Up on the small stage, he isn’t nervous at all. He doesn’t get stage fright, probably because he’s done hundreds of live streams at this point. His voice is animated, and his smile never slips. No sweat.
That’s until his flow gets broken by the door flying open. A dude, about five foot eleven with a lean build and chestnut brown hair flopping down in sweaty tendrils, stands in the doorway with a green backpack sagging off his shoulders. Even at a distance, Greg notices small silver hoops in the man’s ears. There’s a striking, lanky handsomeness to him.
But then the man moves with an uncomfortable-seeming gait to a nearby chair, and Greg calls the room back to attention with his voice. He doesn’t want this lanky, handsome, earring-wearing man to be uncomfortable.
He scans the crowd as he speaks about gin and ice cube ratios, which he could practically do in his sleep. The makeup of Martin’s staff is varied and diverse, but the latecomer looks to be about his age and has the same general awkwardness Rufus had when they were kids. Greg has always gravitated toward more introverted people. Maybe it’s an opposites-attract instinct. Maybe he just likes bringing people out of their shells. Some unknown voice inside his head sings out that this man might be his best bet for a work friend.
“Now, who wants a taste?” Greg hears himself asking while producing his premade samples and handing them out. People sip and smile and chat about the flavor profile, and it’s all going well until he stands before his hopeful new friend who won’t even look at him as they talk.
Greg recognizes this man’s avoidant eyes as a protection instinct because he’s used it before himself. Whether it’s out of shyness or something else entirely, Greg can’t say, but he ramps up his charm to ensure this guy knows he’s got an ally in him if he wants it.
Despite Greg’s offhand poison joke and his affable insistence, the man refuses to even take the cup, which pokes a hole in Greg’s confidence. Somehow, the guy’s iciness feels more like a rejection ofGregthan the drink itself. He’s never met someone so instantly immune to the TikTok-approved Harlow charm.
He doesn’t get a moment to harp on the offense, though, because the man commits another, worse offense shortly after by standing abruptly.
The tray Greg is holding tips, and the last few cups of cocktail rain down the front of his shirt. He’s soaked. Even through the thin fabric of his shirt, the ice cubes cut a chill across his skin.
The man, looking shocked, mutters a half-assed apology before fleeing. Greg has sincerely never seen someone move so quickly outside of an Olympic track-and-field event. A younger guy who watched the whole unfortunate scene go down rushes over with some bar napkins that do little to fix the situation.
“Clean up on aisle you,” the younger guy says in a high-pitched voice. His hands are soft, and his fingernails are painted black. “I’m Braydon.”
“Hi, Braydon, I’m soaked,” Greg jokes with a jovial laugh to lighten the mood, despite his embarrassment.
“I see that,” Braydon says, openly checking him out.
Greg doesn’t usually mind such blatant admiration, but the longer he stands there in front of everyone covered in cocktail, the more uncomfortable he becomes. Like his skin is shrinking.
“Oh gosh,” Augustine says, appearing at his side with even more napkins. “Why don’t you head back to the lockers and get yourself cleaned up? I’m sure we can find you a dry shirt to wear for tonight.”
Greg nods, heading past the bar, a little upset his grand introduction ended on such a sour note. Even more upset that he somehow made a bad impression with Mr. Lanky Scowl. Was it something he said?
When he sees the man sitting on a bench by the employee lockers, he almost asks that question, but the man’s head is hung in his hands, and he kind of wants to...hug the guy?
The bathroom is just beyond the bench. In three steps, Greg could be inside with the door closed, shucking off his shirt and wiping himself down so he doesn’t feel so messy, but instead he stops and says, “Everything okay?” Because even at his lowest and stickiest, he’d rather put someone else’s comfort over his own. He senses this man’s hurt too acutely to not help if he can.
The man’s head snaps up. His hair is even more unruly than Greg had originally noted. It has an untamable wave to it that’s exacerbated by his sweatiness. Self-consciously, he brushes it down, but Greg weirdly wishes he wouldn’t. He’s struck to find he likes it like that.Wild. Natural.
“Good. Yeah. Okay,” the man says, erasing every smidge of distress from his face with a swipe of his hand. Greg wishes he wouldn’t do this, either. He doesn’t like when people try to mask their emotions because he knows how draining that can be.
“Are you su—” he starts to ask before he remembers the withheld truths about why he came to the Lehigh Valley in the first place filling up his back pocket. Those plastic cards grow heavier by the day in his wallet. He shouldn’t push for answers to questions he’s not willing to answer. “Sorry,” he mutters uncertainly while sliding by.
In the bathroom, he tries and fails to clean himself up. Sure, he could stop the drain, fill it up with water, and soak the shirt, but it’s designer. The fabric is delicate, probably wouldn’t work. Plus, he doesn’t even have any detergent. Just a half-empty canister of hand soap. And he can’t bartend shirtless. This isn’t New York City or Provincetown or DC. He can’t have his body on full display in an eating establishment.
There’s a gentle knock on the door behind him. “Just a second,” he calls, though he’s certain it’ll take him more than a second to figure this one out. He should’ve brought a change of clothes. That would’ve been smart. But he’s not the best at thinking ahead. That’s partially why he’s here.
Another knock. “It’s me. From before.”
Greg recognizes the gruff tone, unlocks the door, and cracks it an inch. He sees Mr. Lanky Scowl holding out a black button-down to him like an olive branch.
“I always keep a spare in my locker. I’m not sure it’ll fit, but it’s yours if it does.”
Mr. Lanky Scowl doesn’t smile when he says this, but Greg does as he takes it from him. “Thanks. A small shirt is better than no shirt,” he says, swinging the door open a little more.
Greg notices the man noticing him. Tracks his eyes as they scan down and up quickly. Charts the course of the man’s immediate blush. His jokes and drink didn’t capture Mr. Lanky Scowl’s interest before, but his body certainly has. He leans slightly, letting his width fill the doorframe, giving Mr. Lanky Scowl the full show.
As the obvious blush spreads, Greg chuckles a little, which makes his stomach muscles flex, which makes the man look down again before getting completely flustered and backing off.
Unlike with Braydon, he kind of enjoys Mr. Lanky Scowl’s attention. It’s...different. A sort of admiration without expectation.
