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I grip one of the counters in the kitchen, kneading it with my fingers, as if I could break the edge of it straight off.

Permission?

What the hell was all of that about permission?

If I’d known he was gay, I wouldn’t have done it. Not because it makes me uncomfortable, but because I would’ve respected that grabbing a gay guy’s ass isn’t the same as grabbing some douche’s ass who’s been tormenting me.

Or is it?

I push away from the counter with a huff and start popping all my knuckles for no reason at all. Every nerve in my body is shot. Tingles of agitation everywhere. I want to pull something apart and shove it back together. I want to play drums loudly and smack those snares until something pops. I want to eat a Snickers bar.

I want to drop onto a bed and fall asleep for days.

I hate that hard-assed Bridger guy so much .

He sure does give a new meaning to “hard-ass”. And now that he said what he said, it changes my whole perception of that stunt outside Biggie’s Bites. I feel guilty, like I did something wrong.

And that pisses me off worse than anything.

I’m not the kind of guy he insists I am. Fuck Bridger and his “conclusion”. I’m a better man than he thinks, and he will never know it, because he’s stuck in his own stubborn mind, set in his ways, unable to open himself up to someone who’s a tad rougher around the edges than he’s used to.

Every second now is consumed with his words, his voice, his eyes in that restroom as he stared me down, standing so close to my face that he could see my boogers.

I shouldn’t care so much.

I shouldn’t want to prove him totally wrong about me.

But he’s yanking out all of my worst instincts. I want to go out there and tell him off, even if it wouldn’t change his mind about me, even if it would just confirm how much of a “gentleman” I’m not. Why should he get to be the cool one who makes the shot and leaves me standing there in the restroom like an idiot?

If he thinks he’s gotten the last word, he’s got another thing coming. Or is it think? He’s got another think coming? Fuck it. He’s got a thing and a think coming, and next time I see that prick, I’ll give him both.

Unlucky for me, the next time is right the hell now: the cook sets the last dish on the tray, taps a bell. “Order for table 8!” before disappearing back into the kitchen.

I glare at that tray.

I don’t know if I can do this .

Then suddenly I have to. Six dishes balanced on my tray, I go through the swinging door into the restaurant with my tray stand tucked under an arm. Somehow, my brain’s gone and muted the whole restaurant, the mindless chatter, laughter, and eating, gone. I count down the tables as I pass them by—12, 11, 10, 9—and by the time I reach my destination, kick open the stand, and set the tray down on it, I feel like master of the table.

More importantly: master of gentlemanliness . “Here you are, ma’am,” I say with gusto, placing a dish in front of Ms. Davis. “And for you, my good sir.” Reverend Arnold’s dish. “Nice n’ hot, Gran’s best.” Trey’s dish. “Yours, too.” Cody’s. “Here you go, Mr. Pete.”

Then I set down the final dish in front of Bridger.

And I lean forward, using my especially charming voice. “And last but not least, your sirloin steak, Mr. Bridger, sir.”

His eyes drop to it.

What he sees is, by all means, a 10-ounce sirloin steak. But I’d describe it as less cooked medium rare and, rather, fully fucking opposite of rare. Well-done. Beyond well-done, even. What he is staring down at with his baffled little know-it-all eyes is a slab of fucking shoe leather.

Still leaning forward, I offer a smile to the table. “If everyone who ordered a steak would like to try a bite of it, I’d love to know whether they came out the way you wanted.”

“Oh, mine’s just perfect,” moans Ms. Davis at the other end of the table. “Mine, too,” says Reverend Arnold kindly. “Wow, this is one juicy piece a’ meat,” calls Cody. “Give compliments to Gran! Well, or the cook,” he says, “whoever’s responsible for this.”

I lift my eyebrows to Bridger. “How about you … sir?”

His eyes are harder than stone as he stares at me. I swear his soul is trying to grow a body, climb out of those stupid eyes, and strangle me right now.

I can’t begin to describe how much joy that brings me.

He points at his plate. “And these?”

“Oh, you mean the cute carrot sticks?” My smile brightens as I lean in and bring my voice way down, just for him. “I believe you did agree to havin’ two … sticks … for your sides. Right off of the children’s menu, just for you. Complete with a little blop a’ ranch dip. Or did I get that wrong … sir?”

He doesn’t answer. He picks up his fork and knife, saws off a bite of shoe leather, then brings it to his lips. I watch with building satisfaction as he chews. And boy is it work for him to chomp his way through that piece of solidified cattle tar. It’s probably even more work for me to keep from laughing while he, as stubborn as he is, refuses to give me the satisfaction of showing his anger.

Don’t worry, Bridger. Watching this is satisfying enough .

When he finally muscles that first bite down, he lifts his eyes to me.

And says: “Could use a little sauce.”

I lift my eyebrows. “You sure about that? Everyone knows a steak here is seasoned perfectly with Gran’s special recipe. She’s a staple in this town, which I wouldn’t expect you to know. You are eatin’ some prime stuff, cooked to perfection.”

Bridger only looks at me, saying nothing, doing nothing, his eyes trained on mine with a vengeance I know is there but he’s refusing to show.

This is a thousand times better than any squeeze of his ass in a hairy monster costume.

“But don’t worry,” I assure his smart-ass face, “I’ll bring you some sauce anyway. Just sit tight-assed. Sorry ,” I correct myself, “I mean: just sit tight .”

Then I wink.

And off I go, right back to the kitchen with the empty tray and the folded stand, with a pep in my step and halfway to whistling.

“He seriously ordered it that way?” asks Denny in the kitchen, the cook responsible for the shoe leather, squinting at me over the grill while cooking up two ribeyes for another table. “What kinda weirdo orders a perfectly fine steak ‘overly well-done’?”

“Dunno. People with sticks up their asses, I guess.” I chuckle and shake my head, still wiping tears of joy out of my sleepy eyes. “I’m riding a high so good right now, I don’t know whether I’m in a dream or it’s my birthday.”

“Not until November.” Denny winks. “I remember.”

“Only because it’s the same as your brother’s and he doesn’t even live here anymore. No one celebrates my birthday, not even my own parents.” I rummage through the sauce bottles. “They’re just amazed I survived another year bein’ me , I guess.”

Thoughts of my parents drag me right on down from my high. I can’t believe my mom had a fall recently and no one told me. No one even called. Just because I’m not home as often lately doesn’t mean one of them couldn’t have picked up a phone and told their only damned son. I thought my dad and I were having a kind of breakthrough over the summer, now that he and my mom were getting along more lately, going on walks, living their best lives and all that shit.

Maybe they’ve only been happiest when I’m out of their hair.

“Ah, here we go,” I say, fishing the bottle out of a cluster of them, “the perfect sauce.”

“That isn’t steak sauce,” says Denny.

“I’ve seen people use it on steak.”

“It’s spicy as fuck and packed with habanero.”

“Some like their steak hot .”

Denny eyes me. “What nonsense are you up to, Anthony?”

I move to the swinging kitchen door, peering through the tiny window in it. Bridger is perfectly visible down the aisle, and would you know it, he’s still working his way through that steak. I could have served him a literal shoe and he’d force himself to eat it, just to prove something to me. What does he think he’s proving? All I get from this performance is that I was right from the start: He’s a bigheaded out-of-towner who thinks he can’t do wrong and never apologizes for anything.

I push through the door into the noise. A smile on my face. A bottle of sauce in my hand.

He spots me so fast, it’s obvious he’s angry.

Even if his smug, handsome face looks perfectly calm.

Patient, even.

“Here you go.” I set the bottle in front of him. I’m still smiling. “Why don’t you give it a taste? See if it’s to your liking?”

The douchebag doesn’t even look at the bottle. “I’m sure it’s dandy ,” he says politely, pops off the lid, drizzles a hell-spiral of doom on his meat, then saws off a bite of steak and pops it into his mouth. “Tastes much better,” he says.

Or tries to say—before the spice kicks him in the nuts.

“Huh? What’s that?” I ask innocently. Beautiful Bridger is still sputtering for words. He looks so stupid. I wish I could photograph his face right now and frame it on my wall. “The taste is outta this world and you feel like you’re shitting your pants?”

He gags, rasps, and drops his fork.

“Tastes so good you’re chokin’ on it?” My own question makes me chuckle. Bridger continues to struggle for words. Then I stop chuckling at once. “Wait. Are you choking? For real choking?”

Bridger grabs at his throat.

My stomach falls out of my butt, horrified.

“Move!” shouts Pete, flying out of his seat and shoving me aside—and causing Cody to rise to his feet at once, visibly shaken by the outburst. With Hulk-like strength, the guy lifts Bridger out of his seat with ease, hugging him from behind, his fists pressed to his stomach, and starts giving him the Heimlich right there, over and over. I stand before Bridger, petrified, as the guy continues to gag, gasp, and hiss, his eyes watery and panicked, with Pete thrusting his fists into him over and over.

An excruciating four and a half seconds later, the evil piece of spicy shoe leather rockets out of Bridger’s mouth.

And nails me right in the eye.

I fly back with a shriek I can’t believe just came out of me. My hand flings out to catch myself from falling. The only thing I grab hold of is the tablecloth. I’ve always applauded myself for having amazing grip strength.

That grip takes everything on the goddamned table with me.

Drinks and dishes and meat and buttery mashed potatoes.

The whole thing must last a few seconds, but I look like an F5 tornado just fucked me into next week when I open my eyes from the ground, covered in everyone’s food, looking up at the tower of Bridger standing over me sucking in breath after breath.

The restaurant is silent, except for scandalized gasps here and there, along with the rustling of clothes as people rise from their seats to get a look at what happened.

I pull a slice of tomato off of my face as I slowly sit up. Something smarts in my lower back. I sure didn’t land good. But all I can see is Bridger, his eyes locked on mine, lips agape, still desperately catching his breath.

Fury in his eyes.

Or something worse that I can’t name.

I don’t know when it happens, but suddenly Gran is there, and I’m hearing her pouring apologies all over them. Every time I try to move, something shifts around me—the sharp edge of a broken plate, a hot or cold piece of food, something sticky. The tablecloth seems determined to keep me on the ground, wrapped around one of my wrists somehow. My head spins.

When all the chatter grows quiet, I look up to find Gran, Pete, and Bridger all staring down at me, as if awaiting a response.

Now it’s me sputtering. Choking on absolutely nothing but the cottony dry air in my mouth. “S-S-Sorry,” I finally get out, my own piece of meat lodged in my throat—an empty, hollow-ass word no one hears or believes.

“I swear I didn’t mean for that to happen!”

Gran isn’t having it, cornering me in the break room. “Did I do you wrong in a past life? Why are you trying to murder one of my customers with habanero sauce on a steak ?”

“How do we know it was even real?” I ask. “He could’ve been pretending to choke, then spat his steak at my face! That guy’s had a vendetta against me since yesterday! He’s deranged!”

“For fuck’s sake.” She stops herself, leans against a break table with a heavy sigh, and shuts her eyes. “Cursing on a Sunday. That is what you’ve brought me to, Mr. Myers, cursing on a Sunday.”

“He sprayed fuel all over me and got me fired from Duncan’s! Then he came between me and Juni at the bar when—!”

She lifts a hand, shutting me up. For some reason, I only now notice how crazy long her fingers are, long and full of authority—and a shit ton of expensive-looking jewelry, too. “No.” She shakes her head, eyes still closed. “No, no. Enough’s enough. Nine strikes and you’re out. Or is it ten by now? Take off that apron.”

“Please.” I come up to her and drop to my knees. How damned desperate can I get? “This is my best-paying job, even at part-time. My only regular gig. I’m sorry this happened. Very sorry, the most sorry a guy can be.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she spits back. “I’m quite sure you could be a helluva lot sorrier. Perhaps instead a’ groveling at my feet, you oughta be grateful no one’s pressing charges.”

“Ch-Charges?”

“Comped their whole meal. Replaced all their dishes, because it wasn’t enough for you to choke one of my customers, you were so starved for attention you also had to drag all of their gorgeous dinners on top of you.”

“It was an accident!”

“And even if it was all an act like you say and this man really is deranged, then why would you go and poke the bear? That don’t make a lick of sense. You’re the one who served him a bad steak, and you’re the one who then gave him habanero sauce to choke it down with. All I need’s a drop of that on my tongue and kiss my butt goodbye, it’ll be glued to the toilet ‘til Labor Day.”

“I went too far. I’m sorry, Ms. Gran, and I’ll tell you sorry all day and all night, but that guy out there, I don’t owe him a thing. He’s the one who provoked me . He started this. And I—”

“Is that alcohol on you?” she asks suddenly, squinting. Then she becomes more certain of it, her voice sharpening. “Anthony Myers, my stars and all the breathless night skies of my life, are you drunk? Drunk on my clock? Boy, answer me, did you come to my establishment drunk ?”

“Of course not! I haven’t had a drop since last night at the bar! I’m not—Y-You must be smelling the gasoline on me or somethin’. I swear, I’ve showered twice, even with my roommate’s girly body wash, it still won’t come off or—”

“Just save your breath and go home, Mr. Myers. Out the back door if you can manage it. Not one of them out there wants to see your face. I’ve certainly seen enough of it for a lifetime. I’m gonna be up until 2 AM thinking of ways to make this up to the Arnolds, hosting those heroes in their house.” She smacks her lips. “Tryin’ to put me in an early grave, you and your immaturity, I swear, if my husband were still here …” She doesn’t finish that thought. With a sneer of disgust, she pulls her left foot out from under my shaking hands—I didn’t realize I’d grabbed it in desperation—then marches around me, leaving me still kneeling on the break room floor. I stare down at my hands, frozen, sickened.

The next moment, I’m just plain mad. The apron’s off. So’s my nametag. I avoid eyes as I pass through the kitchen. Word’s gotten around fast. Even Denny’s looking at me, probably feeling like he unintentionally played a role in it, resenting me for that.

Join the damned club. Membership list is as long and wide as the whole town. Everyone in it can throw a party for all I care.

The walk home is punishingly long. I can’t get Bridger’s face out of my mind. The superior glint in his eyes. His chiseled jawline and the way he lifts it when he talks to me. How he treated me in the restroom, all of that condescending gentleman nonsense. Even the way he sawed at that steak instead of just asking for a new one. Couldn’t he have done that? Would it have killed him to ask for another steak? Maybe I would’ve even given up the jig right then, brought him out what he actually wanted, not taken it so far.

I’m not a monster.

Am I?

I drop onto a sidewalk bench halfway home, somewhere past Main Street, then lean back. For half a second, I think of calling up Cole, telling him what happened, and getting his side of things. He always looks at everyone maturely, considers both sides, and gives me this amazingly intuitive assessment of what’s going on. It’s like magic, how he helps me relax and see things for how they are.

But he’s so busy lately. With his guy. With their new house. Even his sweet dog Porridge is too busy for my snuggles.

I’m tired of using them like a crutch.

I could call Juni. She’s got this special, twisted way of making me forget everything and just waltz off to la-la land with her. I’d want nothing more than to do that right now, take off with her and live a life without any worries.

But no phone call is gonna erase Bridger’s face from my mind, la-la land or not.

And that expression he made when he started choking. I stood there like a moron, frozen, watching the life drain from his eyes because I’m an immature man-child who’s spiteful and pettier than a kindergartener that got put in time out for being a brat.

I can’t control myself around him.

I am a fucking brat.

And it’s on this park bench, nearly falling asleep with my head bent back, that I finally make the decision to avoid Bridger at all costs. If I see him, go the other way. He’s trouble. Until he’s outta this town, long gone, that bastard won’t even be a thought in my head, and I’ll be damned if I give him another chance to ruin me.