That intent green gaze met his over the mug. “Why? What happened?”
Since when did Tristan want to hear about his personal life? If he was looking to exchange confidences, Sean was all for it. “You’re kidding. You really want to hear about what happened between me and my ex?”
Was he stupid for wanting to tell Tristan, an almost-total stranger, the real reason? Maybe he should see what Tristan’s point of view was. It was bound to be harsh, and he might not like it, but Sean couldn’t help but be curious as to what he’d say.
Tristan set his mug on the counter. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
Sean chose his words carefully, not wishing to make himself sound like the sucker he knew he was. He refused to allow Tristan to gain insight into how badly he’d been used, when he couldn’t explain it himself.
“I met Chad when I was working at my old restaurant. He was funny and charming, and I fell for him. I didn’t know he was incapable of being in a relationship. We started off great, and then he began going out with his buddies after work. He said it was to blow off steam, but he’d get so drunk, I’d have to come get him.” Sean played his hands on the countertop, angry that the memories upset him. “After a while, he stopped coming to me at all.”
“He cheated on you.”
Not a question. A statement. And when Sean met his eyes, he could’ve sworn they held a tenderness that hadn’t shown itself before. It softened his hard exterior, and Sean’s heart began to pound. He couldn’t bring himself to talk about anything else…the harsh hands on him…the pushing and shoving.
“I didn’t suspect it at first. I mean, I should’ve. That’s what people do, right? At least that’s what I’ve seen. The only one I know who’s ever been lucky is my sister. I don’t know when she first started dating Ray, but he’s a great guy.”
Tristan’s brow furrowed. “You never explained it when I asked earlier. Why were you put in foster care when Charlotte was raised by your parents?”
Shit. He so didn’t want to have this conversation. “I don’t like talking about it.” Angling to shift the tone of the conversation, Sean fumbled to change the subject. “So…uh, going to look at any places today?”
He hoped Tristan wouldn’t start asking questions, and after remaining silent for several moments, Tristan answered. “Yeah. I have one this afternoon. What about you? Any luck finding a job?”
Another depressing question he had no desire to answer. That made too many for so early in the morning.
“Maybe. I’ll have to see how it goes after today.” With him striking out on the job front except for places where he wouldn’t make enough to cover the most minimal of expenses, Sean planned to do a little online research to see where the best places in the city were to make money in street entertainment and scope them out. He had to try something.
“Interviews? Are you planning on sticking with waiting tables?”
Sean bristled. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I made good money as a singing waiter. The people who booked birthday parties at Dough Ray Me tipped well. I could make well over a thousand a week if we were really busy.”
“Whoa, whoa, hold up.” Tristan held up his hands. “I’m not dissing your profession. I just wondered if you were like most of the servers I’ve met—waiting tables until you get your big break.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening for me. Big breaks only happen in the movies.” His temper up, Sean rinsed out his coffee cup. “I’m gonna shower now.”
He brushed past Tristan and closed the bathroom door behind him. Under the spray, his anger cooled, and he couldn’t stop thinking about how nice it would be to wake up in Tristan’s arms every day.
But, like the big break that only happened in the movies, that wasn’t about to happen to Sean either.
* * *
“Yo, my man. You new here, right?”
Two large men, accompanied by two smaller ones, approached him after he’d picked out a nice spot on 41st Street and Broadway. Yeah, there were other singers, but Sean thought maybe some of his former customers from his restaurant might see him and spring for some big tips.
He glanced up from crouching to place his tip basket on the ground. Rising to his feet, Sean put on his best, nonthreatening smile. “Yeah. Name’s Sean. What’s yours?”
“This ain’t kindergarten, buddy. We don’t care who you are or what your name is. This is our corner, and you need to leave.”
Sean was about to open his mouth to argue that there was plenty of room, when the four men took a step forward, and he suddenly saw himself as a story on the evening news. He mustered a weak grin and snatched up the basket.
“Sure, no problem. I’ll find someplace else. Th-thanks.”
The biggest dude jerked his thumb. “Right move. I knew you looked like a smart kid.”
Sean took off and tried three blocks away, at 44th Street and Broadway, then again at 49th and Seventh. At each place, he was told very firmly—including one time with the help of a switchblade—that he wasn’t welcome.
Discouraged and with more than half the day gone, he bought a bowl of noodles from a Thai food truck and walked all the way up to Central Park to eat his lunch. Singers and entertainers galore surrounded him, and Sean was on the verge of giving up when he remembered the small group he’d attracted when he first sang with the elderly man, Clarence. He chewed his noodles as he thought.
