Page 21 of Perfectly Leashed
“You’re lucky I know your drink,” Raphael grumbled as he walked off.
“I just ordered three cosmos,” Percy told Darcy. “You’ll love it.”
“If that’s what you ordered,” Elijah muttered.
“How’s Luca?” Percy asked more gently. “Santiago mentioned the doctor had a tough time getting that bullet out.”
“I don’t think Darcy wants to hear about that,” Elijah said, sitting next to Percy.
“It’s true!” Percy protested, but he slouched back in his stool and folded his arms in a theatrical show of self-restraint. “But I get it. No more details. Just drunkenness and pool and laughter,” he said with deliberate brightness, almost convincing himself.
None of which interested Darcy right now. Even though he was trying to wrap his head around what Luca had revealed, he was eager to get back to him.
Why? He’d known the guy less than forty-eight hours, enough time to walk some dogs two times, maybe three if you counted this morning’s misadventure. Not enough time to miss someone or want them safe or feel a magnetic pull every time they were near.
There must’ve been something wrong with his wiring because Darcy didn’t care if it made sense or not. Instead of inventing a reason to leave, he found himself sinking onto the stool beside Percy as if he’d sat there every night for years.
Raphael returned with three neon-pink cocktails, each glass rimmed with salt. He slid one in front of Darcy before setting down two more for Percy and Elijah. “You’re lucky I know you so well.” Raphael grinned at Percy then poured himself two fingers of tequila, a gesture that somehow managed not to be showy.
Darcy inspected the drink. It looked like something from a Miami bachelorette party—all sugar and citric acid glow. He took a cautious sip. Tartness hit first, so strong that his eyes watered before he could swallow it. Percy watched expectantly while nursing his own glass.
“To good health,” Percy declared, raising his cosmopolitan skyward. “And better company!”
“Better company than who?” Elijah deadpanned.
Percy dropped his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “Than our ex-boyfriends.” Then he clinked glasses with Darcy anyway before downing half of it in one gulp and promptly coughing.
Despite himself, Darcy smiled, or maybe it was because there was so much warmth packed into this unlikely camaraderie. Raphael told stories from behind the bar about wild parties, the time a mariachi band set off fireworks indoors, and fights that ended in stitches rather than police calls. He always painted himself as both hero and hapless bystander, depending on which version you believed. Jamie kept ducking through with trays piled high with meatballs or fries before vanishing again into the kitchen.
But what struck Darcy most was how easily these men let him blend in. Not as a guest or an outsider but as some distant cousin who’d missed every family reunion until now.
For a little while it worked. He laughed at Percy’s bad puns and ate spicy meatballs too hot for human mouths—to which Raphael claimed immunity—until even Darcy felt a little buzzed on salt and sugar and belonging.
“You guys don’t seem shocked about what happened today.” He didn’t mean to say it aloud, but there it was, hanging over the counter like a curse word no one wanted to claim.
Percy blinked once, then glanced sidelong at Elijah before answering. “Eh, it’s not our first rodeo.”
“A gunfight is pretty intense for most people,” Darcy pressed gently.
“Most people don’t drink here twice,” Raphael called from down the bar without missing a beat.
Even Elijah smiled at that. A small thing but genuine enough for Darcy to feel its warmth against all reason. Maybe this was what being part of something meant. Knowing everyone had secrets but choosing not to pry unless absolutely necessary. Maybe wounds were less traumatic when someone showed up afterward with drinks in hand and stories ready.
Still. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about Luca? Why did a brush with danger make him want to run toward the guy rather than away?
The conversation swirled around him like cigarette smoke, jokes mixing with gossip. But underneath it all pulsed a steady thrum. None of them cared that reality had broken open today. None cared that men became animals.
Darcy slipped from his stool, swaying as he waved at everyone, then teetered his way back to Luca.
* * * *
Darcy’s head pounded like someone was using his skull for drum practice. Groaning, he ran a hand through his hair, thinking his mouth tasted like an ashtray, even though he didn’t smoke. Everything hurt in that dull, persistent way that meant he’d made questionable decisions the night before.
Those cosmopolitans had been stronger than they looked and had been a mistake. Actually, three pink cosmos had been catastrophic, but they’d tasted so good.
Slowly, awareness crept in, like fog lifting from his brain. Warmth pressed against his back, and something solid supported his head, which definitely wasn’t his lumpy pillow. An arm lay trapped beneath him, heavy and muscled, fingers curled loosely near his ribs.
Oh hell. Darcy was using someone as his pillow. But who? Things were fuzzy after he’d left the bar. He’d walked down the hallway, but…
