“Is a gay bar. I’m aware.” He slid into the seat next to Colson, who gazed at him.
“Oh. I—”
“Didn’t know? Why would you?” Harper took another sip.
“I guess you’re right. I like to think because I’m a writer, I’m observant and I can see things others can’t.” Colson finished his beer and signaled the bartender for another.
“Here you go, sweetie.”
Now that he could stare, Harper took notice of the tattoos—all different kinds of birds and butterflies. He set his glass on the bar. “Any significance?”
Colson swallowed his beer. “To what?”
Harper reached out and traced one of the tats—a swallowtail butterfly. The bar was almost filled to capacity, yet he heard the sharp intake of Colson’s breath. He liked that sound. He’d like to hear it with the man naked and under him.
Whoa. Slow your roll.
“The birds and butterflies. Why only them?” He continued to trace the edges of the tattoo on Colson’s strong forearm, taking notice of the goose bumps.
“Because they’re so free. They can simply fly away from any and all of their problems. Find a new home.” His blue eyes were far, far away.
“Is that what you did?” At Colson’s startled expression, he shrugged. “You mentioned your parents didn’t approve of you. Did you up and leave everything behind?”
Colson’s jaw hardened. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“You know, changing venues never makes your problems disappear. Life with all its miseries follows you wherever you go.”
“How extremely deep and utterly depressing, Detective Rose. But coming from you, not surprising.” An unexpected and totally charming smile curved Colson’s lips, and lust punched Harper in the gut, leaving him trembling. He struggled to regain his balance.
“I can be funny,” he grumbled. “I have a sense of humor. If I didn’t in my job, I’d lose my mind.” He finished his drink and raised his glass. “Another, please.”
Sympathy creased Colson’s brow. “You must’ve seen a lot of the ugly side of life.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he muttered, took the refilled glass, and drank most of it.
“Detective—”
“Harper. We’re sitting in a bar, drinking together. I think you can call me by my first name.”
“Harper. Are you okay?”
He laughed. “Are you concerned about me, Boy Scout? Don’t be. I’m fine.”
Colson’s lips tightened. “I should’ve known not to feel sorry for you.”
“I didn’t ask for sympathy. I came here to get a drink after a busy day trying to hunt down some of your stolen goods along with other victims’ property.” And not having much luck. That was what had put him in a pissy mood. He hated thinking criminals had gotten the better of him.
“I already replaced my computer, and they’re sending me new credit cards and my license.” Harper noticed his white-knuckled grip on the bottle of beer. “All I care about is the picture of my grandparents. They can have the damn frame—I don’t care. I just want the picture back.” Tears rested on those thick, dark lashes, and Colson tossed out a few bills. “I gotta leave. Good-bye.”
He took off, disappearing into the sea of men, and Harper waved to get the attention of the bartender to close out his tab. He added a tip and signed the receipt, then took off after Colson. When he finally made it outside, he spied him a block away. Harper easily caught up with him, but Colson stopped in his tracks, his face anything but friendly.
“What do you want?”
Harper gazed at him. “I don’t know. You were upset and ran off. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
Colson hunched his shoulders. “It’s not you.” He began to walk again, and Harper followed, relieved that Colson didn’t ask him to leave. “It’s the picture.”
“You said it’s of your grandparents. You were close?”
