“What’s got you smiling like the Second Coming of Jesus today?” he drawls once he’s standing right in front of me.
“Jesus isn’t the one coming,” I mutter under my breath.
Deuce leans in, eyes widening. “I’m sorry, did you just make asexualjoke?”
He says the word in a whisper, like he knows it’ll embarrass the crap out of me to be talking about this right here on Saint’s Row. I’m a Southern gentleman through and through, the way my mama raised me. I sometimes think Deuce was raised by wolves. Well-dressed wolves, but wolves none the less.
I grab his arm and steer him toward Lil’ Slice of Heaven, just two doors down from his boutique. They have ice-cold beer on tap and televisions lining every wall. Surely there’s some sports on tonight we can watch while we stuff our faces.
“I need beer,” I say, earning myself a cheer from Deuce.
“Excellent. I’ll ply you with alcohol so I get the whole story of whatever’s going on with your face right now.”
We find a spot at a high-top table facing a wall of screens showing a soccer game in another country. The server takes our beer order and scrambles off. Deuce doesn’t waste a second. He spins his stool in my direction and proceeds to disrobe while pinning me with an intense stare. It’s a little disturbing, to be honest.
“Could you undress elsewhere?” I mutter.
Deuce makes a face like I’ve said the most vile thing he’s ever heard. And continues to roll up his sleeves, take off his vest, and unbutton his shirt from around his neck.
“Spill. Did you get lucky or something?” He finally rests his forearms on the table. Thankfully his pants are still on.
I don’t answer. I don’t have to, apparently. My face says it all. Deuce gapes at me, then leans in even closer. “Oh shit, you did?” He reaches over and pinches his arm. He winces. “Nope, not dreaming.”
“Shut up,” I say under my breath as the server delivers overflowing frosty beer mugs. When he’s gone again, I take a long swig. Maybe finding Deuce to have dinner with was a badidea. I’m not a kiss-and-tell kind of guy. I’m also not a bang-your-employee-in-the-back-room kind of guy either. I’m not really sure of the protocol here. I’m in uncharted territory.
“So who’s the lucky girl?” Deuce bounces his eyebrows up and down, his voice entirely too loud.
I shush him. “Keep your voice down, dummy. The gossip grapevine is alive and well in Heaven.”
He waves his hand, like hurry up and spill the goods.
I lean in even closer, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s Betsy.”
Deuce flops back in his stool, his sharp inhale a long and overexaggerated gasp. I shake my head at his antics.
“Oh. My. God.” He leans back in like Birdie Buckley about to hear a tasty morsel of gossip that’ll have her and her friends in a tizzy for days on end. “Tell meeverything.”
I take another swig of beer, noticing his irritation. This is fun. I take another sip of beer. Then I peruse the menu that I already know by heart. Deuce, quick as a snake, jabs his elbow into my gut.
“Spill!”
I sigh. “No, I don’t think I will. I will just say, it’s not a relationship, so don’t be spreading any rumors of that kind.”
Deuce moves his beer out of the way so he can face me head-on. “Wait. Silas Winthrop is having afling?” When I don’t answer, he hoots. “This is great! I’ve been telling you for years to give it a try. At our age, what’s the harm in keeping things casual? We’ve given up on marriage, but we don’t have to give up on sex.”
I frown. “I haven’t given up on marriage. I still think there’s a woman out there who’s right for me.”
Deuce takes a healthy swig of beer. “And you think it’s Betsy?”
I tilt my head, considering it. “Well, no, not necessarily. But I do like her.” Betsy looks nothing like the debutantes I’ve dated seriously in the past. None of which worked out, so maybe it’s time to expand my horizons.
Deuce shakes his head, a grin on his face. “Honestly, I would have thought she’d be the type to kill you afterward, like a praying mantis eating its mate after sex.”
I snort a laugh at the mental image. “She plays tough but she’s actually…”
“She’s what?”
For some reason I can’t find the right words to describe Betsy. Maybe because I’m still trying to figure her out myself, but mostly because she’s a lot of things all rolled into one beautifully complex woman. I don’t want to spill her secrets. She’s entrusted me with glimpses of the woman behind the all-black clothing and piercings that set off metal detectors, and I want to protect her privacy.
