Where Nerves End

morning for me to come fuck him. That, and whoever was left at the end of the night would be as desperate as I was. You scratch my back, Ill scratch yours, your place or mine?
In the meantime, business.
I made the rounds, checking on my bartenders and servers, making sure the deejay was set for the night, and keeping an eye on anyone who might be taking too much advantage of my liberal break policy. I checked with the bouncers to see if they had their eye on anyone as potential troublemakers. So far, so good.
On my way to the upper level, I took out the earplugs I always wore downstairs. It was loud up here, but it was like the difference between watching an airshow and sticking my head inside the intake of a space shuttle. If Tucker Springs ever wound up with an epidemic of hearing loss among its young, gay population, I was probably partly responsible.
My eyes only took a moment to adjust from the flickering strobes downstairs to the dimmer, static lights up here. The older, more subdued crowd mingled and drank, shot pool and flirted, exchanged looks and phone numbers. Beer bottles. This or that on the rocks. Martinis. The bartenders undoubtedly pushing top shelf. Well, it wouldnt be an abnormally lucrative night, but it wasnt bad. And it was still early.
The back of my neck tingled, and I stopped in my tracks.
I turned around.
Oh God.
Apparently there was something worse than knowing Michael was fucking other men in my house—when he came to my club to find those men.
On the flipside, it probably wouldnt take him long to find a willing partner. Depending on how picky he was, or how long he liked to linger in a club, the man could be out of here before the next song ended, because holy fuck he looked good.
Whatever gift he had for reading answers before they were spoken, he must have used it to tap into that part of my brain that listed all the things that made my mouth water. Jeans that fit just right. Five oclock shadow. Hair arranged flawlessly but not locked into place with gel or some other shit that would preclude running my fingers through it. And of course, the borderline fetish that my ex always thought was ridiculous—an old T-shirt under a blazer. Like no other, that was a look that always got me. Just the right amount of classy and casual mixed with some good oldfashioned dont give a fuck.
For the first time in my life, I was convinced someone had been put on this earth for the sole purpose of driving me insane .
And just in case my blood pressure wasnt already all over the place, Michael saw me. And he was coming this way. And there was no pretending I hadnt seen him, because I was staring at him like an idiot.
“Hey,” I said when we were just over an arms length apart. “Didnt expect to see you here tonight.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I hope you dont mind me crashing your club.”
“No, not at all.” In spite of my nerves, I forced a grin. “The more the merrier.”
“Well, Ive heard good things about this place.” His smile suddenly lacked its usual shameless confidence, as did his voice. “Thought Id, you know, check it out.”
“Hope it doesnt disappoint.”
Over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed slightly and locked on mine as he said, “So far so good.” As he took a drink, though, that momentary confidence, that flicker of boldness, faded, and he dropped his gaze. Then he met my eyes with a hell of a lot more effort than before, and it was hard to tell in this light, but I was sure his cheeks colored a little as he said, “Do you, um, have a few minutes? To go somewhere and talk?”
I smiled in spite of the knot that suddenly twisted beneath my ribs. “Im the boss. I can take a few minutes if I want to.”
His smile was uncertain, the creases above his eyebrows asking, “Okay, but do you want to?”
I nodded toward the stairs. “Come on.”
Heart pounding, I led him out into the stairwell and up to the employees-only rooftop terrace.
“Theres a third level?” he asked, looking around.
“Well, not really,” I said. “More like a glorified break room for my employees. Sucks during the winter. Everyone has to take breaks in the storage room, and the smokers? Well, theyre pretty well fucked.” And you’re rambling, Captain Smooth-N-Suave.
Michael laughed. “Seems like a good way to motivate them to quit.”
“Thats what Ive told them, but they just go outside and suffer.”
He chuckled, but didnt say anything, and uncomfortable silence descended between us.
We stopped