Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Liam
Pride at the Rainbow Taproom always hits different. You felt it in your skin, your ribs, that spot behind your eyes where the lights burrowed in and rewired your whole mood.
It wasn’t just the music, though the bass throbbed through the floor like a second heartbeat, mine, if I let it. It crawled up my legs and took up residence in my chest, steady and insistent.
And the lights? Christ. Neon pinks and purples sliced through the air, shameless and seductive. Everything was sparkling and shimmering.
But it was the people that made the place electric.
Bodies crammed together. Arms up, heads thrown back, glitter catching on cheekbones and collarbones and the curve of bare shoulders. Laughter cutting through the music in staccato bursts.
I knew this rhythm. The heat, the smell of cologne and body spray, beer, and something sweet in the air that always clung to your clothes long after you left. Not clean or curated. Just raw. Real. Free.
And every year, it got under my skin in a way I never really shook off. Pride at the Taproom wasn’t just a celebration. It was a reminder. Of joy. Of defiance. Of the soft, stubborn power of taking up space exactly as you are.
And tonight was perfect.
Our whole crew was here, lost in the swirl of bodies and light.
If there was ever a night Evan needed to get out of his own head, it was this one. Breakups sucked. Breaking up with someone still tangled in your friend circle? Worse.
I didn’t know all the details, but I knew enough to clock the tension in Evan’s shoulders and the way he wasn’t really looking at anyone. So I looped an arm around him, leaned in close, and whispered, “Come on. Let’s dance before Maxie makes this a full production number.”
Evan hesitated for half a beat before smiling and setting down his drink.
If nothing else, I could help him let go for a while.
Callie, already wheezing with laughter, grabbed Evan’s wrist and dragged him onto the dance floor.
And that was all it took.
Like a domino effect, the whole crew followed.
Jules and Elliott laughed as they spun each other in lazy circles.
Harper and Tess, mid-hair flip, were already three songs deep into their own personal concert.
Avery and Renzo, tangled in some absurdly dramatic waltz, complete with full dips.
Max and Ezra, taking up way too much space in the best way possible.
David Guetta and Bebe Rexha’s "I’m Good (Blue)" pulsed through the speakers and it felt right.
It blended the old with the new perfectly.
The heat of the room enveloped me, sweat dampening my skin as I moved, letting the music pull me under.
I was buzzing from the whiskey, from the sheer energy of the night, from the way our friends let loose, bodies swaying, hands reaching, smiles wide and open and wild.
This was exactly what I needed.
Callie spun off toward Renzo, and Evan was left lingering in the heat of the crowd like he hadn’t quite figured out what came next.
Then Jordan turned around and I knew immediately.
Sweet, earnest, chronically unlucky-in-love Jordan had recently moved to town.
Golden curls. That smile. Arms that looked built for safety.
He moved like joy lived in his bloodstream.
When he caught Evan’s eye, something shifted in Evan’s shoulders.
Just a glitch, but I saw it. Jordan worked too hard, felt too much, and somehow always ended up catching feelings for men who came with warning labels.
So I slid in, smooth as anything, an arm across both their shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Evan didn’t flinch, which meant I was reading the room right. Jordan’s grin widened when I leaned in.
“Evan,” I said, just loud enough to be heard over the music. “Meet Jordan. Jordan, meet Evan.”
They were already smiling at each other. I could’ve left then, but I gave it one more nudge. My hands found their hips, gently, guiding them just a little closer.
Jordan looked at Evan, playful and bold. “I was just about to steal him,” he said with a wink.
“You should,” I said, and I meant it.
And then I stepped back.
It was one of those moments where you know if you stay, you’ll mess it up. So I slipped away, letting the music swallow me up. I didn’t need to see the rest. I could feel it.
I knew Evan needed to feel wanted tonight. Not because he wasn’t already. Hell, the guy’s magnetic when he’s not overthinking. But because he needed to remember that he could still let someone close. And Jordan? He was the right kind of soft for that. The right kind of bold too.
Some people play matchmaker with dating apps. I do it with hips and timing and instinct.
Sometimes my brain just… clocked things before I could explain them.
Little shifts. Micro-glitches in body language.
A shoulder tightening. A breath held half a second too long.
It’d been that way since I was a kid, teachers calling it “distracted,” “too much,” “all over the place,” when really I was just noticing everything at once. It drove me insane growing up.
These days, I’d learned to trust it.
Most of the time, my instincts were right.
And from the way Evan leaned in, let himself get pulled into the music, let his body move like it had finally remembered how.
Yeah, that was the right call.
And then I turned. The music didn’t just blur. It faded. Like someone had turned the volume down on everything except the insistent thump of my own heartbeat.
At some point, my shirt was gone. I couldn’t even tell you when it happened, just that suddenly air hit my skin and there was a roar from somewhere near the floor, voices rising up in approval, in celebration. Cheers. Whistles. Hands lifted toward me like an offering.
And I let them have it.
I stood there bare-chested and unashamed, taking up space, feeling the weight of my body, solid, real, and mine. This wasn’t about being sleek or pretty or fitting into someone else’s idea of desirable. I wasn’t a twink. Never had been. Never would be.
This was bear glory. Broad and thick and unapologetic. Queer bodies of every shape moving around me, with me, beneath me. I didn’t shrink or apologize or soften myself to be more palatable.
I liked the attention. I earned it.
I was proud to be here. Proud to be queer. Proud of this body, exactly as it was, held up by the room, by the noise, by the knowledge that I belonged.
And there was Sam. He was standing a few feet away, caught mid-laugh, his face flushed from dancing, lips parted, his damp dark hair clinging to his forehead.
His thin shirt clung to his body, dark with sweat, outlining the sharp lines of broad shoulders, the strong cut of his chest, the firm dip of his waist.
I swallowed hard.
Because fuck.
Sam was beautiful.
And I was staring.
Like an idiot.
I felt it. Something hot, something tight, something settling deep in my stomach and spreading lower to my dick.
The same something that had been building since Cedar Hollow. Since the Stag & Lantern then at Callie’s apartment.
The same something I had shoved down.
But right now?
With Sam standing there, eyes dragging over me, his tongue coming out to wet his lips—
I didn’t think.
I just moved.
My body acted on instinct, closing the space between us before I even knew I was doing it.
Close.
Too much.
But Sam didn’t step away.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t even blink.
I slid my hands over his waist, fingers brushing the warm skin just beneath his shirt, my breath catching at the contact.
His skin was hot, his muscles taut, his pulse knocking beneath my fingertips.
Or maybe that was mine.
The music shifted.
And then…"Erotica". Of course. The DJ had perfect timing. They cued up Madonna whispering sin into the speakers. That slow, filthy groove slid through the air like sweat down a spine. The bassline wasn’t just heard, it was felt, deep in the hips, coiling low and tight in the gut. Every note dared you to act on impulse.
Something inside me shifted right along with it.
Sam turned in my arms, his hands dragging up my bare shoulders, fingers digging in just enough to make it hard to breathe. Holding on like he wanted more than just this dance.
And, God help me, I did too.
The heat between us crackled with that same animalistic edge Madonna moaned over, like the whole damn song had been written for this exact second.
The crowd disappeared. The lights blurred.
There was only the press of his body against mine, the scent of him (cologne and something wilder), and the pounding rhythm that dared me to stop pretending I didn’t want this.
This wasn’t just dancing anymore.
This was a decision.
And I was done pretending I hadn’t already made it.
And fuck, I could feel it.
The tension.
The pull.
The slow, inevitable gravity of this moment.
I pulled him closer.
Closer than I should have.
Closer than I ever had.
His chest met mine, sweat to sweat, his breath catching right against my neck. The slide of his solid body. Thick where I liked it, strong where I needed it, and pressed firmly into me. His belly was warm and real. Not some sculpted gym body. Just solid and grounded strength wrapped in heat.
Our jeans didn’t hide a thing. The friction was instant, unforgiving. Hard cocks grinding through denim, aligned and straining, pulsing with everything we hadn’t said. I swore I felt him twitch against me. Or maybe I was the one pulsing.
His breath hitched again, mouth brushing the edge of my jaw, and that did it.
I tilted my head and kissed him. Not tentative or careful. Just hungry.
Because I’d waited too damn long to pretend I didn’t want this.
Right there, in the middle of the Rainbow Taproom dance floor.
Right there, with our friends around us.
Right there, where anyone could see.
And Sam kissed me back.
It wasn’t slow.
It wasn't careful.
It was hot, heady, and reckless.
A quick inhale against my lips.
A low, barely-there groan that I felt more than heard.
His fingers curled against my skin, his grip tightening at my waist.
My hands clutched his back, palms sliding over damp cotton and muscle, needing to memorize the exact shape of him, the way his spine curved into my hands like he’d been there before. Like he belonged there.
His lips were soft, but insistent. They moved against mine, pressing back with equal intensity, equal heat.
And then, his tongue made a slow, confident swipe against my bottom lip, asking without asking. I opened to him, couldn’t not, and the moment our tongues touched, everything tilted.
It wasn’t messy or rushed. It was deliberate. Exploratory. His tongue danced against mine, pulling a sound from my throat I didn’t know I could make. I met him there, matching his rhythm, the kiss deepening until it wasn’t just a kiss, it was a claim.
His hand slid up the back of my neck, fingertips curling just enough to hold me in place, to keep me tethered. My whole body lit up like a live wire, nerves sparking with every slick press and glide of his mouth.
We kissed like we’d been starving. Like we’d waited long enough. Like we both finally admitted what we wanted.
And I wasn’t letting go.
The room spun.
The music swelled.
Somewhere in the background, I knew our friends saw.
But they didn’t say a word.
Because they knew. And, fuck. So did I.