Page 15 of Steady Stroke
The man was gorgeous, full stop. Average height, with an amazing body that filled out his jeans and tight T-shirt. And his face. All angles and planes, with sharp cheekbones and perfectly proportioned lips. A dimple in his chin. The styled blond hair. Even the sunglasses had fit into the look, despite their oddness indoors, and they’d hidden Lincoln’s eye color.
Blue. He’d lay money on blue.
Emmett had been struck by the former musician’s appearance last weekend, when he’d spotted him at the bar—and he’d promptly run and hidden from that funny feeling in the pit of his belly. That sharp poke of interest he felt occasionally over a guy. Interest that he’d held at bay ever since the fire that had taken everything fromhim.
His parents were dead, but he still couldn’t stand the idea of dishonoring them by giving in to his homosexual urges.
“Emmett?” Aunt Beatrice’s voice didn’t make him jump anymore, even when he wasn’t expecting it. She’d done everything possible to make him feel safe with her, both at the club and at home, and he adored her for it. She approached the prep table with a tentative smile.
“Do you need me to do something?” he asked.
“No, you seemed pretty lost in thought. Everything okay?”
“Of course.” Even if he wasn’t okay, she’d shouldered enough of his burdens to last a lifetime. “I, ah, think I made a friend tonight.”
Admitting that was worth the blinding smile on his aunt’s face. “Really?”
“Yes. Van introduced me to Lincoln West.”
Her smile dimmed a bit. “That poor guitarist from XYZ. I saw him here last week.”
“He’s staying here for the summer. We’re going to play putt-putt tomorrow.”
“That’s wonderful. It’s good for you to hang out with people your own age. Or close enough to it.”
“I know.” He dragged his fingertips over the prep table’s smooth surface. “But doesn’t friendship require sharing personal information?”
“To a degree. But Lincoln isn’t entitled to your entire life story the first time you get together. Or even the tenth.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You decide what you’re comfortable telling him, okay?”
“All right.”
“Things are winding down out front. Why don’t you give the tables another run, and then start cleaning up back here?”
“I will. Thank you, Aunt Beatrice.”
“You’re welcome, kiddo.”
Emmett grabbed the gray basin he used to bus the tables, added a spray bottle and rag, and then steeled himself with a few deep breaths. His skin crawled with the anticipation of being around so many strangers, even though his brain knew he was safe here. He pushed through the swinging door and out into the half-empty club.
The last open-mike participant had finished ten minutes ago, and regular music filtered over the sound system. A few people were dancing, but most seemed to be finishing up their drinks and preparing to leave. Emmett immediately looked toward the back corner where he’d seen Lincoln sitting earlier with a female companion.
The table was empty.
Disappointment curled in his stomach, an unexpected feeling that he didn’t completely understand. He’d known Lincoln for a grand total of ten minutes.
No time to stand around and examine his feelings. Emmett picked up glasses and plates from several abandoned tables, then wiped them down. After they closed he would go back to each table and reset them with menus and condiment racks for tomorrow. Or, technically, later today.
Van did last call, and fifteen minutes later the lights went up. Aunt Beatrice liked to follow the last of her guests upstairs and thank them as she locked up for the night. Sasha had already cleaned her station and gone home, so Emmett helped Van finish up behind the bar. Even though Van tended to lean toward Resting Bitch Face, Emmett genuinely liked the guy. He’d always been friendly and accommodating to Emmett, and he’d worked for Aunt Beatrice for years.
Sometimes she even referred to him as a second son.
Emmett never asked why, and he didn’t ask Van personalquestions. It meant questions in return, and Emmett’s old life was gone. Over with. It was hard enough trying to think about the future. He couldn’t dwell on his past anymore.
Aunt Beatrice owned a two-story house less than two blocks from the club, so they always walked to and from work, and the night’s humidity smacked him in the face. Even though he was still in Maryland, the weather was so different on the coast than in Baltimore County, where he’d grown up. The damp, the fog, the way the salty air made his skin itch some days. But this was his favorite time of day, because their part of town was going to sleep. The streets were quieter, the traffic lighter.
At first, he’d hated the idea of walking to Off Beat every night—mostly because at six forty-five in the evening, the streets were alive with tourists, and he couldn’t avoid bumping into people. But he was also, he’d realized after the first two weeks, pleasantly anonymous here. No one recognized him. No one openly pitied him.
No one cared.
