Secrets and High Spirits: Secrets, Book 4 (2 page)

Teag gave his friend a swift once-over. Martin would’ve killed them if they sat down at the bar in their work uniforms, but Dylan was already in his street clothes. Meaning that instead of body-hugging black slacks and a white shirt with black bow tie, he wore body-hugging blue jeans and a pale blue shirt with a plaid bow tie of orange and yellow. “You’re really into bow ties now, aren’t you?”

“They are the mark of a dapper gentleman,” Dylan said, nose stuck in the air in mock haughtiness.

Teag snort-chortled and slammed his locker closed. “C’mon, you fop.”

“A
mai tai with extra cherry for the dandy, and a club soda for me.” Teag gave the order to Vic, the day bartender, for whom he was to take over soonish. Vic knew them both well enough that Teag could’ve just asked for
the usual
. He nodded, fixed their drinks and left them alone.

“All right, spill,” Dylan said, nibbling on a cloyingly sweet, artificial-everything abomination that passed for maraschino cherries nowadays, even at Purlieux.

If he had his own place, he’d have the real stuff, Teag thought, even as the sinking feeling in the general vicinity of his viscera reminded him how lousy his chances were of ever getting there. He heaved a sigh and swiftly related the morning’s events, finishing with “…and that tattooed gorilla can have that dump if he wants it.”

Dylan stopped sipping his drink to look thoughtful. Again. This was a new and unexpected tendency of his. “I thought Bruce’s tattoos were kind of cool,” he said, reminding Teag he’d been there too at Teag’s first encounter with Meathead. “Have you taken a closer look at them?”

Teag rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. He took his shirt off for me, and we discussed the merits of assorted tattoo parlors.”

“Don’t be snippy with me. Body art is a form of self-expression. I think you’re prejudiced.”

“The only thing permanently disfiguring your own body expresses is that you have no common sense and lack the ability to reason,” he declared, while wondering when Dylan had picked up his ideas about self-expression. Must’ve been the classes.

“Olly has one.” Dylan reminded him of their other former roommate.

Teag was willing to cut Olly some slack because Olly had a pretty good head on his boyish shoulders. “Only one, and he got it when he was too young to know better. I blame his parents. And even then, he had the sense to put it somewhere where it’s not normally seen.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Dylan pointed the little plastic stirrer from his cocktail at Teag triumphantly. “It’s Bruce you’ve got a problem with. Why? I thought he was kinda hot. You know, all buff and big—like those drawings by that guy. You know.”

“You have to be more specific.”

“Uhm, seriously ripped bikers and stuff in leather doing sexy stuff to each other.”

Teag hazarded a guess. “Tom of Finland?”

“Yeah, that’s the one!” Dylan cheered. “Don’t you think Bruce could be in one of those illustrations? I bet a ton of guys would love to be manhandled by him.” Dylan jiggled his eyebrows.

“Not me, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I forgot—you like to do the manhandling yourself. Still, it’s no reason to hate on the man.”

“Remember how rude he was to us the first time we met?”

“He apologized since, didn’t he?” It was typical of Dylan to think an apology solved everything, considering his own numerous misdemeanors.

“It doesn’t matter.” Teag grappled to explain why Bruce made him bristle and instinctively go on the offensive. He couldn’t. The closest he came to a reason was, “I can’t stand his type—probably spends half a day in the gym, other half in front of the mirror. Thinks he’s God’s gift to gay men.”

Dylan sighed and lifted another maraschino from his glass. “You’re hopeless. What about Leo?” he added without much enthusiasm. “No tattoos, as far as I know, and wants you like a puppy wants a bone.”

“I’m not interested in getting involved. Stop trying to fix me up.”

“Why? I just want you to get out of your funk. You deserve to find someone who treats you right.” Dylan was doing that irritating glow thing again. “You know, someone you can be yourself with. Someone who makes you feel better when you’ve had a bad day. Just because Charlie did a number on you, you shouldn’t give up.”

The mention of Teag’s ex made him grit his teeth, but he refused to dwell. And he was genuinely happy for Dylan. “Simon’s good for you. Be nice to him.”

Dylan gave a lecherous smile. “Oh, trust me, I’m naughty and nice all at once and all the time. I practice all my new skills on him.”

The way Dylan said this sounded suggestive, but Teag was fairly certain Dylan wasn’t going to rent-boy school, and if he did, it would be as a teacher. “What’s this class you’re taking?”

“Dance and the proper application of glitter.” Dylan suddenly straightened up. “Glitter Lounge!” he blurted out, as if it was a matter of great significance.

Teag had no clue why. “What?”

“The name of the bar where your tattooed boyfriend works,” Dylan added with a wink. “I just remembered. You know he makes an even better mai tai than you or Vic.”

Teag willfully ignored the boyfriend comment and snorted. “It’s just liquid candy.”

Dylan gasped. “He said exactly the same thing! You have more things in common than you know. Like making fun of me.” Catching Teag’s narrowing gaze, he rushed on. “Anyway, he uses fresh juice or something. I dunno, not my field. But it’s yummy.” He smacked his lips.

“If you must know, a real mai tai, as it was invented, has no pineapple juice in it, but a blend of rums, orgeat and Curaçao and lime juice.”

Dylan airily waved the lecture aside. “Thank you, Professor, but I like mine with pineapple. So, as I said, Glitter Lounge. It’s just down the street, you know. In case you wanted to pop in for a second or third impression. You might learn to appreciate body art.”

“When pigs learn to fly and you learn to appreciate a well-crafted cocktail.”

“Never say never.” Dylan grinned, but before he could impart any more of his wisdom, his phone dinged. He took a peek and hopped off the barstool. “It’s Simon. I’ve got to skedaddle.” He wrapped his arms around Teag and squeezed. “See you later, Sweet Cheeks. Be good. Or bad. Your choice,” he said, disentangling, and rushed off.

C
hapter Two

A
wildfire of panic swept over Bruce barely minutes after saying good-bye to Ella, and he immediately started second-guessing himself. What the fuck did he just do? Was this a huge mistake? But it was just an offer, he reminded himself. The seller might not accept, and a million other things could go wrong. He could withdraw it too—he hadn’t signed anything yet.

Unfortunately, this way of reasoning only made him realize how much he did want to buy the damn place. He had to find an investor, and he could think of only one person who had that kind of cash lying around. Walter Harford was not only his boss as the owner of Glitter Lounge, but they’d once been lovers. It had to count for something.

Bruce put the car in gear and made for Westwood. He knew he should’ve called ahead, to at least make sure he’d find Walter at home, but he didn’t want to give Walter the chance to turn him down over the phone. His chances were much better face-to-face and spiked with an element of surprise.

A
tall, slender and very young blond guy opened the door. “Can I help you?” he asked while his gaze swept over Bruce with the laser precision of a UPC scanner. His expression spoke of mixed results.

Bruce cared not at all. “I came to see Walter on business. Tell him Bruce is here.” As he expected, the commanding tone had the desired effect. Blondie showed him into the living room and scuttled off to fetch Walter.

The place hadn’t changed much since Bruce had last been here, still a sumptuous showcase of high-end modern furniture. The lounge chair by the bay doors was new. Bruce strode in for a closer look: sleek, minimalist curves of wood frame and lush leather upholstery. A chair to luxuriate in with a Scotch neat, as Walter was inclined to, while taking in the view of the swimming pool outside.

The water glinted blue and inviting—he knew from firsthand experience Walter kept it at a balmy 78º even in the dead of winter, like now. Although, it wasn’t such a huge deal considering what counted as winter in Southern California. The tropical plants surrounding it provided plenty of privacy for skinny-dipping and other pursuits. Bruce absently stroked the soft leather with the tips of his fingers as old memories spilled forth.

“You like my new acquisition?” Walter’s voice startled Bruce out of his thoughts. He turned his back to the view and watched his ex-lover stroll into the room. Blondie followed a step behind like a well-trained puppy.

Walter had a commanding presence—even taller and wider than Bruce, but above all, he carried himself like a man in charge. The sight still made Bruce’s heart beat faster.

Bruce pulled himself together and glanced at the chair. “Nice. You always had excellent taste. In furniture. Herman Miller?” Bruce asked, recalling the name of Walter’s favored designer. Walter had refined and expensive taste. God only knew what he’d ever seen in Bruce, who was neither.

“Of course. You’re looking good, Bruce. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can we talk?” He didn’t say
privately
, but he knew his tone more than implied it. He and Walter had been together long enough to read between each other’s lines.

Walter patted Blondie on the rump. “Kai, be a dear and make yourself scarce.”

Kai shot Bruce a dirty look before sulkily marching out of the room.

“Come, sit and tell me what’s on your mind.” Walter sprawled out on the sofa and tapped the cushion next to him.

But Bruce was too wired to sit. “I have a business proposition.” Walter cocked a brow, and Bruce went on. “I’m going to open my own place and would like you to be an investor.” He continued, stressing the bar’s good location, his business plan and so on. “You won’t regret it,” he said in closing.

Walter sighed and shook his head in an imperious way that both made Bruce’s composure crumble and groin stir. “Really, Bruce, what have you got into your head now? You’ve always been too impulsive. It’ll only get you into trouble. I hope you haven’t signed anything.”

The patronizing tone took care of Bruce’s unwanted arousal, but he kept his tone calm. “What is so impulsive about me starting my own business? Especially now that you’re selling the Glitter Lounge. It’s not like I’m being disloyal. By the way, you could’ve mentioned that fact before. I might have been interested in buying.”

“You can’t afford it.”

This was true, and not only because Walter had priced the bar too high, but Bruce didn’t appreciate the reminder. The disparity between them was one of the bigger things that had wrecked their relationship. Bruce yearned to be dominated in bed, but Walter couldn’t, wouldn’t stop there. Walter was richer, smarter, better educated and far more refined than Bruce and never let him forget it.

Bruce had been able to ignore Walter chasing tail on the side—or at least he tried—but being made to feel inferior on a daily basis had been too much.

He huffed and spun back toward the bay doors, only to see Kai drop the last of his clothes and dive into the pool. But instead of annoyance, he felt sympathy for the passive-aggressive twit.

He turned away and crossed his arms. Then, realizing it was a defensive pose, he uncrossed them and jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Fine. You’re right. But I found a place I can. I just need some cash to fix it up. There’s little risk in it for you.”

Walter turned up his condescension to eleven. “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.”

“What?” Bruce asked, bristling. No other person in the world could get a rise out of him like Walter did. Normally, it took a whole lot to disturb his calm, but Walter could do it with a few words.

“It’s a mistake. You’re not the person to run a business. Yes, I could give you the money, but I’d just be setting you up for failure. Sorry, Bruce.”

As a rule, Bruce had skin thick as a rhino’s and an even temper, but Walter had the rare talent to get under his skin. It wasn’t so much the words—those he could shake off—but the combination of tone and expression. Walter had an imperious air about him that made Bruce doubt himself. And, in turn, that made him angry. “What the fuck do you mean, I’m not the person? I’ve been running the Glitter Lounge for you for years, while you did fuck-all, chasing boys with more ass than brains.” He gestured toward the pool without looking. “Is your latest
acquisition
even legal?”

“Bruce, dear, jealousy doesn’t become you.” The deep purr of Walter’s voice made his words all the more infuriating.

“I’m not jealous,” Bruce said, trying not to grit his teeth.

“If you say so. At any rate, there’s more to running a business than ordering stock and keeping drunks in line. Accounting, advertising, a million things.”

“For all of which you have people. The only time you got your hands dirty was when you were fisting your latest boy toy.”

Walter smirked. “It’s an important skill, as you well remember.” He patted the cushions again. “You sure you don’t want to put your feet up? I could give you some relief for old times’ sake. Don’t mind Kai—we have an arrangement.” His expression brightened. “Or even better, we ask him to join in. He can deep throat like a pro. Or you can fuck him, if you prefer.”

The image of the three of them in a sweaty, grunting pile flashed into Bruce’s brain unbidden. He could all too easily imagine Walter fucking him hard while he buried his own cock into Kai’s lily-white ass. His groin stirred again, but this only made him angrier. “I’m not here for a fuck.” He marched for the door but spun around before reaching it. “You know what? Take your money and shove it up your smug ass. Oh, and I quit. Consider this my two-weeks’ notice.”

Onc
e Dylan left, Teag went back to the lockers to change and soon after took up his post behind the bar. He was barely there for fifteen minutes when Martin bustled in to ask if he could fill in for one of the upstairs bartenders after his own shift.

“Julian came down with a stomach flu,” Martin said in a tone of mistrust.

For Julian’s sake, Teag hoped he was actually sick, or if not, wise enough not to post pictures of himself on Facebook doing whatever he was really doing. Martin was a sly old fox, not easily fooled.

“Sure thing,” Teag agreed, hiding his lack of enthusiasm.

So after the restaurant closed at eleven, he took off his shirt to meet the employees’ dress code for the nightclub portion of Purlieux. Despite the good money to be made in tips, he resented being a slab of meat slinging vodka and Red Bull to a sweaty, half-naked mob.

On the plus side, he was too busy to brood about Meathead, Leo and his impossible dreams of one day becoming his own boss.

He didn’t get home till the wee hours and was so tired, he was out like a light before his head fully sank into his pillow.

Whe
n he cracked his eyes open the next morning, the sun was high up in the sky and a group of birds was having an impassioned conference in the magnolia tree outside his window. A washing machine was humming in a not-far-off distance.

He found Helen in the breakfast nook in the mouthwatering company of eggs sunny-side up and bacon. She was in her nurse’s scrubs already, long dark hair pulled into a ponytail. He muttered a greeting and snatched a half-eaten strip of bacon from her plate.

“Hey! Make your own,” she complained and pulled her plate protectively closer.

Teag fixed himself a bowl of wheat-bran-and-nuts cereal and slid into the seat across from her.

“Long night?” she asked.

He nodded. “Double shift. Might have to do it again tonight. Don’t wait up.” As if she would.

She dunked a piece of toast into the yolky globe of an egg. Yellow goo spilled onto the plate. “How did it go with Leo?” He must’ve grimaced, because she stopped assaulting the eggs and cocked a brow. “What happened?”

In the tranquil light of the morning, Teag was able to give an—he felt—even account of the events. He only used the word
Meathead
once or twice. Three times max.

Naturally, his sister zeroed in on the wrong thing. “What kind of tattoos?”

Teag groaned with the full force of his exasperation. “I don’t know. There was a skull, I think. What does it matter?”

She shrugged. “Just curious. Does he have a name?”

“Bruce.” The word grated between his teeth.

“What’s he look like?”

“You know the type, more muscles than brain cells, shaved head. Put him in assless leather chaps, give him a flogger and call him Daddy,” he said with a sneer.

She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep the laughter and half-chewed toast inside. She quickly washed them down with hastily gulped orange juice. “Sounds hot. If I were you, I’d be all over him. Like jelly on peanut butter.” She made a very good imitation of the sound Homer Simpson does when thinking about food.

“Are you drooling over a guy you haven’t even met?” Teag asked in disbelief. “What about whatshisface…Zack?” He struggled to remember the name of her latest boyfriend. She went through them rather fast.

“I can drool all I want. It’s not cheating. Oh, that reminds me—Zack’s out of town, visiting family. It’s me and Mr. Magic for the next week. So if you hear buzzing, don’t come knocking. A girl has needs,” she added, winking.

She was joking, of course—by the time Teag got home, she’d be fast asleep, her
boyfriend
safely tucked under the bed. “Do you always name your sex toys?” he asked.

“I didn’t. It’s his middle name. You can borrow him if you want.”

“It,” he corrected her. “No thanks, I’m fine.”

She considered him with an air of skepticism. “This Bruce must’ve really rubbed you the wrong way. I haven’t seen you this worked up since—” She left the sentence hanging in the air unfinished.

“You didn’t hear how rude he was to us.” He filled the silence quickly, lest the conversation stray in an unwelcome direction.

“When you first met?”

“Yes.”

“But he apologized.”

Teag couldn’t see why everyone snagged on this detail. “Good for him,” he said, in no mood for forgiveness.

“Hm.” She pushed her plate away and scratched her head. “What was your first impression of him?”

“That he was an asshole.”

“No, before. The very first, before either of you said a word. Close your eyes and think back. Do it,” she added in a tone of command when he didn’t immediately comply. He sighed and closed his eyes. She went on. “Okay, now visualize it: you open the door to the bar and step inside. What do you see?”

Teag didn’t plan to play this game, but the image leapt out of his memory whether he wanted it or not. “Big guy behind the bar, back turned, leaning over.”

“Okay, what did you think at that very moment?”

“Nice ass,” Teag admitted, equal parts embarrassed and peeved. But yeah, Meathead’s blue jeans had stretched around an exceptionally fine backside.

“You dog!” Helen squealed like a giddy schoolgirl.

He opened his eyes and met her mocking gaze. “What? I’m a guy. We notice these things. It doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

“Trust me, girls notice a guy with a nice ass too. But, you know, maybe you like him. Or at least you’re attracted.”

“You’re wrong. I’m not.” He raised a finger to stop her before she could interrupt. “And if I was, it would be all the worse.”

“Why, pray tell.”

“Simple. I’m always attracted to the wrong kind of guys.”

“Like Charlie?” She made a face as if smelling rotten eggs.

And here they were, at the topic Teag absolutely didn’t like to discuss. “Exactly.” His latest ex was smooth and charming on the surface and a tangle of deceptions, half-lies and make-believe underneath. He should’ve been the lawyer he’d affected to be.

“Charlie was a manipulative little shit.” Helen summed up Charlie with her customary concision.

“Yes. But he was only the tip of the large iceberg of my dating history.” He’d thought about this a lot after the breakup. “I have terrible instincts when it comes to men.”

“Hm.” The ruffles of her brow suggested thoughtful contemplation. “You might have a point.” The corner of those brows quirked up quizzically. “Does that make you the
Titanic
?”

Teag snorted bran flakes. “I sure hope not.”