Chapter Seven
THE BEERwas expensive, the food was mediocre, and under normal circumstances, Tag wouldn’t be caught dead at the PlentyFull Food Festival. It turned out that dating in California wasn’t that different from New York, although in New York, it would have been a friend-of-a-friend’s art exhibition Tag would have had to endure.
“… you know my aunt, of course, and my dad’s a pediatrician,” Joe said as they walked between the food stalls. Chutneys and jams were piled in multicolored jars on tables, a selection open for humans and ants alike to sample. Wheels of cheese were displayed, dissected, and the slices wrapped in wax paper by white-aproned farmers. It was so sweet it made Tag’s teeth hurt a bit. “So I thought about medicine, but… I wanted a life.”
He laughed at his own joke. It cut a little too close to home for Tag to really appreciate it—his realization he didn’t have a life was 50 percent of why he was here—but he chuckled anyhow.
“Not sure lawyers have better hours,” Tag said. “Although possibly less bodily fluids are involved.”
A high school girl with ridiculously glossy hair and the sort of smile that interned at Disney over the summer bounced out from between the stalls. She thrust a tray under Joe’s nose.
“Pig trotter sushi?” she chirped.
“Now here’s where you might be surprised,” Joe said as he gamely took one of the rolls. “So few bodily fluids. Almost none.”
This time Tag’s laugh was genuine. “Almostnone?”
Joe nodded and popped the cured pork and seasoned rice rolls into his mouth. He chewed twice and then washed the mouthful away with a gulp of beer.
“An incident involving a coat closet, an open bar, and a senior partner spoiled the streak,” he admitted after he cleared his throat. “Before that the last incident was with an abrasive executor who spat on me.”
Tag snorted. “I could win this,” he said. “But then no one would want to kiss me ever again.”
It had been a long time since Tag had flirted with anyone. The whole “Wanna fuck” thing with Bass didn’t count, even before it turned out to be a con. So he didn’t know if that line would read as cute or corny.
From Joe’s slow smile, it just about scraped cute. “Oh,” Joe said as he leaned in and slung his arm over Tag’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
It took an uncomfortable second too long before Tag clumsily returned the gesture with an arm around Joe’s waist. It felt odd, stiff. He didn’t know how Joe moved, and they didn’t fit together comfortably, but the other option was to shove him into a cheese stall. So he left his arm where it was and stopped to watch a pumpkin-carving competition behind a low picket fence. Orange pulp and wet seeds piled up on the straw as a local deputy and two teenagers stabbed at the large fruits.
Tag took a drink of his beer as he watched the pumpkin bits fly. The server at the beer tent had recommended it based on its notes of tropical fruit, bread, and custard… and presumably because it was worth $20 a plastic pint glass. So Tag tried to savor the hops as it slid over his tongue, but it might as well have been a can of Bud Lite. It wasn’t that the beer didn’t live up to the hype—it tasted like an alcoholic bread pudding—the date was just worse than Tag had expected.
He should have known it was a mistake to let Beattie set him up. He hadn’t known his blind date was her nephew, but it was still a bad idea.
When he said he wanted to start dating again, he didn’t exactly mean dinner dates with ambitious young lawyers who made awkward jokes. Jesus, was Tag old enough that he had to worry if Joe wastooyoung? That was new.
He’d planned for a string of ego-boosting one-night stands and memorable bad dates—the sort that left you stranded in LA with no passport and a bunch of luxury purchases he’d never see racked up on his credit card. Then his bad judgment with Bass would be just one in a series of terrible decisions he made this year instead of the stupidest thing he’d ever done.
Joe was cute enough, nice enough, and he definitely didn’t deserve to be Tag’s rebound from being ditched with prejudice—twice.
“So,” Joe said as he glanced sidelong at Tag. “You want to check out the pet chickens? Or would you rather go and get some coffee? I’ve got an Italian press at—”
Someone in the crowd slapped Tag’s ass. He jumped in surprise, afuckcaught behind his teeth, and spun around to glare at….
Bass. His hair was cropped short, darker at the roots where the sun hadn’t had a chance to fade it right, and his face was clean-shaven for the first time since Tag… didn’t know him, really.
“Fuck.” It got away from Tag after all.
“You’re a hard man to track down, Doc,” Bass said as he tucked his hands into his back pockets and his T-shirt pulled tight over his shoulders. He raised his eyebrows. “Did you get my texts?”
“I got them,” Tag said stiffly. “What about them?”
“Okay,” Bass said as he looked away from Tag. “That’s fair enough.”
Tag had done his research—too late, but better that than never—and the Corpse Brothers MC were not the genial bears on tricked-out Hondas who sometimes rolled through Plenty on a road trip up the coast to Disney. They were violent, dangerous criminals into drugs, car theft, trafficking. Basically if you wanted to move something illegal, they were your bikers.
So he wanted to be angry at Bass for using him, even if Tag had made it so damn easy, who could have resisted? He definitely should have been scared. Shepherd had been accused of a lot more than throwing a cue ball thrown at someone’s head.
What Tag shouldn’t have felt was happy to see Bass. It was just a bit, but it was still so stupid it hurt. Luckily he was angry enough to let that cover for him.
