from jeans and a hoodie that I’m gay. No one has ever looked at me like this, even that one time I worked up the courage to go to a gay bar. In a city like Seattle, I domore than pass for straight. I’m the epitome of dull, not just straight but wholly unremarkable.

A secret thrill races through me, even though this is the worst time in my entire life for a stranger to figure out I’m gay.

“I’m just having a drink, man,” I say, trying to sound normal.

I can’t keep the nerves out of my voice. I’ve never had to hide. I’ve never had to think about passing. Even in high school, I passed. When my parents yanked me out of Baltimore to fix me, I only got better at hiding. Has being with Keannen somehow made me more obvious? Or is this guy simply so homophobic that anything out of the ordinary will ping his radar?

“Listen,” Dean says, leaning even closer, the whiskey pungent on his breath, “soft city boys like you don’t belong in this bar, you understand?”

“I’m only here for the night.”

“Then stay in your room and stay out of places that aren’t for you.”

Pure hatred burns in the man’s eyes, a deep, seething hatred I’ve only encountered one other time in my life. This was the look my father wore when my mother explained how she’d caught me with Keannen in the back of his car. This seething disgust twisted his features into a mask I’ll never forget. It was the last time I ever saw him in person.

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