OnlyNewRadicals_69:he's straight. it's my curse
OnlyNewRadicals_69:the hot ones are ALWAYS straight
OnlyNewRadicals_69:it's homophobic, honestly
I snort-laugh, and this time Wall doesn't even look over. He's given up on me.
Need_Tailor_Chicago:That does seem unfair.
OnlyNewRadicals_69:RIGHT?
OnlyNewRadicals_69:anyway i should let you go. i'm sure you have important straight guy things to do
Need_Tailor_Chicago:Like what?
OnlyNewRadicals_69:idk. watch football? scratch your balls? deny your feelings?
I laugh harder than that joke deserves.
Need_Tailor_Chicago:I don't deny my feelings.
OnlyNewRadicals_69:sure jan
OnlyNewRadicals_69:ok for real tho, glad the tailor worked out! and if you change your mind about telling me if you're hot or not, hit me up
Need_Tailor_Chicago:I'll keep that in mind.
OnlyNewRadicals_69:??
"Ace." I turn to where Wall's voice comes from across the aisle. "We just lost a game. At least try to act appropriately."
CHAPTER 7
DEVON
"THIS IS THE tap." I point at the beer tap like I'm revealing a secret. "It makes beer happen. Don't fuck with it."
Ace and Petrov stare at me like I just explained astrophysics in interpretive dance.
"That's it?" Petrov asks.
"That's it," I say, because that's all I've got. I've been a bartender for seventy-two hours and I'm teaching two athletes how to pour beer when I barely know how to pour beer myself. This is what they call 'fake it till you make it,' except I'm not faking it well and I'm definitely not making it. "Just tilt the glass and pour down the side. Easy."
Ace reaches for a glass and I make the mistake of watching.
Big mistake.
Huge mistake.
His forearm flexes as he grabs the glass and I'm momentarily convinced I've died and gone to some kind of horny heaven where everyone has arms like that. Thick, corded muscle shifting under sun-kissed skin. The kind of forearms that could pin you down and—
Nope. Stop. This is a workplace, Devon. You're supposed to be professional.
Professional my ass. Have you seen this man?
He tilts the glass exactly like I showed him and starts pouring, and of course it's perfect. Because apparently Ace is good at everything, which is infuriating and also incredibly hot. I'm watching his hands—those stupidly competent hands with long fingers that are currently wrapped around a pint glass but could be wrapped around… other things.
"Like this?" He looks up at me and I realize I've been staring at his hands for a solid ten seconds.
