“Mr. Paige!” I called out, gesturing for him to join us.
He opened the door a little wider, and his comparatively petite husband, Ren, followed him in. Hopping up from his seat, Beckett dragged them over to our corner. I sobered when I saw how much weight the normally robust Mr. Paige had lost. He and Ren seemed to be in good spirits, though, which I took as a good sign.
“What’re y’all doing this evening?” I asked, wiping down the bar.
Ren kissed his husband’s cheek. “We’re celebrating this one’s release from isolation.”
Mr. Paige’s brows creased. “Yeah. That was no fun.”
Beckett shifted uncomfortably. I’d asked him why Holden, the Paiges’ son, hadn’t come to visit his dad while he was in the hospital. He’d been told that Holden was busy with work, but my Spidey sense told me there was more to it than that.
Mr. Paige nodded to Beckett. “Not used to seeing you in here with the regular folks.”
Beckett cursed under his breath, shaking his head. “The DeWitts want to have the church property certified as historic while condemning the building.”
Ren shook his head. “They don’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Why’s that?” Tristan asked.
“We still own the property,” Mr. Paige said, wrapping his arm around Ren with a soft smile. “A third party can’t declare that a piece of land is historic and then have it taken away.”
“Oh. That’s a horse of a different color.” Tristan tilted his hand side to side. “They can get the city council involved, try to make a case for eminent domain, but that’d be easy enough to knock off course.”
I kissed the side of his head. “Baby, the DeWitts have all sorts of friends on the city council,” I cautioned.
“Do any of them know a thing about social media campaigns?”
“Given the average age of our city council members, I doubt it.”
“Well,” he said, cracking his knuckles out in front of him, “turns out that’s my specialty.”
Mr. Paige winked at me. “It’s been fun to watch your little feud online, and even better to see you two get close.”
Tristan beamed, and I flushed. “Thanks, Mr. Paige.”
When the Saturday evening crowd began to arrive, I called in another bartender and we moved our little group to the rooftop lounge, where we were treated to a gorgeous orange-and-pink sunset. Oz flipped on the strings of round light bulbs that crisscrossed the space, creating a cozy atmosphere.
We fell into easy conversation while Tristan and I sent off posts to get our little church campaign started. Half an hour later, Mr. Paige’s eyes lit up as a few more of his Lost Boys made their way up to the lounge area.
CHAPTER7
tristan
@thewateringhole:Come on by to lift a pint for a good cause. All of tonight’s proceeds will go to the Save The Meeting House Committee.
@theseguinbean:Seguin doesn’t need another historic site—it needs more safe spaces. Support the Save The Meeting House Committee.
Joel had explained that he wasn’t technically a Lost Boy, but I suspected that wasn’t exactly accurate, especially afterI was introduced to a few more of Mr. Paige’s former students.
Major, who I’d seen around town, was a big bear of a guy, bearded and quiet. He’d started a plumbing company out of his garage not too long ago, and he was the one who’d helped Joel with his emergency pipe situation.
Sawyer, dressed in some very high-end threads, was another Guadalupe County High alum. He lived in Olmos Park, a ritzy suburb of San Antonio, where he worked for an elite tech security firm.
Dude was rich as fuck and so buttoned-up I wondered if he’d farted once in the last ten years.
I scrunched my nose when I met another one of Joel’s classmates, a shorter, good ol’ boy–looking motherfucker who’d shown up wearing coveralls. He’d changed in the bathroom but still had grease under his fingernails.
He also looked damned familiar.
