Page 4

Chapter 4

Olli

Where the locals go, according to Google, is a kind of divey bar called Michelangelo’s—not sure if it’s for the artist or the turtle named after the artist—that serves both beer and beer-soaked food. It’s maybe half full as I enter, decent turnout for a Tuesday night.

Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but there’s no dried booze suctioning my shoes to the floor, and the air is a mix of fries and too-sweet cologne and ale, not body odor and Budweiser, so it’s not my last pick either.

The rear wall comprises an impressive collection of liquors ranging from bottom-of-the-barrel vodka to aged-a-decade-or-so whiskey, not that I know much about either, and the little round tables scattered across the dim room shine from a recent wipe down.

Low classic rock plays through the speakers—Def Leppard is always such a joy—and the TVs mushed into the corners display various sporting programs. The dozen or so patrons nestled against the walls eat, talk, drink quietly.

They’ve definitely got a Look about them, though—something in the hard lines of their faces, the firm set of their mouths, the way hands grip beer glasses with whitened fingers.

It’s something a little weathered and rough. Like constant cold and a lifetime of physical work have snuck into their bones, hardened them and toughened them, just like the ice that owns this city .

Or maybe that’s me doing the sad-sack poetry thing again.

Either way, I head for the bar.

The five older guys and one middle-aged lady at the counter all sit solo, facing the TVs. Probably regulars. Makes me the odd man out—in both age and attendance frequency—as I slide onto a stool towards the end.

“Hi. Can I get you something to drink?” The female bartender’s maybe my age—late twenties—with dark hair and eyes, a friendly smile that frays along the edges.

I offer her a bright smile of my own. It’s instinct, a rule of life. Skate hard. Smile hard. Be charming.

“I know I must look like one of the time-ravaged locals,” I say. “But I’m actually here for dinner. Which, now that I think about it, is sadder than drinking alone, but I’m new to town, literally unloaded the boxes into my living room half an hour ago, and I’ve just realized I’m babbling so kindly ignore me . . .”

Her smile relaxes a bit into something more authentic.

“Have a menu.” She slides a laminated sheet across the countertop. “And welcome to Day River. Hope it doesn’t bore you too much.”

“Honestly, I think I’m gonna like it.”

“Really?” Her brows wrinkle in confusion. “Where are you from, Greenland?”

I laugh. “Miami.”

“Shit, I would kill to go to Miami.” Her eyes dance over me; I do probably look like an out-of-towner. “You sure you want to live here?”

“I mean, I’ll miss the surfing.” My fingers tangle through my shorn black curls. “But I don’t really have the hair for it.”

She laughs again. “Tell you what, first drink’s on me.”

“How about you drink it for me?” I wince. “Unless you can’t drink at work, in which case maybe I should ask what time your shift ends?”

“Are you flirting with me?” Her brows lift in what might be described as interest, and I laugh a little .

“Actually, no. I’m gay. I’m making friends now. Is that, like, not obvious? I’m Olli.” I extend a hand.

She takes it. “Anita. You being gay makes me crush that much harder, you know that, right?”

“Is it my adorable brown eyes?” I wink. “Or the non-ghostly skin? I am the most glowy person in this very, very pale establishment . . . Oh, and I’ll have a Caesar salad, by the way. With chicken.”

I slide the menu back across the counter, earning another confused wrinkling in the forehead department. “A salad? At a bar?”

“I’m a weirdo. Not even a healthy eater or anything, just need like . . . green things after being on the road for days.”

“You drove from Miami?”

“How else was I gonna get my sexy truck up here?”

She opens her mouth to respond, but someone slides onto the bar stool next to me. I might not have noticed, might not have looked over, except the hand that slips over the countertop beside mine draws my gaze.

Because damn, those are some fine hands: the fingers tattooed on both joints, scabbed a bit at the knuckles.

My head turns of its own accord.

Two heavily inked forearms rest atop the counter, corded with thick muscle. Two huge biceps swell up over them, both inked as well, disappearing into a fitted black shirt. This man clearly spends some time in the gym—and the tattoo parlor, maybe fighting if those scabs are any indication. And that deltoid, my Lord.

It’s all ink and muscles leading up to rounded shoulders, the elegant sweep of neck—also inked—and then a chiseled male jaw with a line hard enough to cut. My brain goes all white and fuzzy as I trail that sharp jawline up to an angled cheekbone, a straight nose, the tousle of messy black hair beneath a backwards ball cap.

The soft scents of vanilla and spice, mixed with something a little sharper, like whiskey, drift against my nostrils, making my senses buzz—or maybe it’s my brain buzzing .

Sweet mother of Moses. I think he might be the most beautiful, perfect human specimen I’ve ever seen.

“Look who’s out on the town tonight.” Anita’s voice snaps me out of my mental meandering. Her whole face lights up, and her mouth cocks into a half grin. “What’s the occasion?”

“Charlie was supposed to be here,” the man says, an exasperated sort of fondness to his voice. “Syd’s at Brenda’s and everything. But I guess his new boyfriend was more interesting.”

Anita chuckles. “Fair. Not working tonight?”

“Nah, done.” The man laces his fingers together atop the counter. “Already dragged Syd along for a vol up on the rez.”

Whatever the bejesus that means.

“Hey, that’s good news.”

“Sure.” He huffs an ironic sort of laugh. “Work is work. Can’t complain about the money.”

“You gotta celebrate that shit!” Anita flashes him a wide white smile. “First one’s on the house.”

“Celebrate,” the man sighs. “Sure. I guess that’s more upbeat than drinking to the sorrow of trying to start my own business.”

“So poetic,” someone says, and then I realize it’s me. Me. I said those words. And what do you know . . . I’m still talking! “Very troubled emo rock star .”

And the man turns towards me so I get the full brunt of a violent green gaze, its intensity utterly undimmed by the thick flutter of black lashes, the angled arch of a dark brow. Holy God, he’s gorgeous.

“Did you just call me a . . . troubled emo rock star ?” His eyebrows curve in confusion, and his eyes trail lazily over my cheekbone, down my throat, in a way that makes my skin feel like it’s caught fire.

“Did I?” I ask, almost genuine in the question because yipes did I really say that? But—I wince. “Yeah, no, I did.”

“I’ve never been called that before.” His lips tick upward with the faintest hint of emotion—amusement? Let’s hope, ’cause old Olli’s mouth is just getting started.

“Am I wrong?” I let my own gaze drop to his knuckles on the countertop, but it’s more because I’m likely to start stammering or drooling or maybe pass out if I keep looking into those green pools of intensity. “You kinda got that emo bad-boi thing going.”

“Right.” His face hardens, voice hardens—amusement giving way to irritation. “Tattoos and scars, yeah, that’s all most people see.”

“Course they do.” I cross my arms, lean onto the bar. “Nobody looks very deep. But this is a vibe more than a look.”

His brows lift in surprise. “Oh, it’s a vibe?”

“Absolutely.” I grin. “A guy who likes good music vibe.”

One of his brows arches—oh, he’s that kind. The one-brow-up judgy-look kind. “And how do you define good music ?”

Why do I always think that eyebrow thing is so hot?

Anita chooses that moment to slide my salad in front of me. “Some greens for our new friend.”

“Yes, perfect,” I say, because Hottie lowers that judgy gaze to my plate. And frankly, my pile of leaves smothered in cheese and dressing is not super sexy. Time to redirect those eyes. “Greens. Because I’m watching my dainty figure.”

There.

He looks. Of course he looks. Because my figure is not dainty by any stretch of the imagination. I’m a professional hockey player—not too many players who could be described as dainty.

I bite down on a grin as he studies, well, you know . . . me. My clearly athletic physique. One I’ve worked on—a lot—because being at the top of my game has always been the most important aspect of my life.

He returns to his drink. Drains the whole thing in a shot. Damn. “So, you were going to tell me what good music means to you.”

His words surprise me, that he’s continuing the conversation. Frankly, the guy’s got straight-as-hell vibes, despite his little eye-fucking slip.

“Emo, obviously.” I chew through a bite of salad. “Metal. Hard rock. ”

“Really?” He half turns towards me, both his brows lifted in consternation all over again.

I suppress my grin before it gets any wider. Yeah, I love shocking people with my music tastes. I slide my phone out of my pocket, open up Pandora. “Top stations: Today’s Hard Rock, Metalcore, Heavy Metal, Emo—”

“Meditation Radio?” He leans in to peer over my shoulder. “One of those things is not like the others.”

His fingers angle towards my phone, and I swipe it out of reach. Laughing. Tsk-ing. “You saw nothing.”

“Salad and meditation radio?” He straightens on his stool, shaking his head. “For a second, I thought you had good taste.”

“That sounds awfully judgy.” I toss my phone to him so I can shovel in more food. My Favorites playlist stretches across the screen like an olive branch in the form of a carefully curated collection of tunes. “For a guy with knuckle tattoos.”

He swipes up said olive branch, and my eyes flit back to his fingers: the ink, the scabs—the rough calluses beneath them. Not his first fight, not by a long shot. He’s got tattoos on the backs of each hand, too, just a line of script in the space between thumb and forefinger. And then full sleeves, starting at the wrists.

“As you can see,” I watch him scroll through my playlist, “I like most things metal, metalcore, hard rock, and yes, emo.”

“All right, some of this shit is pretty good.” But the way his eyes don’t lift from the screen, I know more than some of it is more than pretty good .

“I take it you’re in the hard rock boat?”

“Fully.” He still hasn’t looked up from my playlist. “Good bands.”

I try not to puff up like a praised peacock. Anita returns to slide a glass in front of him—whiskey again. Somewhere in the background, the song’s moved on to Aerosmith, so I lift a finger like I’m pointing at the speaker. “The bad boys from Boston ain’t too shabby.”

“I don’t mind a little classic rock,” he agrees .

“The real question is,” I find myself saying as I lean forward onto the bar, “if you’re a rock star, where’s your guitar?”

His fingers curl around the whiskey glass, eyes flit sideways towards me. “On my living room couch.”

Ah, I've struck actual gold! “You serious? You really play?”

“Only thing that makes sense sometimes.” He tips the drink back, all at once again, sending the sweet-spicy tangle of cologne and booze in a wave against my skin, overriding the stale-alcohol bar air.

Dang, he smells good.

“I gotta agree there.” I shift the greens on my plate aside just for something to do with my hands, something to focus on that’s not, well, him. “That’s why music exists, why art exists, right? To give life meaning.”

His glass taps against the countertop, and he leans an elbow against it. His eyes trail sideways. Towards me.

Again.

Damn, why is that gaze so intense—so intimate? His mouth curves. “That’s pretty deep for Tuesday at a bar.”

“It’s my specialty.” I angle my best grin in his direction. I’ve got a decent smile, if I’m being honest. Ain’t my first rodeo. “Going deep.”

He laughs, and that low murmur, and the answering flutter in my gut, is my reward for my boldness. My God, he’s beautiful. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Only if you want it to be.” I know I’m feeling bold cause I throw in a wink, just to make him squirm. I’ve never flirted with a straight boy before. It’s fun.

“You hitting on me?”

“You don’t seem to mind.”

He laughs again. “No, I’m kind of flattered.”

“Then please, allow me to keep going. We’ve only scratched the surface of my talents.” So not true, my Lord , I am not good at flirting.

“Oh, there’s more?”

“Exciting, right? No, actually. I’m way too awkward.” I flash him a smile, then point at it. “Normally, that’s enough to make the boxer briefs drop.”

His mouth tips into an answering grin. “Is that so?”

“I dunno, is it working?”

He laughs again, and damn, if he wasn’t so straight, I’d almost think maybe it was working. “You might need a little more effort with me.”

“Darn.” I sigh, prop my elbow on the counter and tilt my head onto my fist. Like we’re in our own private bubble, the rest of the bar is a muted hum of voices and laughter around us. “Wanna give me some tips? You look like a guy who knows how to make some panties drop.”

“Would yours?” He leans onto an elbow.

“Who’s flirting with who now?” I shoot him another grin—you know, the boxer-dropping one—and shift just a tiny bit closer. “It’s okay if you are. I am very cute.”

He shakes his head, but his mouth’s relaxed, almost smiling. “For someone who says he doesn’t have game, you have a lot of game.”

“Wow. My God, that’s probably the most flattering thing anyone’s ever said to me. Anita.” I lean over the counter. “Are there cameras in here? Did anyone catch that?”

Scowling again, he tugs me down into my seat. “We do not need to involve Anita.”

“Oh, no, you two are very cute.” Anita slides over to our end of the bar, smirking. “Though, Nat, I think JB’s looking for you.”

The hottie beside me sighs, returning to his serious and surly demeanor. “All right. I guess I’m gonna go have a smoke then. While Anita brings me another drink?”

He throws the last comment over the counter in her direction, and she responds with a mocking salute. “Aye, aye.”

“I’ll be back in a few.” He slides off the stool, nearly brushes my arm with his rounded shoulder as he passes, headed towards the rear of the building. Which gives me a mesmerizing view of wide, muscled shoulders leading down to a narrow waist in a V delicious enough to make me drool.

“Okay, who . . . is . . . that?” The words trail out of my mouth in a whisper, thankfully not accompanied by any actual drool. The man’s out of sight now, disappeared into the darkened back hallway, and that means the rest of the world surges in.

I’m at a bar.

Surrounded by people talking, laughing, drinking, eating. Some surly longtime locals flying solo—

“Oh, Nat?” Anita’s gaze trails after him. The man who’s way, way too beautiful and edgy for me. “He’s hot, huh?”

“Gorgeous.” I dab at my mouth, just in case the drooling’s started.

“Yeah.” Anita smiles as she turns back to me. “He’s trouble, too.”

“Trust me. I know.” Disappointment still blooms inside my chest at the affirmation—but no, this is good.

Romance is . . . not ideal for me. I mean, aside from the fact that I have zero time for dating, I have relationship anxiety like nobody’s business. It’s like Grand Central Overthinking Station.

Which means amorous entanglement is a definite distraction from my dream—one I cannot afford, no matter what a spicy set of shoulders is trying to tell me.

I sigh. “Lucky you.”

“Yeah, lucky me, once. And lucky every hot girl in Day River.” She shakes her head. “He’s a flirt, and more heartbreak than happiness.”

“You hear that, Olli?” I slap at my cheek. “No-no.”

Anita laughs. “Exactly. Steer clear. There are—okay, well, no. Day River is shit for dating. But maybe there are better gay men?”

“I’m not looking for love anyway,” I assure her. “I have way more than a full-time job, trust me. Which means I guess I should be asking for my bill.”

I swipe the last of the salad off my plate, set my fork down, and accept the check. Kinda sad for this night to end, but I should leave before I decide to do something stupid, like have a drink. Keep flirting with the hottie. Exchange numbers, make drunken appointments for matching tattoos, that kind of thing.

Not that I’m liable to do any of those things on a normal day, but he’s finer than most guys I dare to strike up conversations with. So I slap some bills onto the table and slide out from behind the bar.

“It was lovely to meet you,” I assure Anita.

“Likewise.” She hesitates, her mouth popping open like she’s got something else to add. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Ice Out?”

“Not in whatever context you’re referring to.”

“Thursday nights. At the old subway station. It’s like . . . a Day River rite of passage.”

I cock my head in question. “And what is it, exactly?”

“You’ll just have to see it for yourself.” She winks. “Nat goes.”

“I think we already decided I’m not interested.” And I’m not. Definitely not. No way am I remotely interested or taking notes.

“Sure, sure.” Her grin widens to cover most of her face. “Don’t be a stranger, now.”

But I know, even as the words drift after me, that I will. Have to, right, because this deviation, small as it was, can’t happen again. Distractions are dangerous, make you think you desire other things. Take time, take energy, take focus, away from the things I really want—the only thing I’ve ever wanted.

So I slip through the bar towards the door with no plans to return. Or to find out what this Ice Out is or why Nat goes.

Outside, the brisk night air kisses my cheeks with sharp tongues of clarity. Clearing my head. Straightening out my thoughts.

“Already done flirting?”

I freeze as the low murmur scrapes across my skin like a physical touch, a caress of sound. Warm. Soft. Gentle.

Tantalizing.

Oh, I’m doing the poetry thing again, aren’t I? That voice warrants it, though; I’ve a feeling it’ll inspire all my poetry in the coming weeks.

I turn .

The subject of my distraction—the beautiful one I am trying to run from—leans against the wall beside the door of the bar. The cool-guy position you use if you’re in an 80s film smoking a cigarette waiting for your leather-clad biker brethren or the hot chick in the pink dress still inside.

But I see no leather-clad bikers or hot chicks in pink dresses. And his gaze focuses on me, his eyes intense over the fragile puffs that escape his parted lips.

“Yeah, got to work early tomorrow.” I step to the side as the bar door opens behind me to admit two more patrons into the night, and it puts me closer to him than I intended. Close enough for me to feel the heat of his body, smell the soft brush of his cologne. Close enough that the ghost of my breath merges into the fluttering white cloud of his.

He doesn’t move away.

His eyes slide lower, scraping along my cheekbones, lingering over my lips. Making the fog of my exhalations stutter into stunted puffs of uncertainty. My own gaze dips to his arched lips, the hint of white teeth behind. I wonder what they would feel like, those lips pressed to mine.

Which is a little surprising, for a guy who identifies as demi.

But here I am, looking at that mouth, fantasizing about the taste of his tongue. A stranger. I start to step back. “I should go . . .”

“Aw, leaving so soon?” His brow lifts again, in a delicate, playful arch, one that has my stomach turning somersaults. “I thought we were having fun.”

“Well.” I ease my weight onto my left leg to shift a modicum closer to his soft warmth. “I was. But I don’t make it a habit to hit on people who aren’t interested.”

His lips curve upwards ever so slightly. “Who says I’m not?”

“Straight guys usually aren’t.” I recognize the challenge in my voice. He’s still staring at my mouth, and I at his. “But you seem . . . curious.”

This whole thing is a game tenser than a loaded, cocked gun.

I love it .

“I am,” he murmurs, and his eyes never lift from my lips. My pulse thuds against my eardrums under that vivid, piercing gaze. “You’re . . . interesting.”

No man as hot as him has ever called me interesting.

“You’ve no idea.” I shift half a step closer, so the space between us is a crevasse of quiet, negligible inches. He could move away, broaden that distance with a simple slide down the wall.

He doesn’t.

Without warning his fingers leap up to brush across my cheek, halting me in my tracks. A wave of tingling sensation flares over my skin: shock and heat, wonder. Want. He straightens off the brick, bringing his body, his warmth, his presence, closer, so his palm curves over my jaw.

Rough. Callused. Gentle.

I hardly dare to breathe, for fear I’ll shatter this fragile moment. This dream. It’s a dream. Gotta be.

This can’t be real. This man, this beautiful, inked-up, jaded man, can’t be standing here beside me, his hand on my cheek, his bright green eyes still focused on my mouth. This can’t be—

“What would you think,” he murmurs, so the words trail across my cheeks like the softest caress of gentle fingers, “if I kissed you?”

What would I think? I don’t let strangers kiss me that often, but him? “Mm, lucky me?”

His mouth crashes into mine.

The touch is an explosion of fireworks, a wave of sparkling heat shooting straight into my brain, shock and desire and sensation. The softness of his lips. The heady, masculine brush of spice and vanilla, maybe a hint of citrus, the faint tang of alcohol, a bright burst of mint just coating the faded musk of cigarettes. The way his fingers slide into my hair to hold me steady.

Those lips part.

Tongue slides out to caress my lower lip in a touch so tender, so uncertain, it leaves me breathless.

And I’m gone. Done for.

I sink into him, into his hand in my curls, against his warm chest holding back the frosty night around us. Let my lips open to him. Can’t help the little groan that slips from my throat as his tongue presses between my teeth. God, he’s soft. Sweet. Kissing like a question, but for whom? Me? Him?

I know my answer.

My tongue slides over his to steal more sensation, more flavor—a different mint, forgotten toothpaste. He came to this bar looking for a kiss, for someone with whom to forget the lonely night.

I could let that be me.

I pull away instead, pressing my head into his hand. “I thought you were straight.”

“Eh.” His words ghost over my skin, his lashes lowered over green eyes to hide the true intensity of his gaze. “Not entirely. But I want this. Do you?”

“Yes.” More than anything. But I don’t tell him that. And I don’t make the move; I let him lower down to me. Let him press his mouth to mine. Slide his tongue between my lips. Let him increase the pace—harder now, surer. His hand still curves around my head, and his fingers tangle tight into my curls, sending heat swelling through me.

My move.

I wrap my fingers over his hip, step forward to nudge him back into the wall. His shoulders tap brick, his body soft and pliant with acquiescence, and his tongue plunges deeper into my mouth. Harder. Faster. Hotter. Taking more, demanding more, making me want so much more.

I press into him, body to body. We’re almost the same height, so all the right parts align—his muscled thighs, angled hip bones, hard pecs. So when I push closer, his cock twitches against mine, and I don’t have to wonder if he’s feeling the same heat, the same want. The same desire .

A groan slips from his throat, and I lap it up with a flick of my tongue, like I’m drinking in everything else about him. His taste, his softness, his hardness.

I arch my hips forward to grind into him, dousing us both in tender, heady friction. I’m already half hard, which is kind of surprising, and I think it wouldn’t take much to get me all the way there. Either of us; I feel him thickening in the space between my own cock and thigh.

My turn to groan against his mouth, into the press of his tongue.

Why is that so hot? Why does it make me harder just imagining it—us, here, rutting like animals against this wall. Getting ourselves hard and horny, like teenagers making out between classes, desperate to get each other off.

I tilt my head to give him more, to offer him more of me even as I take more of him. He tastes like mint and sadness and booze—

Shit.

I pull back so suddenly the frigid night on my face is like a slap of reality. Of sobriety—which he’s not. He’s drunk and lost, and here I am, taking advantage of both. His fingers slide from my hair as I step away, and his lashes widen to reveal round, confused eyes. “Why’d you stop?”

“Well,” I say, brushing my thumb under my lip. Not looking down too low, where I really want to look. I still taste his toothpaste, his whiskey and cigarettes. “How about I give you my number, and if you want this when you sober up, I’ll gladly revisit this little exploration. Yeah?”

His breath escapes his kiss-swollen lips in a puff of laughter. He mimics my gesture, thumb wiping mouth. “Yeah. Okay.”

It’s what I needed to hear, what we both know. Come morning, come sobriety and hangover headaches, he won’t be looking for my number. Won’t be dying to relive this moment with me, this . . . whatever this is to him.

I don’t even know what it is to me, except a distraction .

Still, he holds out his phone, and I take it. Type in my digits. But it’s not until I’ve walked away, climbed back behind the driver’s seat of my truck, that it occurs to me.

I didn’t even tell him my name.