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Chapter Eight

Lake

There was some sort of drama playing out at the table across from me. I’d like to say that’s why the two men had snagged my attention, but it had more to do with the younger one being gorgeous. He was all windswept dark hair, high cheekbones, and elegant posture. I reckoned most people would have said the older man was more conventionally attractive, but not in my eyes. Verity would have pointed out, somewhat acidly, that he was too young for me.

The drama comprised the young man trying to leave and the older man grabbing his arm so he couldn’t, the grip pretty damn tight—tight enough to make a point. The show of dominance had me looking around to see if anyone else had a problem with it. Either they hadn’t noticed, or they deemed it none of their business. The need to intercede warred with the need to stay out of it. The former had just won out—because what kind of man would I be if I turned the other cheek to blatant coercion?—when the younger man leaned forward.

For a moment, I thought they were about to kiss and that I’d misconstrued the situation, but then the younger man turned his head and spoke directly into the older man’s ear. Not a few words. A stream of them. All delivered with body language that said he’d carefully chosen them for maximum effect. I watched with fascination as all the color drained from the older man’s face and perspiration broke out on his forehead. I couldn’t imagine what anyone could say to bring about such an instantaneous and visceral reaction.

When the younger man sat back, the older man stood and walked away without looking back. There was an air of satisfaction to the younger man’s body language that said there’d been a problem and he’d dealt with it. But then that self-assuredness drained away, almost as if someone had pulled the plug, leaving the weight of the world on his shoulders. I hated to see anyone look that despondent. Surely, I could help, if only to give him someone to talk to.

Leave the pretty fucked-up boys alone.

Verity’s words. And he seemed to fit both categories. Yet, I was already climbing to my feet. I didn’t ask if I could sit once I reached him, assuming he’d tell me what I could do with the idea. Instead, I just eased myself into the seat recently vacated by the sleazeball—so recently it still held his body heat. His head jerked up, his eyes a sapphire blue that made me wonder if he wore contacts. He had a line of silver earrings in his right ear that I found myself studying.

He opened his mouth to say something, but I got in there first. “You look about as miserable as I feel, so I figured rather than us being miserable on our own, we could be miserable together, and that way, everyone else will leave us alone.” I finished with a smile that I hoped came across as both harmless and reassuring. “Unless… your friend is coming back?”

“He’s not my friend.” The slight slur in his voice said he was a lot less sober than I was, my plan to get blinding drunk not having been that successful.

“Yeah… I kind of got that,” I admitted. “He was getting a bit… handsy.” I held out my hand. “Lake Larson.”

He eyed it suspiciously for a moment before taking it. “Baxter Stuart Canmore.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were doing middle names.” I kept hold of his hand, enjoying the warmth of his palm against mine. “In that case, I’m Lake Emmett Larson.” I had no choice then but to let his hand drop, alarm bells ringing at how disappointing I found it to do so. As soon as I had, Baxter slid off his seat with a drunken elegance I could only marvel at. “I need a drink.”

“Sure.” Once five minutes had passed, I faced the possibility that he wasn’t coming back. Another couple of minutes had me leaning as far out as I could while remaining in my seat to search him out in the crowd. No sign. Just as I’d become resigned to it being a brush-off, he returned. I schooled my face not to look too pleased as he slid back in his seat, depositing a half disco ball full of liquid and ice, all topped off with decorative blackberries and flowers, in the middle of the table. Two straws stuck out of it. Baxter waved a hand at it in invitation.

“What is it?”

His lips curved into a smile. “Dirty Dancing.”

“Of course it is.”

Baxter leaned forward, wrapping his lips around the straw and sucking so hard that it made his cheekbones stand out even more. It also forced X-rated thoughts into my head. Concentrate on the drink, Lake. The drink. Not how it’s being drunk and what that makes you think of. “I meant… what’s in it?”

Baxter thought for a moment. “Dunno. I just asked for something with vodka as a base.” He took another long suck. “Passionfruit. Other stuff.”

“’Other stuff,” I echoed.

“Going to make me drink alone?”

I held my half-full glass of vodka up. “I’ve got vodka.”

Baxter snatched it off me and drained it in one long pull, slamming the empty glass back on the table. “No, you don’t.”

He waved his hand, and I gave in to the inevitable, leaning forward to clamp the other straw between my lips and take an exploratory sip. It was surprisingly pleasant considering I wasn’t a cocktail drinker.

“See,” Baxter said, as if I needed convincing. Rather than annoying me, it made me grin at him, Baxter returning it.

We finished the cocktail within an hour, both of us drunker than when we’d started it. Alcohol had loosened my tongue, curiosity getting the better of me and making me ask what had been on my mind ever since I’d approached his table. “What did you say to that guy to make him leave? He went white. Like a…” I cast around for a suitable descriptor. “A snowman.” I knew that wasn’t right, but my alcohol-addled brain couldn’t come up with anything better.

Baxter’s expression turned serious. “I told him I liked to have as much fun as the next guy, but luring me to a dungeon where he and his friend could have their perverted way with me wasn’t my idea of fun.”

“What?”

Baxter nodded. “Yeah, that’s what he had planned for me.”

I frowned. “He told you that.”