“Anything better than Capri’s piss-water.”
He grinned and disappeared into the crowd.
Skippy leaned over to speak into my ear. “Are you with him?”
I shook my head. “He’s not a member of the tribe.”
My ex tipped his head for a better look at the bar. “Interesting that you’d say that. Because I think your teammate Mike is as gay as a Judy Garland sing-along. You should see his face right now. He looks like a kid getting his first look at the presents under the Christmas tree.”
Skippy’s gaydar was rock solid. Always had been. “Go easy on him, okay? He’s kind of a wreck.”
“Good pick for you, then.”
Well,ouch. That stung because it was true. Hanging out with both Skippy and Graham in one night was some kind of weird self-torture. Even though I’d agreed to be Just Friends with Graham, I still felt a big tug every time I looked at him. Heartbreak was pretty much inevitable.
“You’re pissed at me for saying that,” Skippy said, his face propped into one hand. He had long, dark eyelashes. And his dressy black button-down shirt made those big brown eyes as dark as coal. There was something truly magnetic about Skippy, as if he could see right into your soul.
“Don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
“Dance with me instead?”
Now there was a dubious idea. “We’d lose our table.”
He rolled those luminous eyes. “Okay, Dad.”
Luckily, Ross and Graham showed up then with the drinks. Hooray for a little ethanol lubrication. I drank half of the Long Trail that Graham brought me in the first thirty seconds. He’d also bought what looked like two shots of Jack. “Shot?” he mouthed over the music. With a shake of my head, I mimed driving. So Graham drank them both.
“How was Christmas?” I asked Ross, shouting over the song.
“Not bad,” he said with a grin. “My relatives kept the fag slurs down to a couple dozen, so I can’t complain.”
“Ross is from Alabama,” I shouted by way of explanation to Graham.
“And not the nice part,” he added.
Graham put his second empty glass down on the table. As I watched his eyes sweep the room, I wondered what he saw. It was the typical mixed-up scene. There were a handful of exhibitionists in their over-the-top leather getups. (Whenever I saw a man in leather pants, it always made my own balls sweat in sympathy.) For every outrageously dressed queer there were three other guys in flannel shirts and baseball caps. But it was early yet. Those shirts would come off when it got hotter in here.
Daft Punk started singingGet Lucky, and Graham’s shoulders found the beat. Skippy poked me in the shoulder, and I leaned in to hear what he had to say.
“I’m sorry I was a dick.”
“You mean a minute ago?” I was primed to forget about it already.
I was granted one more Skippy eye-roll. “Yeah, a minute ago. Was I a dick some other time, too?”
“No,” I laughed. I drained my beer and put down the empty. “Let’s dance. All of us. That ought to shake up my friend.”
Skippy’s eyes sparkled with mischief. He tipped the last of his drink into his mouth, then stood up. “Come on,” he said, tugging Graham’s elbow. “We’re going to dance now.”
Graham’s eyes widened. “I may not be drunk enough for that.”
“It’s just dancing,” Skippy shouted, grabbing Graham’s hand. “It won’t make you queer!”
“Too late,” I said directly into Graham’s ear as Skippy tugged him into the crowd. Graham reached back, pinching my ass in retribution. Hard.
“Ow,” I complained.
He just grinned over his shoulder.
