Alarmed, Michael turned his gaze to the stage. Jag was normally in the second wave of dancers, but sure enough, he wasn’t there. Another dancer had taken his place, so all three poles were still occupied.
“I’ve shuffled the guys around,” Mac said. “It’s a pain, but we can cope for tonight. I take it things went south last night?”
Michael hunched his shoulders against the truth but didn’t bother to deny it.
“Do you think he’s done a runner?” Mac asked.
Michael clenched his fists. Normally his friend’s blunt manner didn’t bother him in the slightest, but right then, it filled him with annoyance. Mac could have at least tried to soften his theory. He didn’t want to believe that Jag would have left without telling him, though he couldn’t dismiss the possibility, either, as much as he wanted to. He tried to think of other reasons why Jag hadn’t shown up for work, but that only led to worry. What if something had happened to Jag? He thought about going upstairs to get his car keys so he could head straight over to the bedsit. Mac could watch the club for one night.
He breathed, trying to calm himself. Jag had called time on their relationship. He didn’t owe him anything, much less a second goodbye. Running over to the bedsit would be a possessive, dickish move, one that would widen the wound Jag had caused by breaking up with him. Besides, if Jag had already left, it would do no good. And if he was hurt? Or whatever he was running from had caught up with him?
“Can you watch things for a few?” Michael asked. “I’m going to call Jag.”
If nothing else, he was still Jag’s boss. Jag hadn’t quit. In fact, he’d said he would be here tonight. He had every right to call him to ask why he hadn’t turned up.
“Sure,” Mac said. “Take your time.”
Michael headed through to his office. He found Jag’s number in his records and dialled it. It rang a couple of times and then went to voice mail. He listened to the network’s pre-recorded voice asking him to leave a message. He did, making sure he was calm and that he was speaking like a boss, not a panicking ex-lover.
He hung up and then pinched his nose. Fuck. He should have fought harder the previous night and not taken Jag’s rejection so easily. The young man was scared, and all he’d done was acted as if he could wade in like a knight in shining armour and make everything better. Even if his intentions had been good, he’d likely lost the only person who had been able to lay a claim to his heart since Edward had died.
He didn’t even know why Jag had got under his skin so completely. There were lots of reasons they shouldn’t have got to together and shouldn’t have worked: Jag’s secrecy and the age gap between them. They had so little in common. But they were electric together and not just in bed. Being with Jag made him happy. He couldn’t justify why and didn’t need to. All that mattered was how he felt. He wanted to be with Jag, but he’d probably just let him walk out of his life for good. What a fucking idiot.
He paced back into the bar, taking his phone with him. He had a job to do. He could fret and get mad at himself later once he’d chased everyone out and locked up. Not that it stopped him from checking his phone every few minutes to see if Jag had tried to call him back. He hadn’t, and that only made Michael worry more. He tried to tell himself that Jag didn’t want to speak to him. That he’d gone and was choosing to ignore Michael’s call and message. But he couldn’t stop himself from worrying and thinking the worst. Damn it, he wished he knew what Jag had been running from.
By the time the night ended, Michael was exhausted from worry. He went through the motions of seeing everyone out, locking up, cashing up the tills, and stashing the money in the safe. Mac tried to stick around to help or maybe to talk, maybe even to apologise, but Michael saw him off with a growl. He’d apologise to Mac later. He checked his phone one last time—still nothing—and then ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, to retrieve his car keys. Fuck coming across as an overbearing ex. He needed to know for sure whether Jag had gone or if something else was going on.
He stopped by the flat long enough to find his car keys and the spare keys to the bedsit—he’d need them if Jag really had gone. Then he headed out the back door rather than going back down into the club. His foot had barely touched the top of the steps that led down into the carpark when something caught his eye. He stopped, turned, and his heart damn near stopped beating. Jag was sitting beside the door to the flat, chin resting on his arms, which were folded across his knees.
“Jag?”
The young man looked up wearily. “Hi.”
“I thought—”
“I’m sorry.” Jag grimaced. “I was sick and overslept, and when I woke up, I realised I’d missed the start of the shift.”
“I tried calling.”
Jag’s face paled a little more. “I…need to get a new SIM card.”
Michael almost asked why but bit his tongue. Instead, he asked, “Why are you here?”
Jag pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as he did so. “Can we talk?”
“Talk?” Michael couldn’t hide the scepticism from his voice, nor could he miss the fact it made Jag wince. He was being unfair, but he was as hurt as he was worried.
“Yes,talk.”
Michael nodded slowly. “You’d better come in.”
As he unlocked the door, he half wondered if they should go down to the club; it was a more neutral space. But Jag wandered towards Michael’s flat door, which made the decision for him.
Michael chucked both sets of keys into a drawer as they went in and motioned towards one of the sofas. He sat on the other. Jag stared at him for a few seconds, regret flitting through his eyes, and then sat where Michael had indicated. It was Michael’s turn to wince. There had been no reason for him to create the physical distance between them, except his wounded pride.
Jag picked at a hole in the blanket that covered the sofa he was sitting on. He parted his lips, then frowned, inhaled, and clenched his fist.
“What did you want to talk about?” Michael prompted, unable to watch the conflict playing across the young man’s face anymore.
