Chapter 2
“You have to come,” West said on the phone. “This town is so boring. This town is death. Please, please, please come.”
“Um,” I said. I looked around the bedroom.
I needed an excuse. Any excuse. But my bedroom at Hemlock House, although a beautifully preserved specimen of a Victorian home, did not lend itself to fabricating modern, uh, fibs.
There just wasn’t anything to spark the imagination.
What was I supposed to say? My horse needs a tune-up? I’m winding my clocks?
“Perfect,” West said. “I love you. You’re the best, and we’re going to have so much fun. See you at seven. Oh, what are you wearing? Wouldn’t it be the cutest if we matched? It would make Bobby so jealous.”
I had my doubts that much of anything made Deputy Bobby jealous.
Instead of getting jealous, Deputy Bobby probably gave everyone involved some heavy eye contact and then expressed his feelings in an adult way.
Deputy Bobby probably said, with his usual total earnestness, things like, I want to tell you how your actions made me feel tonight.
Deputy Bobby probably had a talking stick.
“What if we both went as sluts?” West asked.
“Wait, there are costumes?”
“No, dummy. Our vibe.”
Once again, my Victorian surroundings failed me.
It was hard to come up with a compelling alternative to sluts.
I guess I could suggest bustles. Were bustles a vibe?
Or, uh, polo? Or a clock repairman? Don’t judge me—there’s only so much inspiration I can draw from enormous oil paintings of horses and expensive antique clocks.
“I’ll probably wear jeans,” I said.
“And a super slutty top,” West said with the tone of someone confirming something they already suspected. “Perfect. I’ll see you there! And don’t be late!”
“How did you get this number?” I asked.
But by then, the call had disconnected.
I looked at the very expensive clock. I did my math with the Roman numerals. If I waited until the absolute last possible moment, I had exactly XXX minutes before I had to leave. Which, considering the theme of the night, was kind of an ominous number.
XXIX minutes later, I pulled on jeans and a Halo T-shirt.
A first-person shooter probably didn’t qualify as slutty, so I took it off and tried my Animal Farm tee.
It had a rooster on it, so maybe that counted?
I found a hoodie and, in keeping with West’s proclaimed vibe, I didn’t even zip it up. Look at that, world. A brazen hussy.
The whole way, as I biked into town, I asked myself what in the world I was doing.
The night was cool and damp. Not much fog, just wisps of it hanging amidst the spruce.
The air was briny and forest-sweet, with a hint of water and oil from the rain and the road.
By the time I got to the Otter Slide, I still didn’t have an answer.
The Otter Slide is a bar. It’s not a gay bar, although it does have pride flags hanging outside.
It’s a hip bar, I guess. Or as hip as things got in Hastings Rock.
It was where the younger crowd went, and so it was more progressive—about as close to a gay bar as Hastings Rock would ever get.
Inside, it has the usual stuff—a long bar with stools and taps, pendant lights with gold-and-green glass, a pool table, a Star Wars pinball machine.
It was pleasantly murky, and the drinks were reasonably priced, and everywhere—literally everywhere, including some of the bowls of bar mix—there were stuffed animals.
I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is no: not just otters.
There was at least one very homosexual bear.
It was Friday night, and the Otter Slide was busy.
Crowded, actually. And while the mix leaned toward locals, there were lots of unfamiliar faces.
Okay, as far as I was concerned, even the locals were mostly unfamiliar faces, but it was still easy to pick out the tourists.
The booths and tables were full. People thronged the bar, calling out orders for drinks.
Seely, who owned and managed the place, was rushing back and forth, her face flushed and a few strands of hair clinging to her damp forehead.
After a quick circuit of the bar, I confirmed Deputy Bobby and West weren’t here.
Which was fine. Even though—I checked my phone—I was on time.
And even though West had said not to be late.
I stood in line, got myself a whiskey highball, and answered Seely’s shouted question about how things were going with a wave and a smile.
I fumbled around until I found a spot against the wall. I kept an eye on the door.
There were so many people.
So many bodies.
A man jostled my arm when I took a drink.
A woman backed into me and giggled.
The music was louder. Or felt louder—felt like it was right in my ear, actually. Semisonic’s “Closing Time.”
Hot. It was hot with so many bodies crammed together.
More people kept coming through the door. More people packing the bar tighter. More voices. More noise.
Finally, I just needed some air. I abandoned my drink in a bus bin and squeezed between a pair of women with identical blond curls and what appeared to be faux-leopard fur coats (it was June, ladies, even if it was the single chilliest June of my life).
I almost didn’t see them at first because they were at the corner, where the shadows were thicker.
Deputy Bobby looked casually nice, in a button-up and chinos.
West looked gorgeous: a crop-top that left his perfectly defined abs (and, heck, a fair bit of his perfectly defined chest) on display; jean shorts that were practically falling off lean hips; long, toned legs, and somehow, he made the ankle boots look cute.
They were making out. Hard. Deputy Bobby’s fingers were biting into West’s pale skin.
I got on my bike and rode home. The wind shook the leftover rain from the trees, and as I blinked drops out of my eyes, I asked myself again what I’d been thinking.