by Ella Frank
God, the memory of that still gave him chills. But it wasn’t the memory of Diana and her concern that caused his palms to sweat and his pulse to trip—it was the reminder of the agony Logan had to endure during that time.
“That was a long time ago,” Tate said, and tried for a smile. “We aren’t together anymore.”
“No shit?” Scott said, and then took a seat. “Sorry to hear that, man.”
“Hey, things happen. We grew apart, that’s all,” Tate said. “So, can I get you something?”
“Oh yeah. Umm, a Sidecar and a frozen margarita, thanks.”
“You got it,” Tate said as he placed a tumbler on the bar and started the Sidecar. “Give me one sec, and I’ll have that margarita for you.”
“No problem,” Scott said as Tate turned to the back counter for a margarita glass and the blender.
As he mixed the tequila, lime juice, and Cointreau with ice, he tapped his fingers on the wood surface while the whir of the machine drowned out everything else. It wasn’t until he felt the warm pressure of a hand on his waist that he even noticed Logan had come up beside him.
“Good evening,” Logan said, as he sidled in close and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Tate smiled and leaned into the intimate gesture. “Evening. When’d you get here?”
Logan rested against the back counter as the blender stopped and Tate grabbed the margarita glass.
“Around five minutes ago. I was on my way upstairs to drop off my stuff, but when I saw you standing here, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to say…hello.”
Tate hummed in the back of his throat as Logan’s fingers trailed across the small of his back. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“Mhmm.”
“Well, while you’re saying hello, pass me a lime wedge, would you?”
Logan picked up a piece of lime and handed it over. “Is Amelia around?”
“Yeah, she should be. Why?”
“I thought you might like to come upstairs and help me get more…comfortable.”
Tate chuckled. “That’s a new way of putting it.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to. I just want to get out of these clothes.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. But before you head upstairs, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Tate said, even as Logan’s gaze drifted to his lips. “Would you focus, please? You can kiss me in a minute, when I’m helping you get comfortable.”
Not in the least bit repentant for having been caught, Logan said, “Promise?”
“Promise.” Tate licked his lower lip, and Logan said under his breath, “Fucking tease. Okay, who am I meeting?”
“A friend from school. Well, he was Jill’s boyfriend for a few years, so he kind of became a permanent fixture around the house.” Tate could see the wheels turning behind those intelligent eyes he loved, but before Logan said anything, Tate got in first. “The sooner you meet him, the sooner we can be upstairs getting you out of these clothes.”
One of Logan’s eyebrows arched. “Well, I can’t argue with that logic.”
“Good,” Tate said, and then picked up the margarita as the two of them turned around to face Scott, and the expression on the man’s face almost had Tate’s feet faltering.
Confusion, judgment, and distaste was stamped all over Scott’s features as his gaze flicked from Tate to Logan. It was obvious he’d witnessed the exchange between the two of them and didn’t approve, and a twinge of hurt had Tate’s spine stiffening, as his heart ached over the lack of acceptance in Scott’s eyes even as he tried to shove it aside.
The crazy thing was that it hadn’t even occurred to him that it would be an issue. He’d been with Logan for so long now he never thought twice about the fact that some people might have a problem with it. But he supposed maybe it should have. Especially with people from his past who’d known him when his life had been much…different. His own mother and sister were a terrific example of that.
But the difference between then and now was that he didn’t give a flying fuck one way or another about what others thought of him and Logan.
This was their life.
This was their place.
And if someone, friend or stranger, had a problem with that, then they could damn well leave.
As if Logan had some sixth sense when it came to him, Tate saw him glance his way and raise a questioning eyebrow.
I fucking love that about him, Tate thought. Always checking that I’m okay.
But Logan had nothing to worry about. Tate shook his head once, indicating he was fine, and then took the final steps he needed to be back opposite Scott Thompson.
“Here’s that margarita,” Tate said, as Logan stopped beside him. “And hey, I wanted to introduce you two. Scott, this is my boyfriend, Logan. We run this place together.”
Logan held his hand out, and as Scott’s eyes dropped to it, he slowly pushed off the stool and got to his feet. Tate felt his hackles rise at the blatant dismissal, and as Scott’s eyes continued to ping-pong between the two of them, Tate had had enough.
“There a problem?” Tate asked.
Scott said nothing as he fished his wallet out of his back pocket and tossed two twenties on the bar. Tate looked at the money, and, not wanting things to escalate, was about to take it and just walk the fuck away, figuring that was the best course of action. But then, well, Scott spoke.
“No problem. I just remembered a rumor I heard a few years back. Gotta say, Morrison. I shoved it aside thinking it was bullshit, but seems it was right all along. You really are a faggot. No wonder Diana left you.”
Tate’s hands curled into fists, and he reminded himself not to let his temper get the better of him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been at the end of such a close-minded comment, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. That didn’t, however, mean he had the same kind of control over Logan.
“What the hell did you just say?” Logan barked, and it was as though his question made time stand still. The buzz of the crowd seemed to instantly dissipate, and the only sound Tate could hear was the thumping beat of the music now keeping time with his heart.
Scott’s eyes found Logan’s, and when Scott’s lip curled up in a cruel sneer, Tate knew he needed to do something, but was momentarily frozen.
“I said, I don’t blame his wife for leaving him, since apparently he likes to suck dick.”
Before Tate could get the message from his brain to his body to move and hold Logan back, Logan had launched himself across the counter, taken hold of Scott’s shirt and tie, and yanked him, with surprising force, halfway across the bar.
“Likes and excels at it,” Logan said through gritted teeth. “And soon you will too, since you’ll be sucking on a fucking straw for food once I get through with you.”
Finally kicking his ass in gear, Tate grabbed hold of Logan’s arm. “Logan,” he said, trying but failing to get his attention. Logan wasn’t in any kind of mood to listen.
“Your type are all the same,” Scott said. “You think you can just go around shoving your disgusting relationships in our faces and expect us to all say nothing.”
Jesus, Tate thought. Am I really hearing this shit? Scott needed to shut the hell up or Logan was going to break his face, and it looked as though he’d have help from some of their customers, who’d gathered around to watch the commotion going on. But evidently Scott was as stupid as he was ignorant, because the fucker just wouldn’t shut his mouth.
He aimed his hate-filled eyes at Tate and spat, “No wonder your mother doesn’t show her face at church anymore…” That particular comment was like a sucker punch, and Tate released Logan’s arm to grip the counter and hold himself up from the blow of it. “Too ashamed of her queer-ass son and who he’s fucking to—”
Before Scott could finish his sick diatribe, Logan’s arm pulled back and then sprang forward until his fist connected with Scott’s jaw.
“Logan,” Tate shouted, and grabbed hold of Logan as he brough
t his arm back again, no doubt for round two. Then Tate caught Logan’s eyes, and the wild fury swirling there had Tate muscling him away from the bar so Logan had to release the asshole he’d just knocked square in the jaw.
As Scott stumbled over the stool, grabbing hold of his face, Tate turned on Logan and pinned him in place with a determined look. “Stop.”
Tate watched as Logan’s eyes darted over his shoulder to where he could hear someone coughing, and when Tate rounded back to see the entire bar staring at Scott, who was now staggering to his feet, Tate walked as calmly as he could to the counter and said, “Get the hell out of my bar.”
Scott rolled his jaw around as though testing it wasn’t broken, then said, “Hope you know a good lawyer, Morrison. If anything’s broken, I’m gonna sue you faster than you can blink.”
Oh, Tate knew a good lawyer, all right. One who had just clocked Scott in the jaw, which, in Tate’s opinion, made him the best fucking lawyer around.
“You know what,” Tate said, crossing his arms, “I’m not that worried. Pretty sure you’d need a witness and I don’t think you’re going to find one in here.”
“Are you an idiot? Everyone in here just saw what he did to me. You,” Scott said, pointing to Hoyt, one of their regulars, who’d just sat down at the end of the bar. “You saw that asshole hit me. Didn’t you?”
Tate looked at Hoyt, who shook his head and raised his beer to take a sip. Then he placed it on the counter and said, “I don’t remember that. I saw you spoutin’ off your worthless mouth…”
Tate’s lips tugged up in a smirk at Hoyt’s answer, and then he directed his attention back to Scott. “See. It’s your word against ours. And your word doesn’t mean shit. Now, I won’t tell you again. Get out of my bar.”
“Fuck you,” Scott said, and Logan was right back to shoving his way forward past him.
There was nothing Tate wanted more than to jump across the bar and take a swing at Scott himself. But this was their place of business, and he didn’t think it would look good if one, or both, of the owners were hauled off in the back of a police car.
So Tate placed a palm on Logan’s chest, holding him back. Then he let his eyes roam over Scott and said, “I didn’t think you were into that. But even if you were, you aren’t man enough for that honor. Now get the fuck out, before I personally throw you out.”
With a final curse, Scott shoved his way through the audience he’d attracted and headed toward the exit. Tate could feel Logan’s chest heaving under his hand, and when he caught Amelia’s eye where she stood in the surrounding crowd, she said, “I’ll make sure he leaves.”
Tate nodded and watched as she followed after Scott, before trying to settle his nerves and flashing a smile at their curious onlookers. “All right. Show’s over, folks,” he said.
Some raised their glasses in triumph while others they knew cheered them on, and when Tate turned to Logan, he could still see the anger stamped all over his partner’s handsome face.
“You need to go upstairs,” Tate said, knowing Logan needed some space to calm himself down, because it sure wouldn’t happen if they started arguing with each other.
Logan’s eyes glittered with annoyance, and Tate knew it was from the order he’d just issued. Adrenaline was riding Logan now, and Tate needed him the hell out of such a public place.
“Tate—”
“Go upstairs and settle the fuck down. Once you have, come back and see me. Got it?”
And before Logan could answer one way or another, Tate headed down the bar to serve a customer taking her seat, wanting to put this ugly altercation behind him.
Chapter Seven
WHEN LOGAN HAD gone upstairs, he hadn’t done so with the intention of staying there. But when he entered their loft and looked around the space that had been one of the biggest draws for him and Tate, he’d headed straight for the liquor cabinet to pour himself a glass of whiskey.
That dick in the bar—what was his name? Scott? Really, who the fuck even cares—had ruined his mood, night, and good goddamn week. And Tate sending him upstairs to cool off wasn’t helping his current frame of mind either.
Snatching up the bottle of Jameson, he headed into the living room with a glass and some ice. The loft wasn’t large by any means, but over the years the two of them had made it a cozy place for them to crash—and by cozy, that meant a fully renovated kitchen directly off to the left, with all-black marble, wooden cabinetry, and stainless steel appliances. The original hardwood floors had been polished and refinished, and had large rectangular rugs under the leather couch and coffee table. And they’d both agreed to leave the exposed brick as it was, because it added character when in contrast with the wall of windows that made up the other side of the space.
However, none of that was what he loved most. No. His favorite area was up the ten winding steps that led to a balcony that hung over the kitchen. That was where their bed was.
Up there, it was as though they were as far away from the world as they could possibly get. But tonight, it felt as though it had been invaded. It felt like that motherfucker had come into their home and tainted it with his hatred, and that made Logan want to kick someone’s ass. Well, more so than he had already.
Fuck, it wasn’t often that he let people get under his skin. He was an expert at not giving a shit about what others thought of him. But when someone went after Tate? When someone had the audacity to judge him, to judge what they shared? Not much could hold him back—except Tate himself, that was, who’d quite pointedly sent Logan’s ass upstairs. So, that was where he’d stayed. Now there he was with a bag of ice on his knuckles, and several drinks in him, and somehow three hours had passed.
As the heavy firehouse door slid open and Tate stepped inside, Logan glanced over his shoulder to see a scowl plastered on Tate’s face, and then turned back to down his drink.
“Why didn’t you come back downstairs?” Tate said.
Logan sat forward on the couch, put his empty glass on the table, and got to his feet. “I wasn’t quite sure I’d be welcome,” he said as he flexed his fingers and dropped the Ziploc bag on the table.
Tate’s eyes slid to the bottle and glass, and then came back up to lock with Logan’s. “You drunk?”
“I’m… Not quite yet.”
“But that’s the goal?”
“It’d crossed my mind,” Logan said as he headed into the kitchen, thinking the likelihood of continuing on his current path was now over and he might as well drink some water.
Once he’d gotten himself a bottle from the fridge, he moved so he could lean against the counter as Tate came over and rested back against the fridge’s double doors.
“What’s going on here?” Tate asked.
Logan took a swig of water and then shrugged, thinking it might be best if he just slept his mood off. His emotions were still primed and on edge—and not in a good way.
“I missed seeing you downstairs,” Tate said as his gaze wandered over Logan. “Sitting there. Watching me. I’d been looking forward to that all day.”
Logan twisted the bottle between his fingers but remained silent, knowing if he did open his mouth, this wasn’t going to end well.
He was pissed. Pissed at what that asshole had said. Pissed that Tate hadn’t let him check that he was okay after the horrible things that had been said. And he was pissed that he was yet again the reason some jerk-off thought they had permission to disrespect the amazing man currently staring him down, waiting for a response.
“Hey?” Tate said. “You need to let this go. Everything’s okay now. He’s gone.”
And that was when Logan finally decided to speak up. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs closing?”
“Amelia’s doing it tonight. I wanted to come and find you. Now would you please start talking? What’s going on with you?”
“Was just thinking.”
Tate cocked his head to the side. “About?”
Logan placed the water bottle down and shoved h
is hands into the pockets of his jeans. “What happened earlier.”
“Yeah, I got that much. Which part are we talking about here? The beginning or the end?”
“How about we go with option C—all of the above,” Logan said as he shoved away from the counter, ready to head upstairs and go to bed. But as he walked by, Tate reached out and took hold of his wrist.
“Logan, talk to me.”
Logan told himself to just let it go. Told himself to just kiss Tate and drag him up to bed and work out this leftover aggression he was feeling. But he’d never really been one to take advice—even his own. “So now you want to hear what I have to say? You didn’t seem all that interested earlier.” Tate frowned, and Logan raised an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”
“I told you to come back once you’d cooled off. I could see how pissed you were.”
Logan wrenched his arm free and turned on Tate. “Damn right I was pissed. Can you blame me?”
“No,” Tate said, taking a step forward until Logan was caged in against the counter, placing his hands on Tate’s chest for balance. “Of course I don’t blame you. But taking it any further wasn’t going to do either one of us any good. It happened. The same as it has before, and likely will again. But we deal with it and move on. Especially if, and when, it happens at work.”
“It shouldn’t ever fucking happen.”
“No, it shouldn’t,” Tate said, and reached out to circle Logan’s wrists. “But it did. And I hardly think our customers wanted to see either of us handcuffed.”
Logan was practically vibrating from his outrage at the injustice of it all. Why shouldn’t he be able to stand up for himself, for Tate, if he fucking wanted to?
But then Tate brought Logan’s right arm up so he could inspect his knuckles. “I hate that you hurt yourself,” he said, and Logan closed his eyes and let out a sigh as Tate pressed his lips to the abused and swollen flesh, the fight in him slowly subsiding.