Once they were underway, they played a few hands before Donaldson started running off at the mouth. He was a killer poker player, but man, Bacon was damn sick of his attitude of late.
“You know what I don’t miss? Lowe cleaning up at cards,” Donaldson observed. Lowe hadn’t played cards all that often, mainly keeping to himself, but when he’d played, he’d been a freaking shark, making Bacon glad they didn’t play for money.
“Shut up. You’re just pissed because he’s better than you.” Bacon kept his voice light, but he still wasn’t letting the slight pass.
“I’m just saying, we had just gotten back to normal, and then they gave us the reporter. W-T-F, right? It’s like they want us queered-up.”
Bacon waited a beat, but as usual, no one else spoke up. “Dude. It’s not catching. And Lowe’s a friend. Stop talking shit about him.”
“I’m not talking shit.” Donaldson held up his hands as Bullets dealt them all fresh cards. “I’m just saying I’d rather hang with you guys. That’s all. Don’t want a distraction.”
Come on, someone else say something. Please. He glanced at Curly, who was in the window seat, and his mouth was a thin line, but he was damnably silent. Why the fuck was it always on Bacon to be the PC police and educate these lunkheads on basic empathy?
“I don’t care who I hang with as long as they’re not jerks,” he said finally, voice tight. “Homophobia’s not cool.”
“I’m not homophobic.” Donaldson waved away the critique while the others stayed fucking quiet. Even Rooster, who hadn’t fallen asleep after all and was draped over the seat back watching them, was silent, face a thunderous mask. “I know people. I’m just saying when the chips are down, I know who’d I want next to me in the field.”
Curly, for the love of God, say something. You know I’ve had your six for a fucking decade now. As if he could hear Bacon’s thoughts, Curly opened his mouth and said mildly, “Everyone here has your sorry six, Donaldson. Now can we play?”
And with that, Bacon had fucking had it. He stood up. “I’m out.”
“What? Why?” Bullets blinked. “You’d seriously rather hang with the reporter?”
“At least he’s not talking smack about my friends.” And me. And with that, he strode up the aisle, cursing himself for not just coming out to the other guys right then and there. But would it fucking matter? Curly knew and apparently it hardly made him an advocate. Whatever his personal sexuality, Rooster had no problem with guys on social media ogling him, but couldn’t bothered to speak out either. Fuck. This. Shit. He clomped down the aisle.
He reached Bryant’s seat only to find him sitting sideways, feet up, long, elegant hands dwarfing the small laptop he was typing on. Grrr. There were other open seats of course, but none that would make his point as clearly. “Move your feet,” he barked in a low voice.
Bryant quickly swiveled, bringing his legs down, and moving his laptop case. “What happened?”
Bacon merely grunted in response. He wasn’t telling him shit. Just sitting here was message enough to his teammates.
“Off the record,” Bryant said gentler now. “You need to talk?”
“Nope. Just usual team stuff.” Unfortunately. “Nothing you need to report on. We’re still a team. We’re like brothers, you know? And sometimes brothers disagree, but it’s no big deal.”
Not that Bacon would really know about brothers—his much older half-brothers were both total pieces of shit. But it was true about his team. He was pissed at them now, but he’d still take a bullet for any of one of them.
“I’m an only child,” Bryant said with a shrug. “But I know what you’re saying. And it’s okay. I’m really not here to report on every little argument. I asked about it because you seem like a pretty good guy, and I figured you might need to talk. Not everything’s an ulterior motive with me.”
“I know and I appreciate that, Mr. Bryant—”
“Spencer, please,” he said firmly.
Spencer. It suited him far more than Bryant, and Bacon rolled the word around his brain, testing it. “Okay, Spencer it is. But I don’t need to talk.”
“All right.” Spencer gave another of those refined shrugs. He was wearing an outfit that looked like something out of a Patagonia ad—cargo pants, cotton shirt with lots of pockets. “So, how about you? You got a first name?”
“Nope.” Bacon wasn’t entirely lying, but he kept his voice light.
“Oh, come on.” Spencer’s tone was far more teasing than it had been thus far. “What do they call you back home?”
“Junior.” His gut roiled at the word and all the memories it contained. “But you try and call me that and I’m leaving your ass in the field, consequences be damned.”
“Okay, okay.” Spencer laughed. “Bacon it is. Is that even your real last name?”