I shouldn’t find that funny. Or hot.
I find it both, so I’ve been trying not to laugh while my dick starts paying way too much attention.
“—and another thing, why were you taking hits at all?” he goes on. “I’ve seen you in bar fights before, or even when you try stopping them. You don’t get hit unless you decide to get hit. So what was that, huh? Slowing down? Aging process? Because last I checked, you used to put people on the floor before they even knew what happened, and you were like just standing there letting them swing at your face—look at your face, George, your goddamn sprained hand—”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“—you were going to say that,” he cuts in immediately. “I knew you were going to say that. You’re not fine. Your cheekbone is going to be the size of a tennis ball by morning, and before you say anything else, just sit fucking still—”
I sit still.
He moves to my hand, unwraps the bar towel, holds it up to the light. His face shifts for a second, clinical, then he catches it and goes back to annoyed. The knuckles are split. Swelling’s worse than it was at the bar.
He starts cleaning it. I don’t look at it at all, because his face is more interesting.
He’s wearing a hoodie over the shirt he put on for the date. Dark blue, fitted, chosen on purpose to look good for someone. I noticed it at the bar before anything else. From halfway across the room, through a crowd. Elliot beside him, his hand on Lance’s lower back when they came in from the patio, resting there like it had already made itself fucking comfortable.
And just like that, I considered cutting that hand off and mailing it back to its owner days after.
I drove to Breakwater without thinking. Clocked out, got in the truck, and pointed it toward Point Loma like the decision had already been made for me. I sat in the parking lot for a minute, engine idling, feeding myself the same weak excuse: I was just checking on him. Making sure he was alright. Staying close, just in case.
Bullshit. Truth was uglier.
So, I went in anyway.
I told myself I’d have one drink and leave. Picked a seat with a clear line to the back patio. Watched Elliot lean in too close, smiling like he already thought he had a chance.
A hot, ugly feeling twisted in my chest. I’d never felt threatened by another man over anyone before. Tonight, I fucking did.
Elliot’s got that polished look. Crisp button-down, expensive jeans that fit exactly right. He orders off-menu like he owns the place. Lance laughs at something he says.
I looked down at myself. Flannel I’ve had since the shop opened, soft from a hundred washes, sleeves pushed up over forearms that are permanently a shade darker than the rest of me from sun and grease. Jeans with a stain on one knee I stopped trying to get out. Grease under one thumbnail that’s never coming out, not after ten years of engines.
I got up and went to the bathroom. Washed my hands again anyway, even though I knew it wouldn’t do anything. Stood there scrubbing at a nail bed that’s looked like that for ten years and would look like that for the next ten too.
Guy probably grew up going into places like this. Lance grew up in that world too, even if he doesn’t act like it.
I dried my hands and looked at myself in the mirror. I told myself to get over it, because that wasn’t even the part that mattered. I went back out to my seat.
That’s when I saw the drunk guy from another table lean into Lance’s space and grab him.
Lance looks up and catches me staring.
“Are you even listening?” he snaps.
I don’t answer, looking out the window.
His eyes narrow. “Are you smiling?”
“No.”
“Jesus Christ, you think this is funny?”
He goes back to the hand. I last for a few seconds before my eyes drift to him again. The smile I’m definitely not wearing keeps trying to break free. I drag my good hand down my face, covering my mouth, as if that’ll physically stop me from doing something stupid.
Like kissing that sharp, angry mouth just to get it to shut up.
Fuck. I’m getting worse.
