She snorted. “I’m a Latina living with my girlfriend. Tell me about it.”
He stopped short. “You—” He bit his tongue, because anything he said would get him into way too much trouble.
She whirled on him, eyes narrowed, hands balled into fists. Veronica Vasquez would eat him alive if he said anything that could be considered ignorant in any way.
“You’re a lesbian?”
Her lips thinned.
He was fucked.
“I’m bisexual. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“And you—” He swallowed, thinking of Derek’s nose in Avery’s face, of the resigned way Avery talked about his parents like what had happened was sad but totally out of his control. His throat hurt, like it had as he’d begged his dad to let Mickey go. “You’re okay? Here?”
She glared at him. Despite her tough exterior, her knees wobbled in her dark cargo pants. “We know where to go and who to stay away from.”
“Like the Dugout?”
She snorted. “Rednecks and losers who peaked in high school. Skip that place unless you want tetanus and the shit kicked out of you.” Vasquez pursed her lips as she eyed him up and down. Linc shrank back, because he didn’t like how much she was seeing. “So you got skin in this game or what?”
He fumbled, struggling for the right thing to say. One bisexual coworker did not make this a friendly place. “A friend of mine had a run-in there last night.”
“Yeah.” She patted his shoulder. “Best not to go there unless it’s daylight. Most of the rednecks will be at work, and the unemployed ones usually aren’t mean enough to start shit on their own.”
He nodded. Hate always found safety in numbers.
“Who’s your friend?” she asked.
“Hmm?” he said, still reframing what he knew now about this town and about Vasquez.
“Your friend from the bar? The one who had some trouble. Seacroft isn’t exactly queer Mecca. I thought Wanda and I knew all the local gays.”
“Wanda?” He nearly choked on a laugh but caught it before it could escape and get him castrated.
“My girlfriend. She’s Polish.”
“Wanda is a Polish name?”
“Well, it’s not Cuban.”
“Is your family Cuban?”
“A few generations ago, yes. But you’re avoiding my question. Who’s your friend? Or is he in the closet too?”
He ignored the “too.” “It’s Avery. The guy from the microwave fire.”
Her eyes rounded. “Sweet Potato! You and the sweet potato kid are a thing?”
“We’re not—” He bit his lip because the words had come out too loud, and Brian was walking toward them. “We’re just friends.”
She arched an eyebrow. “He’s kinda cute. If you like that wide-eyed twink thing.”
He did. Avery was exactly what he liked, although he’d never put it in so many words. The wide eyes to the nervous chatter, the purple couch, and the awkward dancing. Avery was appealing in every way, right down to how his blankets smelled. Linc had woken up to scents of soap and sleep and all the tempting imaginary softness of Avery’s body pressed against his, even on the futon two inches too short for Linc to stretch out on comfortably and—
He was saved from having to say anything further as Brian held up a blue sheet of paper.
“Hey! I found the perfect thing for our community team.”
