Page 32 of Steady Stroke
Roxy made spaghetti for dinner, and they ate in awkward silence. He cleaned up so she could head to her six o’clock work shift. It took a lot of effort not to bang the pots together in frustration over radio silence from Emmett. He didn’t want to pester the guy, but not even a text?
At six thirty, his phone finally pinged with a message.
Emmett:You did nothing wrong, so no forgiveness needed. Roxy and I are cool.
Damn him for texting so close to when Off Beat opened. It gave Emmett the perfect excuse to keep the conversation short.
Really want to see you in person, Em, please?
A few minutes passed before Emmett replied:Tomorrow. Lunch?
Finally.Come over? I can toss a frozen pizza in the oven.
Okay. See you at noon.
Lincoln put his phone down without the sense of victory he’d expected. Emmett was coming over to see him tomorrow, but instead of joy, a sense of dread slithered under his skin like a shard of glass. Despite having no real reason to think so, he had a very real fear that Emmett was coming over to say good-bye.
Avoiding contact all day and then sending a few texts made Emmett feel like a jerk and a total loser. Lincoln deserved better than that. He deserved someone who wasn’t afraid of a simple conversation. A conversation maybe not so simple, because of his mixed-up feelings about Lincoln. Feelings hewould not allow to surface or be acknowledged in any way, because down that road lay only pain. Pain for him and pain for Lincoln.
He’d learned his lesson once and paid a very steep price.
Lincoln had suffered enough. He wouldn’t risk it.
Emmett put his phone in the safe in Aunt Beatrice’s office, then went about his usual duties at the prep table. Cutting lime wedges and orange-peel garnishes. Filling various bins behind the bar with cherries, olives, and cocktail onions. The glasses were full and ready to go. He mostly avoided curious looks from Sasha, but on his second pass Van blocked him.
“Dude, what happened to you?” Van asked.
Emmett already had a story that he’d run by Aunt Beatrice, so he didn’t have to relive the entire thing whenever someone saw the redness that still colored his forehead and around his eyes. Not as bad as last night, at least. “Allergic reaction.”
“To what?”
“I’m not sure. It might have been this organic sunscreen Aunt Beatrice let me try.”
Van pulled a face. “Does it itch?”
“Not much. The redness should go away by tomorrow.”
“That’s good news.”
Emmett rolled his eyes. “I’ll try not to frighten your customers away.”
That made Van smile—something he didn’t do very often for people who didn’t tip him. “That’s what I like to hear.” He tilted his head. “Weren’t your eyes lighter than that before?”
Emmett’s stomach twisted up tight. He hadn’t managed to replace the colored contacts yet, and Aunt Beatrice had encouraged him to not bother. A majority of the world’s population had brown eyes. They wouldn’t automatically make people fear or hate him. And Van looked so confused that Emmett had pityand told him the truth. “I used to wear colored contacts. For fun. I decided not to anymore.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, I guess.”
The club didn’t get busy until closer to eight, when their first act was set to go on, so Emmett was able to hide in the shadows. Once business picked up, he had to appear more frequently to run glasses, bus tables, and bring liquor to his bartenders. All jobs he normally didn’t mind, but his face made him ten times more self-conscious than usual. Dina took pity on him and did a lot of the table bussing, for which he pledged his eternal gratitude.
Even though he kept his head down, Emmett still scanned the crowd every once in a while, hoping to see a familiar face. Only Lincoln didn’t show up. Not for the eight or ten o’clock set, and as the clock inched closer to midnight and their final act, he gave up any hope that Lincoln might come see him.
No, don’t be ridiculous. If he comes, it’s for the music, not me.
Besides, discussing yesterday in a crowded bar while Emmett was working? Not a smart move, and Lincoln seemed like a pretty grounded guy. A very pretty, grounded guy.
Stop that.
Their third act went on at midnight to a pretty packed house. Saturday nights in the summer meant a bouncer upstairs at the phone booth so they didn’t go over capacity. Standing-room only, and the dance floor was jammed. Between the crowd and his appearance, Emmett’s anxiety rose until his hands were shaking so hard he nearly sliced his knuckle instead of the lime.
