“Nah, it’s actually my funeral suit,” Roach choked out in the end, and the light in the pretty guy’s eyes died.
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“No, no! That was ages ago.” Could someone give him a shovel so he could bury his shame?
Zane grinned, pulling him toward the door, the pleasant music, and the guy that could have modeled for one of those perfectly proportioned ancient sculptures. “He’s wearing it because he wants to look good for me.”
The model wished them a good night, but Roach was already choking on the dense air blowing at him from the bar as Zane walked him inside.
Butterfly larvae crawled all over Roach’s stomach, and he squeezed Zane’s hand harder, to remind him of the pain they shared. But when he watched Zane walk into the lively bar, he couldn’t help but feel that no one equaled him here. Zane’s hair wasn’t straightened like the guy’s outside, his nose was slightly crooked, and when he smiled, he showed off the chip in his tooth that hadn’t been there two years ago, but Roach couldn’t look away from him regardless.
Zane was the kind of man who fit in everywhere. If he wanted to make friends, he would, and if he wanted to antagonize people, it was even less of an issue. Roach would have given a finger to have a quarter of his people skills. Zane was handsome in a way a perfect model never could be, he had charm that went beyond a pretty face. In comparison, Roach was a moth drawn to the bright glow of his life, despite knowing that deep down Zane was a fucked up monster who would one day burn him alive like he had his family.
The bar… didn’t look all that different from Tony’s, though it featured all kinds of variations on the rainbow flag instead of the classic stars and stripes, and while there were women present, they were vastly outnumbered by guys. But there were booths, and a bar, and a wall with photos attached. Nobody was naked, and even though one of the ladies was taller than Roach and wore very strong mask-like makeup, he didn’t feel as out of place as he’d assumed he might. Maybe he would have if he came here on his own, without anyone to guide him, but Zane was here too, intent on delivering on his promise to teach Roach how to be gay.
“And what? We get beers?” Roach whispered, and dared lean closer to Zane than he would have in a regular bar.
He couldn’t shake off the sense of being watched, but it seemed like one of those places that rarely had new faces showing up. Or was it a gay thing in this case? Were all those guys on the lookout for potential partners to hook up with, and that’s where their interest came from?
The warmth of Zane’s hand gave him a sense of stability, but once he dared to glance more openly at a booth full of guys in sportswear and one of them winked at him, Roach focused all his attention on the bar, consumed by flames of inadequacy. He was the only person here wearing a suit. Everyone had to think he looked ridiculous.
“Are you not tired? It’s so late…” he tried when Zane leaned against the counter, waiting to place his order.
The brown strands hit his face when Zane pushed them back. “Oh come on, it’s like… nine.”
Roach cocked his head, unsure what to say to that. It had been eight when they’d left the motel, and he was pretty sure they’d talked about that. Zane had checked his phone several times since then, so how could he not have noticed the passing time?
“It’s past midnight…”
Zane’s lips stiffened, but he faced away from Roach the moment the bartender approached them. He offered the guy a wide smile, his butt wiggling gently, as if he had a tail. Roach bit his lip and slid his hand down the back pocket of Zane’s pants, like he’d seen guys do to their girlfriends. Was that allowed? He wouldn’t find out unless he tried.
Zane looked back, his eyes gray like the sea on a cloudy day, but he didn’t push Roach away or scold him, and ordered two beers. His ass had a nice curve and felt warm to the touch, even through denim, and the fact that Zane was fine with Roach doing this sent his mind into a dreamland where he could pet the pert flesh in bed and trace the circular burns marking the buttock he was holding.
Zane pulled out his wallet. “My treat,” he said, plucking out crumbled bills, which he tossed on the counter while the bartender filled their glasses.
It felt like a disturbing deja vu of that moment in the diner, when Zane had tipped the server a hundred bucks. Before the bartender got back to collect the payment, Roach picked the fifties out of the stack and pocketed them, leaving a single twenty.