Great. Not here ten minutes and I’m already losing.
Mikey said nothing to the rude man, simply raised his hands in mock-defeat, and backed away.
The pressure was mounting. He had to get a date. Seeing George with someone else would be hard. Having a date would make it easier. He hoped so, anyway.
As he made his way back across to the window-side of the bar, the music changed again. Crystal Waters,100% Pure Lovecame thumping in and Mikey caved to the hypnotizing backbeat, dance-walking, beer high in hand. He squeezed through a tight group of men, breaching the far side where a small gap provided room for a tiny twirl of his own. From his periphery, in the same place where the man in plaid had been earlier, he caught sight of an appreciative clap from someone else.
He was older, sporting leather, a handlebar mustache, and multiple tattoos—not the typical B.J.’s fare. No. This guy was made for places like The Eagle or Sanctuary, far from the preppy, Hill Brat type that thrived on 17th Street.
“Always nice to see a man in uniform getting his groove on.”
He was alluding to Mikey’s postal wear, which he had not bothered to change before leaving work.
“Thanks. I may not be a cop or a fireman, but occasionally it gets me laid.”
“That’s all that matters.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”
The man laughed. “No.” he said, half-shouting to be heard over the music. “I’ve only been here once. I’m not crazy about it.”
“Why? The music?”
“This music’s fine, a little dated. But when they play that Broadway crap, no offense, just not my thing. I’m meeting a guy. He’s new, doesn’t know his way around town. We’re having a drink here first, his idea. I’m going to suggest we go elsewhere though if we hit it off.”
“Internet date?” Mikey asked.
“Yeah... and from his looks, this place is not his scene either. I’m Mark, by the way.” He extended a warm hand. Mikey shook it.
“I’m Mikey.”
“You’re hot, Mikey. Bear-hot. If you were at Uproar, you’d be beating them off with a club.”
“Really? I went there once. It was OK, I guess. I come herebecauseof the music—I like theBroadway crap.”
“To each his own... but I’m telling you. You’re in the wrong bar.”
“Says the guy in a motorcycle vest, with tattoos and a handlebar mustache.”
He grinned. “I work hard to look this butch, and it ain’t cheap either.”
The music stopped, and the lights flickered, indicating that Tuesday Tunes was starting. Mikey recognized the beginning drumbeat ofGood Morning, Baltimore.
Mark groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh, great,” he said.
Mikey laughed. “Lighten up, Mark. It’sHairspray.Local boy, you know.”
But Mark had stopped listening. Something had caught his eye over Mikey’s shoulder. “Just in time,” he said.
Mikey turned to look. A very tall ginger-bearded man was coming toward them, slowly in the crowd. He was wide too, having no trouble squeezing men out of the way. He reminded Mikey of that bearish Mississippi guy, the host of one of those renovating shows on HGTV.
“Is that your date?” said Mikey.
“That’s him. Now you know why I agreed to meet him here.”
“I’ll say. He’s adorable.”
Mark stepped a few feet away, meeting and conversing with the large man out of Mikey’s range. Mikey observed their body language, hands-on, comfortable. He was certain they had already hit it off, minus waiting in line for a drink.
