Dirty Laundry: A Tucker Springs Novel #3

his voice full of innuendo.
    “Oh yeah?” Denver continued to wipe down the bench, but his ears were pricked.
    “Yeah. I heard somebody nobody ever thought would settle down has been seen multiple times with the same guy. Some cute little grad student from East Cent.”
    Yeah. A cute little grad student who has something he needs to tell me tonight. Denver cleared his throat. “That’s kind of a funny story.”
    “It’s cool, man. Great, even. I like you getting serious and settled. Means you might not drift off on me before I can pin you down.” When Denver groaned, Tiny held out his hands. “Hey. How many guys in this economy have somebody begging to give them a job? Hell, how many of them have that and a cute grad student? You’re charmed, buddy.”
    “Well, charms, they wear off. Give me a little more time and neither one of you will want me.” Denver hung the disinfectant spray bottle back on its hook and tossed the wad of used towels in the trash.
    He headed for the locker room without saying good-bye to Tiny, without so much as slowing down for anybody in his way.
    Emotions he’d been barely holding back ever since he’d gotten that text began to churn like the blades of a blender in his gut, and he leaned against a line of lockers, breathing through the chaos. He’d known it was going to come to this. He’d known it all along. It was why he didn’t get attached. Why he shouldn’t have let himself get that way now. Why had he let down his guard? Why had he forgotten everything he’d learned in Oklahoma City?
    Why the hell had he thought, even for a minute, that this time would be different?
    Peeling off his clothes, he tossed them into the bottom of his locker, grabbed a towel, and headed for the showers. He’d scalded off the worst of his panic under the spray and was reaching for his soap when he heard Tiny’s voice at the door.
    “Is that why you keep turning me down?”
    Blinking the water away, Denver glanced toward him. “What?”
    Tiny leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms over his chest. “What you said about charms wearing off, how you hinted that if I spent enough time with you, I wouldn’t want to hire you?”
    Denver didn’t want to do this. Muttering, he ducked back under the spray.
    He could still hear Tiny, though, and the careful, gentle way the usually jovial man spoke made him hold still to listen. “The things I admire in you, Denver, aren’t things that are going to fade away. You’re loyal, hardworking, and kind to people, even when you think you’re being big and bad. You get people to respect you, maybe at first by being as big as a house, but you keep it because you’re a good man. I bet your grad student sees that too.” He paused, then added, “It’s okay to accept that from people, you know. Respect and friendship and everything else. You’ve earned it.” His voice went so soft Denver had to strain it hear it over the shower. “No matter what somebody else has told you.”
    Shutting his eyes, Denver nodded his acknowledgment—and thanks—and buried his face in the water, just in case, though his emotions never got any higher than the top of his throat.

Adam met Denver at The Wrangler, a local steakhouse just west of the Light District. It played loud country music and served microbrewed beer in steins with cow heads on the handles.
    “Wouldn’t have pegged this for your kind of place,” Denver remarked as he held open the door for Adam.
    Adam acknowledged the nicety with a blushing nod. “I felt like a steak. Hope you don’t mind?”
    “Hell, no. You just are always ordering salads and beans and, when you’re really serious, chicken. But if you’re feeling like steak, you’re feeling like steak.”
    The truth was, of course, that Adam didn’t like steak at all. He knew Denver did, though, and he’d figured the whole Hey, I have a debilitating mental illness discussion would go down better if Denver were eating something he liked. Of course now that he’d lied and said he wanted steak, he’d have to eat one too.
    This realization consumed him until the waitress arrived, as he tried to decide whether or not he could bail on the smallest steak he could find—the Junior Wrangler eight-ounce sirloin—and order the chicken Santa Fe salad instead. “Consumed him” was too mild a term, of course. It crippled him, the decision bearing the weight of his whole existence. Could he be himself and order the salad, or did he have