We squeeze through the crowd toward the bar—Eric and I manage fine, since we’re both tall, but Nick gets swallowed somewhere behind us until Eric reaches back and drags him forward by the hand.
Behind the bar are two huge chalkboards—one listing cocktails, the other beers—and to be fair, the names are hilarious.
Nick and Eric both light up immediately, already plotting which ones to try first.
“I wantThe KGB Special!” Nick shouts, excited like a kid in a candy store.
“Count me in,” Eric laughs, flashing the bartender a huge grin. “Hey, handsome,” he adds—and the guy freezes like a deer in headlights, then flushes bright red. He’s wearing a Scooby-Doo costume.
Yeah. Eric has that effect on men.
“You’re not gonna make me say it out loud, are you?” Eric asks, still grinning.
The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Say what?”
“‘Can I get twoKGB Specials?’” Eric says. “Feels like I’m putting myself on a watchlist.”
That gets a tiny laugh out of the guy. God, sometimes I forget how good Eric is at flirting.
“Are you Russian or something?” the bartender asks.
“I’m not, but my parents are,” Eric says, leaning casually over the bar.
That earns him a confused little frown while the bartender does the math—then realizes it’s a joke.
“Nice,” the guy says, then gives Eric’s upper half a once-over. “Are you supposed to be a Russian Viking or something?”
Eric rolls his eyes in mock offense. “How dare you. I’m Conan the Barbarian. How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine,” the guy says, laughing. “But I didn’t have a TV.”
“You’re lying,” Eric says, pouting. “You found out about Scooby-Doo, didn’t you?”
“Scooby who?” the bartender says, but at this point, he’s obviously flirting.
Eric laughs out loud, then turns to me. “What would you like to drink, Mark?”
I scan the beer list and pick something at random. “I’ll haveThe Housing Crisis.”
I have to shout—my mask muffles half the sound. The bartender doesn’t catch it, so Eric repeats it for me.
“Coming right up,” the guy says, flashing Eric a shy smile.
That’s when I finally push back my hood and slide the mask up onto the top of my head. I can breathe again. And see.
“I’ll go find a table,” I tell Eric and Nick. “I’ll text you if I find one.”
“Okay,” Nick says. “Don’t get lost.”
“Okay,” I echo, though I’m more worried about him, honestly. He seems a little too excited for his first time at a gay club.
I squeeze back through the crowd and cross the dance floor, lights flashing in my face, music pounding in my ears. I head toward the far end of the club, where booths line the wall, and start scanning for an open table.
It’s pretty dim back here, so I have to walk up close to each booth to see if anyone’s actually leaving. Most are packed—groups smashed into the seats, laughing, drinking, eating. I catch bits of conversations, random bursts of laughter, and the occasional couple making out.
I move along the row, checking if anyone looks close to done.
Then I reach the last booth, tucked into the corner—and freeze.
