Page 274 of Coach
“Here we are,” he said, announcing our arrival. I’d been so absorbed in my mental menagerie that I hadn’t caught us turning into a driveway and parking.
Mateo made to pull his hand away, but my fingers gripped, held him tight, refused to let go. He gave me a little squeeze and smiled, locking with my gaze. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll hold your hand in the club, too.”
And just like that, he pulled away and climbed out of the car.
Chapter 38
Mateo
The second we stepped inside, I grinned.
The Laughing Cat wasn’t much to look at—little more than low ceilings, exposed brick walls, black-painted ducts overhead—but it had that perfect divey charm. The smell of beer and fried appetizers hung in the air, mingling with candle wax and the faint scent of too many perfume choices. Tables were packed in tight, small and round, each with a flickering votive candle that barely lit anything. Conversation buzzed low across the room, blending with clinks of glass and the occasional burst of laughter from an already tipsy group of women near the bar. They looked like a bachelorette party, which was perfect, given the comedian du jour.
At the front of the room sprawled the stage. Atop it rose a single mic stand under a bright spotlight, a battered stool off to one side, and a red velvetcurtain drawn open just far enough to frame the brick backdrop. There was no fanfare, no frills, just the performer, the mic, and a few hundred eyes waiting to be entertained.
And there, front and center as promised, was Mike.
He sat alone at a table for three in the first row, nursing a beer with a shit-eating grin already plastered on his face.
“Come on,” I said to Shane, leading our way through the tangle of tables. “Mike’s already plotting. We’d better not give him too much time alone.”
Shane grunted behind me, the sound sending a little zip straight up my spine.
As we approached, Mike stood, ignored me, and opened his arms wide. “Well, well—if it isn’t my favorite lumberjack!”
“Evening, Mike.” Shane smirked and stuck out a hand, but Mike slapped it away with a dramatic flourish. “Pfft. We’re past that now.”
Before Shane could react, Mike grabbed him in a tight hug—then kissed his cheek with an obnoxiously loudmwah!
Shane stiffened, his cheeks reddening and eyes going wide for a half second before an embarrassed laugh slipped out like a silent fart gone wrong.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his ears now pink. “Jesus, Mike.”
“You’re part of the family now, man. Get used to it.” Mike beamed, then leaned closer, as if to impart some secret knowledge. “Just watch out for Matty. He’ll tongue you to death if you let him.”
I elbowed Mike in the ribs, failing to fight a grin. “Mike, can we maybe save some of the humiliation until after our first round of drinks?”
Mike waggled his brows. “What, I’m just welcoming the boyfriend properly.”
Boyfriend?
Oh, shit. Neither of us had used that word—or anything close to it. Hell, we’d just clasped hands for the first time. Okay, wild monkey sex aside, we hadn’t done anything with particular meaning.
Fine, monkey sex had meaning.
Sort of.
Still, we hadn’t used labels or terms or whatever the fuck “boyfriend” was.
I wanted to crawl under the disgusting table and stare up at a dozen years’ worth of dried gum I was sure to find beneath its top.
Shane groaned, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, desperately trying to escape his iron grip.
I shot Mike a look. “You. Behave. Now.”
Mike winked. “Never.”
With a helpless laugh that sounded more like a gagged hostage’s plea for help, I grabbed the empty chair between them and sat. There was no way in hell I was letting Mike sit beside Shane.
