by A. S. Tucker
The man’s face reddens in anger, his hands clenching next to his sides. “I’d like to speak to your manager, please.” His voice is surprisingly smooth, considering his obvious fury.
Rick laughs, the sound coming out grating and harsh. “I am the manager. In fact, I own this establishment. And I have the right to refuse service to anyone I want. Now, please leave the premises quickly. Otherwise, you’ll force my hand, and I’ll have to involve the police.”
Rage flashes in the man’s eyes, and I brace myself for a fight. But, before he’s able to lunge and take hold of Rick’s throat, like I know he wants to—hell, like I want to—his partner grabs onto his shoulders, pulling the furious man back against his chest.
“Let’s go, Dave. It’s not worth it.”
The look in Dave’s eyes tells me he thinks it would be plenty worth it, but he listens to his partner, and I see him visibly relax. He turns, taking his partner’s face in his hands and rubbing his thumbs over his cheeks.
“You’re right, baby. Neanderthals like that aren’t worth it. I love you.” Dave presses a kiss to his lover’s lips, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist and pulling him flush against his hard body.
I move quickly, seizing Rick before he has a chance to act on the thoughts I can practically see forming in his head. “Let it go, man. They’re leaving.”
The two men separate, Dave shooting a smug look over his shoulder as they exit the room. I offer him the most apologetic look I can manage, but he doesn’t seem mollified in the least. Rick will be lucky if this doesn’t end up on the news. He’s always been a prick. But I’ve never seen him kick somebody out because of their sexual orientation. And this is 2017, not 1960. You can’t just refuse service to someone because they’re different. Things here are about to get ugly.
Rick storms off to his office once the men are out of the building, leaving me and the other bartender, Mike, to clean up the mess of the night. Luckily, closing time comes quickly, and we’re locking up within the hour.
The ride home to my apartment passes in a blur. I’m driving on autopilot, and by the time I pull into my usual spot in front of the shitty building, I’m not quite sure how I got there and how many red lights I might’ve run. But there’s one thing I know for sure.
I’m fucking pissed off.
How dare Rick think he could kick those men out just because they had the audacity to share a quick kiss. We’ve had heterosexual couples get busted attempting to have sex on the dance floor. And Rick always just laughs it off, saying, when the mood strikes, nothing can be done to stop it.
Yet these two men exchange a closed-mouth peck and all hell breaks loose.
Such. Fucking. Bullshit.
I bound up the stairs, unlocking my door and slamming it shut behind me. My first stop is in the kitchen where a bottle of Jack Daniel’s awaits me in the cupboard. I pull it out, taking a long swig straight from the bottle. It burns going down but does nothing to stop the anger blossoming in my chest.
I can’t work for that man anymore. I can’t do it.
I can’t continue to act like his behavior is acceptable. I can’t keep letting him tell me all about the homos he saw the other day or the queers who looked at a house down the street.
Taking another hit off the bottle, I storm into the living-room-turned-bedroom and collapse onto the edge of the bed. A mug from the bar sits on the makeshift nightstand I created out of an overturned packing box. I use the mug to hold various bedroom bric-a-brac—ChapStick, condoms, random change found at the bottom of my pockets. But, right now, the sight of the familiar logo causes my stomach to turn.
Grabbing on to the handle, I heave it at the wall across from my bed, delighting in the shattered pieces as they fall to the floor. I climb to my feet, stomping over to the mess, and I grind the heel of my motorcycle boot down hard on the damaged pieces. It’s not enough that they’re broken. I need every piece of that place to be completely destroyed.
A soft knock sounds at my door as I bring my foot down once more, the noise startling me out of the trance I fell into. I blink down at the mess at my feet. I don’t own a vacuum. Or even a broom. This is going to be a bitch to clean up.
The rapping on the door continues, and I run my hands over my face before making my way over to it, hoping to erase any signs of the frustrated tears I’m afraid might have spilled over during my little freak-out sesh.
When I open the door, a familiar set of eyes greets me, concern darkening the already black irises. I’ve only seen them once before, but already, I’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Elder Barker stands before me, his short hair rumpled from sleep, his torso in only a tight white T-shirt, flannel sleep pants covering his legs. I must’ve woken him up with my tantrum.
“Are you okay, Quinn?” Fisher says from behind him.
I didn’t even realize he was there until now, my attention firmly fixed on Barker. My eyes briefly flick over to Fisher as I nod, and then they promptly return to the delicious man in front of me.
There’s something about Elder Barker that calls to me. As I’ve said, his dark eyes are mesmerizing. I feel like I could lose myself in their inky depths for hours…days…years. But it’s more than just his eyes. There’s something that draws me to him. His beautiful, fresh face, unmarred by the years of wear and tear this city can inflict. His innocence. But, mostly, there’s something about him that makes me think he might be like me. Like, if given the chance, he might understand me better than anyone else.
Barker opens his mouth, and I brace myself for the sound of his voice.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
His voice is like velvet. Deep and masculine but not overly so. Goose bumps spread across my skin as his words wash over me. I want him to keep talking. I want him to never stop. I’d listen to him read the dictionary if it meant I could hear his gorgeous voice for the rest of my life. Nothing has ever sounded so…delicious.
I lock eyes with him, my throat bobbing heavily as I swallow down the lump forming there. “Yeah.” My voice cracks, the word sounding wobbly as it escapes my lips. “I’m fine. Just a rough night at work. Then, I came home and got in a fight with a mug.”
Barker’s lips curl up in the corners, and I want nothing more than to pull that full bottom lip between my teeth. I bet it tastes like heaven, a mixture of sweet and spicy and one hundred percent sex.
“You need some help cleaning that up?” he asks, looking over to the mess on my carpet.
When his eyes find the condoms, I see his back stiffen, his eyes briefly returning to mine before flicking down to his feet.
“No, thanks. I’m good.” I want to reach out and take his chin in my hand, returning his gaze to mine. I’m about to do just that when Fisher interrupts our moment.
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t need anything, we’d better be going. We’re not supposed to be out this late. But we heard the noise and wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Barker’s eyes return to mine at Fisher’s explanation.
I nod. “I’m good, boys. Thanks for looking out.”
Fisher turns with a nod, moving to the stairs just behind the landing in front of my apartment. Barker stays put, neither of us willing to be the first to break eye contact.
I smile at him. He smiles at me. We smile together.
“Elder Barker, it’s time to go,” Fisher barks over his shoulder.
Barker grimaces.
“I guess we’ll see you around,” he says, running his hand over the back of his buzzed head. He shoots me one final smile before turning and joining his companion on the stairs.
Oh, he’ll see me around all right. I’ll make damn sure of it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
Jaden
Tracting sucks.
There, I said it.
You see all these training videos when growing up in the church. Videos of friendly people inviting missionaries into their homes, feeding them dinner, listening to wh
at they have to say with smiles on their faces.
The reality of tracting is a lot less film-worthy and a lot more cringe-inducing. Ninety percent of the time, knocking on a door results in nothing. A lot of times, we can hear the person rustling behind the closed door, whispering in a hushed voice with whoever might be in the room. And, on the rare occasion when the door actually opens, nine times out of ten, it gets slammed right back in our faces.
It’s been three days of this, and so far, we have no potential investigators. The few people who were kind enough to pretend to listen to us for a minute immediately shot us down the second we mentioned setting up regular lessons.
And, just this morning, a man opened the door, took one look at our appearance, and told us we had three seconds to get off his property or he’d start shooting. The look on his face made me think he wasn’t joking. We hightailed it out of there faster than you could say Joseph Smith, making sure to add a note for future missionaries not to go back to that house for a while. I wanted to warn everyone to stay as far away as possible from that place, but as Elder Fisher reminded me, everyone deserves a chance to hear the gospel.
“He might not have wanted to talk to us. But maybe, in a few more months, his heart will be more open to hearing our message.”
Yeah, right. Or maybe, in a few more months, he’ll be even more irritated at the intrusion and not give the next guys a warning. But, apparently, in Fisher’s eyes, a potential investigator is more important than personal safety.
If only I had that drive.
I’m dragging my feet as we walk up to the next house, not wanting to go through a repeat of this morning.
Elder Fisher seems to notice my reluctance, stepping in front of me and taking my arms in his hands. “Don’t let days like today get you down. We’ll get there. We just have to find the right person.”
I nod, stepping around him and taking the few steps up to the porch. I knock softly, looking down at the cracked floorboards beneath my feet. This certainly isn’t the area I imagined I’d be serving in when I got my mission call. But, as Elder Fisher likes to remind me, it’s those with the least who need the gospel the most.
He’s full of those friendly reminders. It’s enough to make me want to smack him.
After a few minutes of no answer, Elder Fisher and I walk down the cement walkway and back to the sidewalk. I turn to the right, getting ready to head up to the next house, when Fisher surprises me.
“How about we take a break and grab some lunch? I saw a sandwich place a few blocks from here when I was out with Elder Sullivan a few weeks back. Seemed kind of swanky.”
I lift an eyebrow, finding it hard to believe anything in this area could be considered swanky by any definition of the word. But lunch sounds good. We usually snack on granola bars and crackers, as we’re out during the day. It’ll be a nice treat to actually sit down and eat lunch.
The two of us quickly make our way over to the sandwich shop, my sudden hunger pangs making it hard not to flat-out sprint to the food. But I hold myself back, knowing a missionary running through the streets in search of roast beef isn’t exactly the image the church wants to present.
I’m surprised to see the place isn’t as run-down as the rest of the buildings in the area. It’s not like the fancy places I saw on my way from the airport, but compared to the building right next door, it’s practically a palace. A hand-painted sign hangs in the window, displaying the shop is very aptly named Corner Bistro. Might not be the most original name, but there’s something to be said for simplicity.
The glass on the door and windows is wiped clean, something I would’ve thought impossible on this dingy street. And, when we walk inside, we’re greeted by the same cleanliness that is implied from the outside. The tiled floor is mopped clean, the overhead light glinting off the shiny surface. There’s an awesome little breakfast bar at the front, and several tables are scattered throughout the remaining space.
A middle-aged woman steps out from the back, greeting the two of us with a smile. “Anywhere you’d like, boys. We’re not too busy this time of day. Take a seat, and I’ll send Q right over.”
I follow Fisher to a small table over in the corner where he immediately spreads out a map and opens his notebook, making a game plan for the remainder of the afternoon. I just want to enjoy my lunch, so I slightly sink down in my seat, tuning him out for the most part. I throw out an occasional nod and, “Sounds good,” when it seems appropriate. My eyes are just beginning to drift shut when our server approaches.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my two favorite missionaries,” a familiar voice says.
My eyes instantly open at the sound. Quinn is standing before us, a white apron tied around his waist below a dark T-shirt with the store name embroidered over his left pec.
“Hey, Quinn,” Fisher greets him. “I didn’t know you worked here. Is this where you’re always disappearing to at night?”
Quinn shakes his head. “No. This is the day job. I have a second one I work at most nights.”
“You work two jobs?” I blurt out, surprised that someone his age is already working so many hours a week.
He looks to be only a couple of years older than me. Shouldn’t he still be in college or something?
His green eyes land on me, a sparkle lighting behind them as he takes me in. “Sure do, Barkey Boy. This city is expensive. Got to pay the bills somehow.”
“How come you don’t just live with your parents? You’re young enough to still get away with that.”
Fisher shoots me an inquisitive look, clearly not understanding why I’m asking him so many personal questions that have nothing to do with his faith.
“My parents are still back in Georgia. I moved out here when I was nineteen, dead set on becoming an actor. I thought I’d move out here, get cast in the next big franchise, and be set for life. Turns out, things don’t always go according to plan. But I’m not ready to give up yet. I’ve still got a few good years left in me before I’m too old to break into showbiz.”
A grin breaks out across my face. “You’re an actor? That’s so cool. I’ve never met anyone who acts before. Other than, like, the high school play and stuff.”
A coy smile crosses Quinn’s lips as his eyes rove over me. “High school plays, huh? How old are you anyway, Barker?”
“Nineteen,” I answer without even thinking.
This seems to send Fisher over the edge.
“Okay, I think we’re ready to order. I’ll have the turkey and Swiss. Elder Barker, what would you like?”
I scan the menu, landing on the first thing I see with roast beef. “I’ll have the Hunter’s Delight.”
Quinn smirks at my order, giving me another sly smile, before turning to head back to the kitchen. “I’ll get those right out, boys.”
“What are you doing?” Fisher hisses as soon as Quinn is out of earshot. “You’re not supposed to get all buddy-buddy with potential investigators. You certainly don’t need to be offering up personal information about yourself when you have no idea why he wants to know.”
I wave him off. “I was just being polite. He might be more interested in hearing what we have to say if we actually act interested in him as a person and not just a potential convert.” The words roll so easily off my tongue, I almost believe them myself. It has nothing to do with the fact that Quinn intrigues me. Nope, not at all.
“That might be. But I still don’t think you should be getting all chummy with him. It’s not why we’re here.”
“What harm could it do? You think he’s going to sell my info on the black market? So he knows I’m nineteen. What’s the big deal?”
“The ‘big deal,’” he replies, throwing air quotes around my words, “is that I told you what Elder Sullivan and I heard that one night. He’s not mentally healthy, Elder Barker. And, until we can show him that his lifestyle is unacceptable in the eyes of God, I don’t think we should be giving him any information he might use against us.”
; I grind my teeth at his words, biting my tongue at the response I so desperately want to say. How on earth could he possibly use my age against me? And who are we to tell this man how he lives his life is wrong? He seems pretty happy to me. At least he seems to know who he actually is. That’s more than I can say for myself.
“Just cool it with him, okay?” Elder Fisher says seconds before Quinn swings through the kitchen door, a glass of water in each hand. He sets them down in front of us. “I’ll be right back with your food.”
I watch him walk away, and once he is gone again, I turn my gaze back to Fisher. He expectantly looks at me.
“Okay, whatever you say. I’ll watch what I say around him from now on.”
Fisher seems placated by my response, and when Quinn returns with our food, he tucks into his sandwich without another word. Quinn lingers at the table for a moment, asking if we’d like more to drink or if we need anything else for our sandwiches.
I pick up the pickle spear next to my roast beef, taking a bite before smiling at him. “I think we’re good for now. Thanks, Quinn.”
He winks at me before he walks away. “You boys just shout if you need anything. I’ll be right over there.” He points to the breakfast bar where several ketchup bottles and sugar dispensers are waiting to be filled.
Elder Fisher and I eat quietly, both of us quickly finishing off our food. The sandwich was delicious, the roast beef perfectly cooked and savory. I’m going to have to convince Elder Fisher that we need to stop in here more often. We don’t get a whole lot of spending money as missionaries, and most of it is spent on necessities. But I’m willing to forgo the name-brand shampoo and the few sweets we’re allowed if it means I can get one of those sandwiches on the regular.
Seeing the waiter on the regular will just be an added perk.
Quinn clears our plates, and Elder Fisher pulls his planning materials back out. We map out an idea on how to proceed for the next couple of hours until the meeting we have scheduled with an investigator whom Fisher and Sullivan spoke with last week. I have to admit, I am sort of excited to see what an actual lesson with someone will be like. Maybe that’ll be the turning point I’ve been waiting for, and this will all fall into place.