Restoration 01 - Getting It Right Page 14

  “We should go,” Nathan said. “Want me to drive?”

  “You’re not drinking tonight?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t mix it with my meds.”

  James nearly asked what he was taking, but stopped himself. It wasn’t his business.

  Nathan would tell him when he was ready—

  “BuSpar,” Nathan said. “I’ve been taking it for eight weeks.”

  Brand name for buspirone, a relatively new antianxiety medication that was less

  addicting than some of the older drugs. Typically used for generalized anxiety disorder.

  Interesting choice. “Any side effects?” the therapist in James asked.

  “Occasional dry mouth, Dr. Taggert, but so far so good.”

  “Sorry—”

  “No, it’s fine. Do you prescribe it?”

  “A few times, generally to older patients, or former addicts. Not usually to someone who’s suffered such a serious trauma as you.”

  Nathan frowned. “Do you think I’m taking the wrong thing?”

  “I think if it helps you get through the day, then it’s the right thing.”

  “It didn’t help me not hit you in the nose earlier.”

  James wrinkled his nose to prove there were no lasting side effects. “I don’t tend to suggest medicating those kinds of reactions. They need to be worked through and talked out. It gets better by degrees, and it takes time.”

  “Time to become normal again?”

  “No, time to find your balance. Normal is gone, Nate. It left the building when that psycho attacked you. You need to find a way to overcome what happened, and to build a new normal that you can live with.”

  Nathan tilted his head to the side, thinking. “So as a professional, would you recommend a patient such as myself get caught up in a new and radically out-of-character relationship while still working through said trauma?”

  James swallowed hard. “If you’d asked me that a few weeks after the attack, I’d have said no. If you’d met some stranger who didn’t know you inside and out, and who wasn’t already head over heels for you, I’d have said no. But you’re four months out, and it helps to have someone there to prop you up when things get hard, so yes. I’d recommend this relationship to a patient like you.”

  He worked through the words, considering them as spoken, and then Nathan smiled.

  “Good answer, Doc.” His dark eyes glittered. “So back to my original question.”

  “Remind me?”

  “You want me to drive?”

  “Sure.” James didn’t plan on getting wasted tonight. No matter whose bed they ended up in afterward, he wanted to remember every detail.

  Nate’s stomach was a tangled knot of nerves by the time they walked into Pot O Gold.

  The rapid bass of the music slammed into his chest, revving up his heart rate. The mixed scents of liquor, beer and sweat tingled his nose in a heady way that woke up his senses like it never had before. Maybe because the dozen or so times he’d come here over the years, it had been as a tourist. He’d been the straight friend out for the night.

  Tonight he was here with James. With James. No longer a tourist but still not really a local.

  James hovered at his shoulder, almost touching, fingers skating across Nate’s lower back.

  Nate glanced at the U-shaped bar to the right, then to the throng of dancing bodies to the left.

  The far left wall had a handful of booths, but mostly the floor space was empty of tables and chairs. The thickest cluster of dancers was in the rear, near the VJ booth.

  So many strange faces. And any one of them could be his attacker.

  James’s hand pressed more firmly against his back when Nate stopped walking. “You doing okay, babe?”

  Nate swallowed, his mouth dry in a way that had nothing to do with his meds. No, he couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t imagine every stranger was his assailant, or that every look thrown his way was a threat. “I’m good,” he said, then started walking again.

  Elliott had commandeered a booth in the rear left, farthest from the frenzy, but it was still fucking loud. He sprang from the booth, dressed up in green pants that looked painted on and a white mesh top that barely covered skin. He flung himself at Nate, and Nate endured the hug.

  “I’m so happy you said yes, honey,” Elliott said as he pulled back. Actual joy glimmered in his eyes—eyes that seemed a little too dilated, even in the bad light. Was he high?

  “I figured this was the only way I could get out for a while without having to ditch my bodyguard.” He jerked his thumb at James.

  James shot him a mock glare.

  “He’s just happy to see you again, honey. We all are.” Elliott turned him over to the group for hugs from Boxer and Tori, who seemed to be the only woman in the place. He shook hands with Allan, Louis and a few other people whose faces he knew but names he’d forgotten.

  Elliott took a big swig of something red and fruity-looking, then smacked his lips. “Okay, what are we drinking tonight, boys?”

  “Peach mojito,” James said.

  The order prickled Nate’s nerves for no good reason—he’d offered to drive so James could feel free to drink. But alcohol was a problem James needed to face someday soon. He’d simply watch tonight and make sure James didn’t overdo it. “Coke,” Nate said.

  Elliott wrinkled his nose. “Plain Coke?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged, then darted off to get their drinks. Nate tracked him for a while, concerned, but Elliott wasn’t weaving, tripping or listing. Yet.

  The booth was full, but Nate didn’t mind standing. It meant leaning on the wall with James plastered up so close he could feel his body heat. Close without really touching him. He was letting Nate lead this. Allowing Nate to reach first, to say something first. To come out at his own pace.

  The idea of announcing anything to the group made his stomach twist up even tighter.

  Maybe this was a bad idea. He was still getting used to the idea of being part of a couple, and being at Pot O Gold only reinforced the strangeness of his life now. That he was with an openly gay man, with his openly gay friends, and Nate still couldn’t apply the word gay to himself. Not in his head, and not out loud.

  “So, you looking to go back to work?” Boxer asked.

  “Definitely,” Nate replied. Conversation he could handle. “I need to do some psych evals first, but I’m looking forward to going back.”

  “Why?” Louis asked with an obvious shudder. “After what happened? I’d quit and

  become a florist.”

  “You are a florist, baby,” Boxer said.

  “So?”

  “Being a cop isn’t what got me hurt,” Nate said. Fine tremors rolled down his arms. “Not directly. Besides, I love my job, and I’ve got a black thumb.”

  “I guess I’d be scared to go back to something so dangerous.”

  “You get scared killing a spider the size of a ladybug,” Boxer said.

  Louis blew Boxer a raspberry.

  The banter was cute, easy, an established thing between a couple who’d been together almost a year now, if Nate remembered right. “Police work isn’t as dangerous as it looks on television, trust me. In my twelve years, I’ve never once pulled my gun on a suspect. I’ve never even fired it, except on the practice range.”

  Several pairs of wide, disbelieving eyes turned on him.

  Elliott returned with their drinks faster than Nate expected, and the conversation switched to some flare trick Donner had performed while Elliott waited for Riley to make his drinks. Nate looked at the bar in time to see a brown-haired man wearing heavy black eyeliner toss a bottle into the air. It spun in two perfect arches, then landed in his hand ready to pour. Little things like that probably got the guy good tips.

  “So what the hell, Nate,” Elliott said after he downed more of his drink. “You don’t call, you don’t write.”

  The attention was on him again. A hand on the small of hi
s back—James—settled some of his nerves. “I apologized to James already, but I’m sorry to the rest of you,” Nate said. “I’m sorry for making you worry, but cutting myself off was what I needed to do to get better.”

  The group at the table all seemed to be waiting, deferring to James on this one. James tipped back his drink, then slid his arm across Nate’s shoulders in a friendly way. Like he’d done hundreds of times before. “Nate and I are good. We had our say to each other, and we’re better than ever.”

  Nods and smiles went around the booth. If anyone had picked up on the hidden subtext, they didn’t show it. Part of Nate wished James would come out and say it so uncertainty would go away. The rest of him was grateful the moment hadn’t turned into some dramatic congratulatory group hug, welcoming him to the family.

  Elliott heaved a dramatic sigh. “Well, I suppose if James has forgiven you for ignoring him for months, we can too. Welcome home, honey.” He held up the last of his fruity drink.

  Everyone got in close so they could clink glasses on a chorus of “Welcome home.”

  Nate sipped his Coke, grateful to have such an easygoing group of friends. He couldn’t say they were mostly James’s friends, even though he only knew them because of his friendship with James. Straight or not, he’d always been part of James, so as each new member was added to the cluster of friends, Nate was there. Maybe not as frequently, but everyone knew him. And never in his life had he been more grateful to know them.

  He also still had their undivided attention. No time like the present to come out and reveal his newborn relationship with James. Only his jaw locked up, preventing the words from tumbling out.

  “I want to dance,” Louis said, with a firm elbow into Boxer’s side. He was a small, pale, wiry thing—the perfect physical opposite to Boxer’s tattooed brawn. “Let’s dance, baby.”

  Boxer eyed his drink with reluctance, but he indulged his boyfriend by sliding out of the booth. The two others squashed into the same side of the booth as Boxer and Louis—he was pretty sure one’s name was Brad—tumbled out right behind them.

  Allan and Tori seemed content to guard the booth and their drinks.

  “Don’t even think you’re getting out of this,” Elliott said, then grabbed Nate by the wrist.

  Nate allowed himself to be tugged out into the sea of gyrating male bodies. His insides tingled with nerves as hands and elbows brushed him, innocent touches that were unavoidable on a crowded dance floor. And then a familiar hand on the small of his back—James. Following close.

  Elliott settled on a spot in the middle of everything, then swung around and draped his arms around Nate’s waist. The hold was loose, friendly. They’d danced before, usually when Nate was pretty drunk, and tonight he was stone-cold sober while his dance partner looked as if he was tweaking on something. It made Nate glad he was dancing with Elliott, instead of Elliott falling all over some stranger who might take advantage.

  He had no real idea how Elliott was handling himself since Doug’s death. He hadn’t been around. Some of James’s emails had mentioned Ell’s apartment always being a mess, his clothes sometimes mismatched. The rug. He hadn’t gone back to work, and Nate had no idea how he was paying his rent, or how he was spending his days.

  He’d not only shut his friends out, he’d shut out their lives and their pain.

  He was an ass. A selfish ass.

  “How are you holding up?” Nate asked, leaning in close to be heard.

  Elliott rolled his eyes. “You know, if I had a quarter for every time someone asked me that?”

  “Sorry. I haven’t been around to see for myself.”

  Elliott’s thin body swayed with the beat, his hips keeping time by some instinct while he focused on Nate. “You’re right, you haven’t.” He spoke plainly, no accusation, but the words still stung.

  Nate glanced around. James and Boxer had made a sandwich of Louis, and the trio was an amazing mix of unique. And hot.

  Lord, when had he started thinking of other men as hot together?

  Oh yeah. When he’d finally embraced his feelings for another man.

  “The beard’s a nice look,” Elliott said over the scream of the music. “It’s übersexy. So are the scars.”

  Nate tensed, his dancing ability switching to uncoordinated jerks of his hips. The whole point of the beard was to disguise the scars, and nothing about them was remotely sexy. Elliott probably meant well, but the compliment crashed and burned. “Listen, I need to hit the head.”

  He directed Elliott toward James, Boxer and Louis, then threaded his way through the throng to the bathrooms at the far right. Running away from his friends—from the safety of James’s arms—wasn’t his brightest idea ever, but he needed a few minutes to collect himself. To convince himself that everyone in the place wasn’t leering at his scars, whispering about how ugly he was.

  Inside the restroom, the trench urinal was pretty busy. Two of the three stalls sported two pairs of feet per. Nate rushed the empty one and locked himself inside, ignoring the grunts and moans coming from the other two stalls. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal door and just concentrated on breathing.

  “Toilet break,” Elliott said when James asked where Nathan had disappeared to.

  James scanned the crowd, spotting the back of Nathan’s head before it disappeared into the bathroom. An odd compulsion to follow him nearly made James tear away from his friends.

  Nathan might not appreciate James checking up on him, so he stayed put and added Elliott to their group. He couldn’t ask Elliott about last night with Boxer and Louis right there. The last thing he needed was gossip.

  Maybe they’re already talking. You don’t know what Ell told them.

  Too true. But he wasn’t getting any knowing looks from Boxer or Louis, or from anyone else, so maybe they hadn’t fucked, after all.

  A few yards away, a head of white-blond hair caught his attention. Ezra. Dancing with the two people he’d seen him with a few weeks ago. He didn’t remember the taller, ganglier of the pair’s name, but Alessandro had gone in on a coffee shop business with Ezra this summer.

  James had yet to stop in and see how they were making out, but rumor was the coffee was excellent.

  Rumor also had it that Romy Myers had been living with Ezra and his boyfriend Donner since leaving Carlos. He briefly considered approaching the trio and asking after Romy—until his traveling gaze landed on one of the booths where Romy was sitting with a huge black guy James had never seen before.

  Maybe he’s the one David saw beating the snot out of Carlos. Good for him.

  “Be right back,” James said loud enough for his trio of friends to hear. “I want to go say hi to someone.”

  Louis made a dramatic protest, then yanked Elliott into place as the front half of his sandwich. James rolled his eyes and navigated his way across the dance floor. Romy and his friend were engaged in conversation and they didn’t notice him coming. Presented with the situation, James suddenly had no idea what to say. Too many rumors of what Carlos had done to Romy were traveling through the grapevine, everything painting Carlos as cruel and sadistic.

  He’d already been banned from the Pot.

  “Romy, is that you?” James asked as he approached the booth, going for a casual

  engagement even though his brain was peppering the boy with questions. Are you okay? What happened with Carlos? Are you seeing a professional? Is it helping? He sat down on the opposite side of the booth without waiting for an invite, falling into the persona of Tag the playboy easily. “I haven’t seen you around in months, honey. How’s it shaking?”

  “Hey, Tag.” Romy blinked at him, a little startled. “I’m doing good. Been busy.”

  “Sure, that’s what they all say.” James flashed his nameless—slightly glaring—

  companion a smile. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Brendan, Tag. Tag, Brendan.”

  “I bet you’re a force on the dance floor,” James said to Brendan. T
he man was built like a linebacker, and he’d probably be handsome if he learned how to smile.

  “I don’t dance,” Brendan replied.

  “Shame.” James studied him, more and more sure this was the guy who’d handed Carlos his ass. If so, congratulations were in order. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  “Does that line ever work?”

  “That honestly wasn’t a line.” James considered him a moment longer, then shrugged and shifted his attention back to Romy. He wanted to have a chat, but not with Brendan around. And the black-haired boy looked like he had some energy to burn. “You wanna go a round or two?”

  Romy hesitated, his big black eyes watching James. He tipped back the rest of his drink.

  “Why the hell not?”

  James slid back out of the booth, then led Romy into the sea of bodies. He had nearly a foot on Romy, which made dancing somewhat awkward. But this wasn’t about getting down and dirty, or fucking with their clothes on. This was his way of making sure a guy who’d survived a trauma was coping with it.

  One day I’ll learn how to turn off the inner psychiatrist.

  Romy danced with a stiff awareness that enforced some of the rumors of abuse. His gaze never stopped moving, his guard always up. Several times he stiffened, lost the beat. James tried to make a barrier with his own larger body, tried to give Romy some space to dance without being jarred by other men too much. He didn’t always succeed, and as one song bled into another, he lost Romy’s focus entirely.

  He lightly tapped Romy’s chin, forcing the younger man to look up at him. “You okay?”

  “Out of practice.”

  James took the response at face value, a little saddened by how desperately Romy was working to keep it together.

  I need to find a way to help him.

  Nate found Boxer and Elliott dancing together near the middle of the floor. “Where did Louis and James go?” he asked.

  “Louis went for drinks,” Boxer replied. “Jay went off to talk to a friend.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna go sit for a while.”

  “You tired already, old man?” Elliott teased.

  He nearly snapped back that he was always tired. “Welcome to being in your thirties, Ell.”