Page 76 of College Town

“Christ,” Frank mutters. “Act like you’ve been somewhere.”

“I can’t. I’ve been nowhere. I was born here, and I’ve never even been to the nice restaurants.”

“Get it out of your system now, dumbass,” Frank says, then smacks at the backs of their seats. “Get out so I can get out.”

Tommy turns around to shoot him a long, quelling look first, then glances at Lawson. “It’ll be fine. Follow my lead. Do that…” His face colors. “Walk again. That’ll really sell it.”

Yeah? You like that?Lawson wants to ask, but not in front of Frank and the security thugs. He nods instead, and they pile out of the car.

Inside, Estelle’s is even darker and more extremely wood-paneled than he expected. The floor-length tablecloths are the color of blood, and that must indicate a fair amount of criminal customers. It could be because of the red wine, too, but Lawson’s a writer; he’s fanciful.

The lights burn low in wall sconces, so the wavering candles on each table seem bright by comparison, faces lit from below in dramatic butter and bronze. Conversation is low, too, as are the strains of the cello over in the corner.

It's all very elegant and muted, and Lawson holds his head high, schools his features to something bored and superior, and works his walk. Not a lot, but enough, he thinks, if the appreciative look a female customer shoots him from beneath his lashes is any indication. He thinks gangster thoughts, and follows Tommy and their hostess to a private room in the back. It’s one with closeable double doors, and when the hostess presses the handle, fear rears up swift and sudden to grip Lawson by the throat.

He can’t do this. No one believes in him save Tommy and Nat; the hardened men who’ve lived this life for decades think he can’t hack it, and Lawsonknowshe can’t. Sweat prickles along his hairline and itches at the small of his back, and he just knows that his stupid face will betray him. For someone whose writing has been praised as “deft” and “precise,” he doesn’t possess a single subtle bone. He’s going to laugh when he shouldn’t, hysterical, panicked giggles, or open his mouth and say the most moronic thing possible.

His breathing hitches, and his pulse rabbits, and his hands go numb in a bad way.

The waitress pushes the door open slowly – by degrees, it seems, in slow-mo – and Lawson reaches forward to pinch the back of Tommy’s sleeve between two fingers. It’s a light tug, but Tommy glances back sharply over his shoulder, brows notching.

“Tommy,” Lawson whispers, panting. “I can’t–”

Tommy’s brow smooths. He smiles. “You can. Game face on, sweetheart, let’s go.” Then he pastes on a severe expression and faces forward.

Sweetheart. Jesus.

The door opens the rest of the way, and the hostess leads them in.

Lawson attempts to compose himself. Tries to keep up The Walk. Hopes he looks cool instead of nauseated. His feet feel weighted, and a wave of dizziness sweeps over him, but by some miracle, he follows along in Tommy’s wake and gets into a chair without tripping or passing out. Only then does he take stock of the men already seated around the long table.

There are three. To the right, across from Tommy, sits a thick-waisted, iron-haired guy who is clearly the boss. Pugnacious jaw, big, ringed hands spread on the edge of the table; a face that could strip paint off a wall.

Beside him, across from Lawson, is a man their own age, with a nose that has been broken several times, and a low, tight hairline. He looks like Central Casting put out a call for the Most Italian Man Ever and had this guy shoved at them.

The third is young, barely more than a teenager, if that. Lanky, and pretty, and looking at his phone instead of them.

As they get settled – there’s water glasses on the table, little appetizer plates, and baskets of still-steaming breadsticks – the boss leans over the table and hisses at the kid, “Put that shit away.”

The kid huffs a deep, annoyed breath and sets his phone face-down on the table. “Happy?”

No one responds to this.

Tommy hitches upright in his chair, imperious when everyone’s sitting and his height – or lack thereof – isn’t as noticeable, and lays a deliberate hand on Lawson’s shoulder.Sweetheart, Lawson thinks, and manages not to flinch into the touch. He wants to bury his face in the side of Tommy’s throat and breathe against his skin, taste it. He lifts a single brow and tries to look bored.

“Lawson,” Tommy says, and his voice is so commanding and authoritative Lawson worries he’ll pop a stiffy beneath the table. Be cool, he thinks in the direction of his dick, and hums in quiet inquiry. “These are acquaintances of mine. Sal, Stefan, and Taylor Giacoletti. Gentlemen, this is our local partner here in Eastman, Lawson Granger.”

It doesn’t feel good to hear his real, legal name handed over to these men. But, he reasons, if they were following him yesterday, they already knew his real, legal name.

Lawson channels Tom H. – or, well,Loki– with all his might. He tips his head back, lowers his lashes, and looks down his nose, which looks bigger than it is at this angle, but he thinks it’s a look thatworks, in this instance.

“Yourlocalpartner?” Stefan asks, disdainfully.

“That’s right,” Tommy says.

“Our man on the ground,” Frank chimes in, stern and unimpressed with the whole thing.

Sal clears his throat, his voice thick and phlegmy, like he has a cold, or, more likely, has smoked a hell of a lot of expensive cigars. “He don’t speak for himself?”

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