by Tessa Bailey
“I never pegged you for a blues guy.” He could sense Milo watching him as they walked. “So how did selling his soul pan out?”
“It worked. We’re still talking about him eighty years later, right?” They were almost to the door, and Renner’s need to keep walking, right past the entrance, was severe. “He died when he was twenty-seven, but at least he left a legacy behind.”
Milo pulled him to a stop, paying zero attention to the bouncer who held out a hand for identification. Not Renner’s ID. Only Milo’s. Fucker. “Selling your soul to be the best,” he said, his fingers digging into Renner’s elbow. “Working yourself into an early grave. I don’t like the way you say that like it makes sense. Or like you can relate.”
“You’re making something out of nothing.”
“Am I?” Milo whipped out his wallet and slipped the doorman his ID without breaking eye contact with Renner. “Are you living or just trying to stay alive?”
Something pointed stuck itself just above Renner’s collarbone and wouldn’t budge. Was he resentful of the question? Yes. Because it struck the mark. He’d been buried in work and routine and numbers so long, he couldn’t remember what life had been like before. This wasn’t news, though. He’d been aware for a while now that he was working himself to death. But there’d never been a reason to stop. No light at the end of the tunnel.
The man in front of him couldn’t be that light. No.
Yes, he was a son of a bitch, but he wouldn’t be selfish with Milo. Where they stood at that very moment was symbolic. Renner would rather saw off his own arm than drag him back from the precipice of a new beginning.
“You asked what would happen when we got inside,” Renner said, changing the subject. He ushered Milo into a lit hallway leading to the main floor of the club, giving the doorman a sour look as they passed. “I hope it’s not too late to inform you, but…they make newcomers do the funky chicken on stage. Naked.”
Milo laughed. “Shut up.”
Renner pulled back a velvet curtain, swallowing nails as Milo passed through. “We’re going to do the same thing one does at any bar. We’re going to get a drink.”
“Okay. I know drinking.”
It was kind of hysterical watching Milo strut into the noisy club. His thousand-yard stare paired with his loose-hipped swagger reminded Renner of the way men entered the Third Shift. Like they were sizing the place up as a potential location for scratching their nuts and watching baseball for the night. The sandwich Renner had eaten that afternoon turned to a stone in his stomach as heads started to turn, the customers more than a little curious about the newcomer. If Renner had to guess, they were probably wondering one of two things. If Renner and Milo were together. Or if Renner had dragged a straight guy in off the street.
Was it wrong that Renner would be relieved if they landed on either conclusion?
Yes. Definitely.
“Try to be a little less intimidating,” Renner called over the music, finding them a sliver of room at the packed bar. “Right now, you are basically a Law & Order cop walking into a club to question the bartender about a murder.”
“I doubt the jacket from hell is helping.” Milo shook off the faux leather bomber and shoved it beneath one tattoo-covered arm. “Better?”
Bettah?
“Yeah.” Renner cleared the sudden hunger from his throat, because good God. Leaning against the bar with his chin up and ankles crossed, biceps on display, Milo was…hot as fuck. No way around it. Blue ink decorated his arms straight down to either wrist, stubble darkening his jaw. A sharp, thoughtful, eager man, wrapped in a bad-boy fantasy outer shell. The fact that the music hadn’t skipped and halted when they walked into the bar was beyond Renner.
“You want to dance?” Milo asked, both dimples making an appearance.
“I think you know the answer to that.”
A shrug that Renner could see held some disappointment. “Worth a shot.”
Behind Milo, a man was visibly interested, sipping his drink as he tried to decipher the dynamic between Renner and Milo. Grinding his jaw together, Renner caught one of the bartenders’ attention and ordered Milo a beer, plus a whiskey for himself. “I think it might be a good idea if we separate,” Renner managed, even with the snake coiling around his neck. “Just for a while. I don’t want to keep anyone from talking to you.”
And I sure as hell don’t want a front-row seat.
Chapter Fifteen
Milo’s first swig of beer hit his stomach like a bomb.
He didn’t want Renner to go away. Not even a little bit.
Was it nerves? Because those things were riding unicycles on his pancreas. Phoenix was like the Land of Oz compared to the dive bars Milo frequented on nights out. Not only because men were dancing with men—and the bartenders were wearing vests with no shirt underneath—but the atmosphere was intimidating in itself. Everyone was so comfortable, talking and laughing like they had lifetime memberships at the club. The music was so loud he could feel the bass pumping in his groin, which wasn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling, but along with watching men acting so unrestrained together…he could admit to feeling aroused. Just from the sudden freedom to watch. To be interested, if he so chose.
All this time, places like Phoenix had existed around him and he’d never considered going. Now that he was inside, all the impulses he’d been dealing with alone didn’t feel so huge or unmanageable.
So apart from the typical fear of looking like a rookie on the first day of practice, he wasn’t necessarily nervous. No, the squeeze and release in his belly had to do with Renner.
Currently, his boss was scoping the bar, looking for a convenient place to keep an eye on Milo. But not be too near. Because that would be bad, right? Yeah. Milo definitely didn’t want Renner to tug him closer by the waistband of his jeans and warn everyone off. Right.
Or had it taken this moment of separation to realize Renner’s claiming him in front of everyone was exactly what he wanted?
Logically, Milo knew this experience was healthy for him. Hadn’t he asked Renner to help him talk to men? Not about sports or cars, but in an interested kind of way? Yes, he had. The way he hadn’t been capable of speaking to Travis. Now that the moment had arrived, he couldn’t be sure if he wanted Renner—instead of anyone else in the room or possibly the planet—because Renner was all he knew.
Although, as Renner paid for the drinks and began to sidle away…the contractions in Milo’s stomach shifted higher. Higher. Until his heart was center of attention. The beer in Milo’s hand sweated down his knuckles and he could feel every trickle, could feel answering perspiration run down his spine. Renner was giving him an encouraging nod that didn’t come anywhere near his eyes. So what did that mean? Was he waiting for Milo to decide if he stayed or went?
“Relax, Bautista.” He was back to Bautista, was he? “I’m not going far. I’ll be right over there if you need me.”
I need you.
It was that sharp jab of thought that prevented Milo from stopping Renner. He couldn’t already need him. That had to be the nervous energy talking. Or the fact that he’d only ever touched one man. Only ever given and received pleasure from one man. There was a gravitational pull toward Renner, but he couldn’t allow it to take him. Not until he was positive what was causing it. Lust, familiarity, or…something more.
The something more pulled into first place when Renner’s back was swallowed up by the crowd. Milo’s gaze followed his boss’s progress until he reappeared in full on the other side of the bar. They frowned at each other across the distance and stupidly, Milo would have been content to proceed to scowl at Renner all night. But Renner tilted his head and gave him a look that said knock it off and have fun.
Right. Fun.
Fun wasn’t easy when you were tied in a dozen knots, trying to stay grounded in reality, instead of rounding the bar and giving Renner hell for…what? Getting under his skin?
“Excuse me.” Milo turned when the man beside
him spoke. “I hope I’m not intruding, but I wanted to make sure that wasn’t your boyfriend before I bought you a drink.”
“I…uh.” Milo glanced down at the bottle in his hand, shocked to find it empty. Then he looked at Renner, who appeared to be engrossed by his phone—asshole—before turning back to the man on his left. The stranger reminded him a little of Travis. Blond. Easy smile. But he didn’t feel the tug of attraction he’d experienced with Travis. Or the avalanche he’d gotten buried under with Renner. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Great.” The guy nodded, appearing pretty relieved, which put Milo at ease. As much as it were possible while torn in half. “I’m Chris.”
“Milo.”
“Milo.” Chris inched closer so they could hear each other over the music…and every hair on Milo’s neck stood up. In that way that happens when something is off. Wrong. “Where are you from? Do I hear Boston?”
Talking to a dude while being given not-so-subtle once-overs was new. Very new. Milo even forced himself to do the same. And found out pretty quickly that he was a critical jerkwad. While he did find Chris attractive, his shoulders weren’t wide enough. His voice wasn’t deep enough. He didn’t give Milo any bullshit or try to argue, so the conversation was a little more flirtatious than he was comfortable with. And the entire time, his focus went into not seeking out Renner’s gaze across the bar. Which was a feat of epic proportions, considering he could feel the burn of a certain factory owner on him all the while. Do something about it, Renner.
Another man approached and Chris introduced him. After a few minutes of talking, the newcomer started to laugh. “I keep waiting for you to realize you’re in the wrong place.”
“Who, me?” Milo tugged on his collar. “Why’s that?”
The two men exchanged an amused look. “No reason, I guess. You just don’t strike me as the club type,” Chris said. “That’s not a good or bad thing. Just an observation.”
“We were going to dance,” the new guy said, tipping his head toward the mass of bodies toward the back of the space. “Want to join?”
Milo loved to dance. He would probably shock these two city boys into making a whole new observation about him, because God knew, he could move like nobody’s business. But it took until that moment, with two men trying to edge him toward the dance floor, to realize why there was a yawning pit in the center of his stomach. He was still waiting for Renner to come get him. Those stolen moments in the hammock, the dressing room, out in the bowling alley parking lot, and the factory office…they were all cycling past in perfect clarity.
I make the decisions. Boss inside work. Boss outside of work. That’s me.
Milo had to shift the way he stood because his dick grew thick with the memories. Yeah. Where was the man who made the rules? He wanted that man. Now. Whether or not it was realistic, or even smart at this point in time, he’d spent the entire conversation wanting Renner to wrap a hand around the back of his neck. He’s taken. What would it be like to hear those words from Renner…and know they pertained to him?
This was ridiculous. He wanted one man. What was he doing with two others?
Worrying about how much whiskey Renner was drinking and if alcohol consumption allowed his heart pills to function. That’s what he was doing. And remembering that story about Robert Johnson dying at twenty-seven after selling his soul to the devil. His boss was a probable millionaire and only in his early thirties, but how much longer could he pull seven-day workweeks off? Who was going to look after him when he left Hook?
Shit. He was leaving. Maybe he wouldn’t even bother traveling back with Milo, since they were already in Manhattan.
Milo wasn’t the type to play games with anyone, but he couldn’t deny the sudden anger flickering in his chest. Over being touched with such possessiveness, only to be set loose with so little thought. Left to his own devices in a club full of men. Left in Hook. Alcohol fizzed and popped in his veins, making those sweaty memories between him and Renner just a little too vivid. A little too real. The guy was just going to sit there and watch him flirt with two men? Renner had been in his mouth a matter of hours ago, holding Milo’s hair like he owned him. Didn’t that mean something?
You always knew he was out of your league.
He probably can’t wait to off-load you onto someone else.
“Yeah.” Milo drained his fourth beer and plonked the empty bottle down onto the bar, refusing to glance in Renner’s direction. Mostly because he was afraid the prick would still be staring at his phone, not caring one way or the other how Milo spent his night. “Let’s go dance.”
Getting a prompt holy shit out of Chris and his friend was pretty gratifying, Milo had to admit. Didn’t matter that he’d never danced with a man—dancing was dancing. And he’d been turning his mother around the kitchen since childhood, before moving on to the girls at his Boston middle school. They’d fought over a turn with him at dances, because they’d known he would make them look good and not try to play grab-ass, like a lot of boys his age.
“You’re full of surprises,” Chris said behind him, moving closer. Close enough that Milo could feel the other guy’s breath on his neck, the hand coasting over his hip. The third member of their party moved in from the other side, sandwiching Milo, a secret smile on his face. It was so easy, so smooth. On the outside, at least. Inside Milo, hell was breaking loose. He closed his eyes and tried to calm the clamoring alarm in his bloodstream. Cheating. It felt like cheating, no matter which angle he looked at it from. Had he really gone out to the dance floor hoping to force Renner into reacting? How was he reacting?
Milo tried to picture Renner rolling his hips in between two men—and his stomach heaved so violently, he had to extricate himself from the other men, every hair on his body standing straight up. “I’m sorry. I—” He waved a hand between them. “You guys go ahead.”
Chris looked as though he understood. “We’ll be here if you change your mind.”
Needing to get to Renner, Milo turned on a heel and began weaving through the crowd, which had grown a ton since they’d arrived. A speech wrote itself inside his head as he tried to spot a pair of hockey shoulders at the bar. Stop acting like you don’t care about us, boss man. You broke your rules for me. I know you feel something. I do, too. A huge, complicated something. Let’s go back to Jersey and figure it the fuck out.
But when the crowd parted and he saw a man touching Renner, the speech cut off like a loudspeaker being dropped into the ocean. The man was trying to tug Renner away from the bar, presumably to the same dance floor Milo had just vacated. He was dressed much the same as Renner in expensive clothing, his demeanor that of a man who ran business meetings and had an expense account. Renner was laughing as the man urged him to join everyone on the floor, but the corners of the boss man’s eyes weren’t crinkled, which meant the laugh wasn’t authentic.
And yet, Milo authentically didn’t give a rat’s ass.
He’d swallowed a hammer. Or an anvil. Or something bulky and misshapen. But he was on the move anyway, sliding through conversations without so much as an apology, his blood buzzing like a beehive. No one touched Renner. No one.
No one.
Renner’s own sister, Samantha, had tried to clock Renner outside the factory once, and Milo had been incapable of even letting that happen, comeuppance be damned.
Jealousy sent fireworks going off over Milo’s head, but there was shame laced in. For damn sure. Because despite how he’d tried to justify dancing with Chris to himself, he’d been trying to make Renner jealous. Now he was getting a taste of his own medicine…and he’d been dosed with poison instead. He’d only ever been mildly jealous over Travis dating so many men. This was nothing like that. Milo’s neck was so hot, he marveled that it hadn’t burst into flames yet. Had he really wondered if his feelings for Renner were a product of proximity?
He’d been a giant idiot.
Finally, Milo reached Renner and Fuck Face. It appeared Renner had just given
in and agreed to dance, which set Milo off even more. He stepped in between his boss and the too-aggressive man and shoved. “Step. Off. He said no.” His breath raked in over a bed of thorns. “You can’t just—just handle people like that.”
“Whoa.” The guy recovered from his stumble, approaching again with palms out. “Actually, he said yes, but I don’t want any problems.”
Milo flexed his fingers. “Looks like you found one anyway, didn’t you, pal?”
“Milo,” Renner said behind him, voice sharp. “That’s enough. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” According to everyone gaping at him, yes. Yes, he was. But his chest wasn’t done flooding with panic and relief and jealousy. The realization he’d come to on the dance floor, which was, he’d probably die if he saw Renner with someone else. And then it had happened. “He…” Milo jabbed a finger at Fuck Face. “He probably shouldn’t even be dancing, okay? He has a heart condition.”
“Oh for the love of God,” Renner groaned behind him. “Just kill me now. End it.”
Fuck Face actually began to look pretty sympathetic, which was Milo’s first clue he didn’t only feel lost, he looked it, too. The man who’d dared touch Renner patted Milo on the shoulder and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Not that he isn’t gorgeous as shit, but I asked him to dance because he looked completely miserable. I’m guessing you have something to do with that.” He straightened. “Have fun fixing it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Renner was ready to launch into this century’s greatest reproof. They were literally going to pen odes in tribute. Milo didn’t even know what was coming his way.
After spending a gut-wrenching five minutes watching Milo being fawned over—touched—the dick thought he could storm over and prevent Renner from doing the same? Never mind that Renner was about as inclined to dance as he was to shotgun a gallon of lighter fluid, but that wasn’t the point. Hell no, it wasn’t.