The Square Peg (15 page)

bring anything to the table but his experience managing a bar—and without noticing,

he’d let it slide into the red, so that wasn’t much of a contribution.

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“I feel like your employee,” he said, sprinkling salt and the vinegar he’d asked for

over his fries and squeezing out a dollop of ketchup. He’d been here for long enough

that he didn’t call his fries
chips
, but he was never going to eat them without vinegar.

“Well, I don’t plan to pay you any wages, so if I were you, I’d think again.”

“Then I want final say in the changes.” It wasn’t fair, but Benedict was asking, and

Shane had never been averse to telling, even when his input wasn’t requested.

“You’re on crack,” Benedict said calmly.

Shane dipped a french fry into the puddle of ketchup. “Yeah, probably.”

Benedict sighed and ran a thumb along his lower lip in a gesture that had to be

innocent even though it drew Shane’s attention as surely as flame drew a moth. He

studied Shane, waiting as if he expected Shane to say something else to support his

case, and Shane waited too. He might seem like an impatient sort of bloke, but he could

be patient when it mattered.

“Okay,” Benedict said finally. “Okay, fine. You win. Final say. But.”

“There’s always a
but
,” Shane muttered.

“But you have to promise you’ll listen to my ideas. Really listen, and think about

them, and remember I care what happens to this business too. I mean…” Benedict

trailed off and looked at his chicken entrée without any pleasure. “I know I’m not as

emotionally invested in the bar as you are. Maybe I never can be. You’ve got a hell of a

head start, and there are a hundred things you know I’ve never even thought of. But

there’s other stuff I know. Stuff that can help. I want this to belong to both of us—not

just on paper. For real.”

Wanting to belong… Shane could relate to that, but it was a yearning that had

long since withered for him. He hadn’t fit in at home, at school, or at any of the places

he’d worked before the Square Peg. Now that he had found a niche where he was

accepted, even liked, it was too late for him to enjoy it without reservations, because he

had the superstitious feeling if he did, it would get taken away from him.

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Maybe that was exactly what was happening now.

He didn’t fool himself into thinking that if the bar closed he’d stay in touch with

people. The staff, the friends he’d made with some of the regulars…they’d drift away.

People did. He’d done it himself.

“Shane?” Benedict touched his hand tentatively.

Shane drew in a deep breath. What the fuck was wrong with him? Wallowing in

self-pity wasn’t the answer. “Yeah. I can see that. It’s the last thing you’ve got of your

dad’s. And don’t tell me you hated him, because even if you did, and even if he

screwed up, he was a mate of mine.”

“You’re very loyal.” Benedict ate a few mouthfuls of chicken, then set his fork on

the plate. “We should look at it from the point of view of the customers, not just our

own preferences. What type of customers do we want to attract? What would appeal to

them in the way of, well, ambiance, though that sounds pretentious as hell?”

Put that way, it made sense. Shane gave it some thought. “I want it to be a gay bar.

Straights welcome, sure, but I’m not going to have the balance tipped so people like us

are in the minority, looking around to make sure no one’s watching if they want to hold

hands.”

“Agreed,” Benedict said immediately. “Though I’m not happy about sex in the

bathrooms. It could make some people uncomfortable, and we don’t want to drive

people away. It’s unacceptable.”

And there was Benedict being clueless about how the world worked, right on cue.

Shane smirked at him, remembering how hot to trot Benedict had been after that

overheard blowjob. If Shane ever found out who the two men were, he’d buy them a

pint. “Yeah? Got you going, though.”

“That’s not the point. I’m not saying we should turn the place into something it

isn’t. I want the people who’ve been loyal customers for years to be happy about the

changes. To feel like we did something good for them, made things nicer. I don’t want

them to think they turned around and ended up in an alternate universe.”

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“Aside from the fact I’ve no idea what you’re talking about half the time, I agree

with you,” Shane said. “I think. So, same general idea, spruced up. None of that’s going

to change the location, though.”

Benedict pushed his pasta around on his plate. “It’s not a bad location.”

“No, but it isn’t a brilliant one either. Most of the regulars live within a couple of

miles. Half of them within walking distance.”

“It’s a city with a population of a quarter of a million people,” Benedict said.

“There are hundreds of potential customers within walking distance, gay and straight.

We just need to figure out a way to help them find us.”

“Lots of straight people aren’t going to want to hang out at a gay bar,” Shane

pointed out, a little annoyed he had to. Benedict was a bright man; these things

shouldn’t have to be spelled out for him.

“And lots of people aren’t going to care. They just want a comfortable place to

hang out with their friends, have a couple of drinks, and not have to worry about

walking in on an orgy when they open the bathroom door.” Benedict seemed to be

considering what he’d said, though. “We can be subtle without being deceptive. I have

a cousin in advertising, I’ll check with him and see if he has any advice, how to word

things.”

“Fine,” Shane said with a sigh. Benedict seemed to know a lot of people, but

unless they were going to drop by and order champagne every night, he wasn’t sure

they were going to be as useful as Benedict seemed to think they were. “Look, we need

to stand out. We’re not the only gay bar in the area. Vincent says a lot of his mates go to

some dive called Dregs. I went once, and Jesus, it makes our place look like the fucking

Ritz, but it was packed.”

“Why?”

“Well, it probably had a lot to do with all the drug dealing going on in the

bathrooms—makes a blowjob between friends seem pretty tame, doesn’t it?—but they

like it because everything’s painted black; you can’t see your hand in front of your face,

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99

or hear yourself think, because the music’s so loud, and their Happy Hour is from ten to

midnight.”

Benedict shook his head. “That’s not the way I want our place to be,” he said

decisively.

“Nor me, but they’ve got a hook, see? We need one. Hook and bait.”

“We’re going around in circles and getting nowhere.” Benedict glanced at his

watch, then signaled to their waiter. “We need to leave. Ade said we should make sure

we gave ourselves enough time to look around before the auction starts. Maybe

something we see will spark an idea for a theme, but if not, well, we go for chairs we’d

like to sit in ourselves.”

“We’re not the customers,” Shane couldn’t help pointing out. “And you and me

are so different, if one of us likes it, the other won’t.”

Benedict closed his fingers around Shane’s wrist, pinning it to the table for a

moment before releasing it, the action so out of the blue, so quickly over, Shane jerked

with shock, his heart rate increasing. His wrist felt warm where it’d been held, a heat

that pulsed through him, leaving him aching for something he couldn’t have.

“We agree on some things,” Benedict said meeting Shane’s gaze calmly. “Don’t

we, Shane?”

“You and me,” Shane said when he could speak without his voice betraying him,

“we’re going to have a little chat later. Count on it.”

He pushed away from the table and walked out, leaving Benedict to settle the bill.

He needed the chilly February wind to cool his face, a moment alone to get control of

himself.

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Chapter Nine

Ben was starting to wonder if this auction thing had been a good idea. He didn’t

doubt they’d be able to get some quality items at reasonable prices. He was more

worried he and Shane might glare each other to death before the night was over.

They’d managed to get through the preview part before the auction started

without any arguments. However, now they were walking on eggshells, as careful as a

parent waiting for a toddler to have an inevitable tantrum but hoping it could be put off

until after Grandma’s hundredth birthday party. It was stupid because Ben knew they

were both too mature to do anything stupid in public.

At least, he hoped they were. He kept reminding himself Shane wouldn’t have run

the Square Peg so successfully—from a community standpoint if not a financial one—if

he started throwing punches every time he got annoyed. Shane came across as someone

who got annoyed on a semi-regular basis, and that would have been a lot of punches.

They had one bid paddle between them and a shared catalog that detailed all the

lot numbers of the items being offered. Ben had made a lot of notations in the catalog

when they’d been wandering around, but somehow Shane had ended up with it as the

auction started and didn’t seem eager to hand it over. Ben wasn’t going to rip it out of

his hands. Shane probably just hadn’t realized what he’d done, but Ben knew if he said

something, there was a chance it would come off wrong, so he waited.

He was uneasily aware he’d crossed a line in the restaurant, a line he’d drawn,

which made his actions inexcusable. He couldn’t seem to keep his hands off Shane, and

when Shane kept needling him, he didn’t want to. He knew what Shane was capable of,

and it was frustrating as hell to sit beside him and pretend to ignore what lay between

them.

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Shane had been furious when he got into the car, slamming the door with a

closed-off expression that dared Ben to comment. It’d taken the twenty-minute drive to

the auction for him to calm down, and Ben couldn’t help wishing they’d been

somewhere less public. He had a feeling their differences could have been resolved

pretty easily then.

Except they’d agreed sex would complicate an already fraught relationship.

Ben glanced down at Shane’s thighs and wanted to run his hands over them, push

Shane’s knees wider and make Shane hold them there while he looked his fill. He could

picture Shane’s lost, vulnerable expression changing to a desperate, hopeful trust as Ben

stroked his cock, making it go harder, thicker, ready for him to taste…

“It’s those fucking chichi bar stools you wanted,” Shane hissed and elbowed him

in the ribs. “Wave your paddle, or you’ll miss them.”

“What? Oh!” Ben shot his paddle into the air and got a nod from the auctioneer.

“I have one hundred dollars—do I hear more? One hundred on this set of six bar

stools, ladies and gentlemen—one twenty-five, thank you, sir. Do I have one-fifty—”

Ben lowered his paddle and gave Shane a questioning look. “Do you really hate

them?”

Shane shrugged, a sulky, mutinous pout on his face. If the bid paddle hadn’t been

a flimsy piece of wood but something more substantial, Ben would’ve been tempted to

apply it to Shane’s ass. And God, thoughts like that weren’t helping his concentration.

He rejoined the bidding until it went beyond the limit he’d placed on them in the

pre-auction walk around. He let them go. Damn. He’d liked them. Solid, and yes,

perhaps the carving on the legs had been on the ornate side, but they’d catch the eye.

Illogically and unfairly, he blamed Shane for their loss even though they’d gone for

twice what he’d been willing to pay.

“Thought you said we’d get some bargains,” Shane said. “Overpriced junk, if you

ask me.”

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“At least we didn’t overpay for them.” It was time to concentrate on what was

important. He’d worry about this thing with Shane later. “Okay, what about these

chairs?” He held the catalog so Shane could see it.

Shane deigned to glance at the tiny photo. “They’ve got arms.”

“And?”

“And drunk people don’t do well in chairs with arms.” Rolling his eyes at Ben’s

confusion, Shane went on. “They tip them over, then get mad at us, and we end up

having to give them free drinks to soothe their wounded pride.”

“Oh. Right.” Ben felt like an idiot for not having realized. He handed the catalog

to Shane and asked meekly, “Would you pick some that might work?”

Shane sighed and reluctantly starting leafing through the pages. “These look

sturdy enough,” he said, pointing to some wooden chairs with upholstered seats.

“Padded vinyl’s not as long lasting as wood seats, maybe, but it’s a hell of a lot more

comfortable. Don’t want people deciding to make an early night of it because the chairs