Dirty Laundry: A Tucker Springs Novel #3

Brad would probably do.
    Someone, say, who was big and burly and liked to fuck in laundromats.
    Adam emerged from the covers slowly, eyeing his phone, which he’d laid on his nightstand. It had gotten dark, so he turned on a light. He did have Denver’s number. He hadn’t used it, figuring Denver hadn’t really meant for him to text, that giving Adam his number had just been a polite gesture. Yet he did have the number.
    Maybe texting would be enough to break the freak-out that seeing Brad had caused. It was the kind of exercise his old therapist would have set up for him: just sending the missive could be healing. It wasn’t a real risk, either, because Denver wouldn’t text back. He wouldn’t reject Adam. He just wouldn’t care.
    Yes. It was a very, very good idea to text Denver. Before he could psych himself out of the act, he picked up the phone and started composing.
    Hey there. This is Adam from the Laund-O-Rama. Not sure if you remember me, but wanted to say hi.
    Adam’s finger trembled, but it only took him twenty seconds to hit SEND. He sat in his bed clutching the phone for a long time, heart pounding, adrenaline pumping. God, that had been unnecessarily terrifying. But he’d done it, hadn’t he? He’d done it, and that was good. Right? Did he feel healed? Maybe. Maybe a little. It was a break in the pattern, which was good, so yes, it was good, and he felt a little healed. A little. Maybe—
    His phone dinged, and he nearly dropped it in surprise. He did drop it when he saw the notice: incoming text from Denver Rogers.
    Sure I remember you. Thought maybe you forgot all about me. What you doing, baby?
    Adam had to put the phone down on the end table and go back under the covers again. Holy shit . He’d texted back. Denver had texted back. What was Adam supposed to do now?
    He had no idea. Except that he had to reply, obviously. Adam reclaimed the phone with trembling hands and tried to push back the panic.
    Nothing much. What about you? Are you working?
    He studied his reply for a moment. Lame, yes, but also benign. Surely this would be the end of the exchange. He considered deleting the questions, but nothing much looked too curt on its own, so he didn’t. Then he made himself hit SEND again.
    Denver answered within thirty seconds, like he’d been waiting.
    Yep, working at Lights Out like always. Stop by and your first drink is on me.
    Adam stared at the display. Doubt and panic tangled, and the clash wasn’t pretty. Denver wasn’t even supposed to text back— never had Adam dreamed he’d tell him to come over!
    Before he could figure out if he had to reply or could just ignore it, the phone dinged again.
    What time do you think you might stop by? I’ll watch for you.
    Holy. Shit. Adam took the phone under the blanket with him, lying sideways as he stuttered out a reply. You really want me to come?
    Hell yes. I’ve been waiting for you to call.
    He’d been waiting? Really? Adam emerged from the blanket to sit up straight and read the text over and over. Denver didn’t seem to be joking. He wants to see me . Adam’s anxiety paused, uneasy, but full of longing too. Every part of his psychotic orchestra had liked Denver.
    He certainly wasn’t a donut. Denver Rogers was a big, meaty steak. Adam didn’t normally do steak, but Jesus, was he craving beef right now.
    I could swing by around ten , he replied.
    See you then.
    Adam held onto the phone, waiting to see if anything else happened. It didn’t.
    Then he realized what he’d just promised to do, what he’d gotten himself into. Going across town to Lights Out. An unknown, local bar.
    Alone.
    To meet Denver, who had fucked him over a laundry table. Who had, allegedly, been waiting for his call.
    “Oh God,” Adam whispered, and went back under the covers.

“What are you staring at?” El asked when Denver pulled out his phone for the fifteenth time while they waited through their first wash cycle at the laundromat. “Waiting for your booty call?”
    Denver tucked his phone away, but not before verifying that Adam hadn’t texted again. He cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just—nothing.”
    El grinned. “Ha. It’s your Bug Boy, isn’t it? Your entomologist still hasn’t texted you, and it’s driving you crazy.”
    Denver shifted uncomfortably on his plastic chair. “He did text me. He’s coming by the bar tonight. I’m going to buy him a drink.”
    “So it was a booty call.”
    Denver was hoping like hell it was, but