Chapter 1 #2
The next hour was a war of attrition, which was fine.
Chad needed something to do with his hands.
Vodka sodas, craft beers, a seemingly endless stream of margaritas.
He moved with practiced efficiency, hands a blur of bottles, ice, and shakers, keeping one eye on Blake at the far end.
The kid was game but slow—mouthing the steps for a Long Island Iced Tea with the grim focus of a rosary.
At one point, a man in a flowing caftan waved an empty glass. “Can I get another Mai Tai, hon?”
“Be right with you,” Chad called, three beer bottles wedged between the fingers of one hand and two highball glasses cupped in the other.
He set the glasses down for a stocky pocket bear in a plaid shirt tucked into impossibly tight jeans. The man’s eyes were glued to a spot four inches below Chad’s chin.
Here we go.
“That’ll be thirty-five, hon,” Chad said, keeping his voice friendly.
The man passed two twenties, hand brushing Chad’s with unmistakable deliberateness. “Keep the change, doll. You know, if you ever want to see what a real bear looks like—”
“I appreciate the offer,” Chad said, “but I’m more of a cub guy myself.”
Lies. All lies.
The man winked and turned away. Chad pocketed the five-dollar tip and moved on.
Somewhere in the chaos, he caught movement at the end of the bar. The man in the red cap was shifting on his stool, fingers turning his glass in a slow circle, clearly debating whether to stay or bolt for the door.
Don’t leave.
He didn’t know this man. Didn’t know anything about him beyond bourbon-neat, a bad disguise, and a smile that hit somewhere inconvenient.
As if sensing the attention, the man looked up. Their eyes met again.
This time, Chad held up a finger—one minute—and the man nodded, settling back onto his stool. The relief on his face was so naked it made Chad’s chest ache.
You are in so much trouble.
When the rush finally ebbed enough to breathe, Chad made his way down the bar.
Up close, the man was even more striking than the distance had promised.
Dark brown eyes, warm and a little worried.
The beard was close-trimmed, more silver than he’d noticed before, and it couldn’t quite hide the roundness of his cheeks or the suggestion of dimples beneath.
He had maybe fifteen years on Chad, maybe more, and he wore them well.
He looked like someone’s dad. Someone’s hot, sweet, slightly overwhelmed dad.
Danger, danger, Will Robinson.
“Hey there,” Chad said, leaning against the bar. “Haven’t seen you here before.”
The man’s face flushed from the collar up. “No. I—no. First time.” He cleared his throat. “Here. First time here. At a—at this sort of…” He gestured vaguely at the room, the gesture somehow encompassing the entirety of homosexuality.
Chad bit back a smile. “A bar?”
“A—yes. This kind of bar.”
His voice was deep, with the faintest lilt of the South—not the harsh bark of the Southern politicians Chad had served over the years, but softer. Warm underneath. Georgia, maybe. Alabama.
“I’m Chad.”
“Hank.” He extended a large hand across the bar, then seemed to second-guess whether handshaking was the done thing in a gay bar, then committed to it anyway with a firmness that overcompensated for the hesitation.
Chad shook it. The grip was warm, slightly damp, and his hand practically swallowed Chad’s.
“Nice to meet you, Hank. In town on business?”
“No, I—I live here. I’ve lived here for some time, actually. I’ve just never—” He stopped. Started again. “I’ve been meaning to. Come somewhere like this. For a while.” Another stop. “That sounded less pathetic in my head.”
“It didn’t sound pathetic.” Chad let himself smile. “You came to a gay bar for the first time and you wore a baseball cap and business casual?”
Hank looked down at himself—the Oxford, the khakis, the loafers—and back up at Chad with an expression so sheepish it bordered on agricultural. “Is it that obvious?”
“That you’re new at this? Little bit. But it’s working for you, trust me. The whole straight-boy-stumbles-into-a-gay-bar thing? Very charming.”
Hank laughed—a genuine, surprised sound, like he hadn’t expected to and was slightly alarmed that he had.
“I’m not—I mean, I’m not straight. Obviously.
I wouldn’t be here if I were.” A pause. “Although I suppose straight men do come to gay bars sometimes. I’ve read that.
Is that a thing? I don’t actually know the—”
“Hank.”
“Yes?”
“Can I get you another drink?”
“Oh.” He looked at his nearly empty glass as if he’d forgotten about it. “Yes. Please. Maker’s Mark. Neat.”
“Bourbon guy. I had a feeling.” Chad grabbed the bottle from the top shelf and poured two generous fingers. He slid the glass across the bar. “This one’s on me.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. Consider it a welcome gift.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “Fair warning, though—in about an hour, this place is going to get very loud and very gay. Tuesday Tunes. Broadway sing-along.”
Hank’s eyebrows rose. “Broadway?”
“You’ve been warned. If Sondheim isn’t your thing, now’s your chance to escape.”
“I’ll risk it.” The corners of his eyes crinkled again. “I like Sondheim.”
Of course, you do.
Chad had to pull away to handle other customers, but he kept stealing glances down the bar. Hank nursed his bourbon, watching the room with the careful attention of a man cataloging something he’d waited a long time to see.
Who are you, Hank-in-the-baseball-cap?
During a brief lull, he returned, setting a bowl of bar mix in front of Hank like an offering.
“So what do you do, Hank? Besides drink bourbon and look lost?”
“I work—I’m in government. On the Hill.” He said it the way you’d set down a glass you suspected was cracked—with exaggerated precision and minimal movement. “Policy. Paperwork, mostly.”
He’s hiding something.
Half of DC worked for the government. The ones who said “paperwork, mostly” were either filing clerks or running the country. Chad would’ve bet his tips on the latter.
But he let it slide. Everyone had secrets. God knew he had his own.
“What about you?” Hank asked. “What do you do besides—well, this?” He gestured at the bar, then looked panicked that the gesture might have seemed dismissive. “Not that this isn’t—I mean, you’re obviously very good at—”
“I’m an art student,” Chad said, rescuing him. “GW. The Corcoran School.”
“Really?” Hank’s eyes lit up in a way that was either genuine or the best acting Chad had ever seen, and he’d seen some acting—this was Dupont Circle. “What kind of art?”
“Painting, mostly. Abstract.” Chad grabbed a rag and started wiping down the bar, giving his hands something to do. “I graduate in May.”
“Then what?”
The question everyone asked. The question that woke him up at three a.m.
“Then I’ll probably keep bartending until someone pays me to paint.” He said it like a joke. They both heard the hollow center.
“I’d love to see your work sometime,” Hank said. “If—I mean, if that’s not too forward. I don’t know the protocol for—”
“Maybe,” Chad said. “If you’re lucky.”
The music shifted to Madonna’s Like a Prayer, and the bar erupted in enthusiastic singing—the warm-up before Tuesday Tunes officially kicked off. A drag queen near the pool table hit the high notes with enough force to rattle the glassware.
Hank surveyed the crowd, bewildered and delighted, and Chad felt a pull he didn’t trust—the urge to show this man everything. Every song, every regular, every corner of this world he clearly wanted so badly to belong to.
Slow down. You don’t even know his last name.
He leaned closer, close enough to catch Hank’s cologne—woodsy and old-fashioned, like a library with a fireplace. “Still want to stay?”
“Definitely.”
At eight sharp, the music cut and the video screens around the bar flickered to life with the opening number from Rent—Seasons of Love.
Chad had heard it a thousand times. He could mouth along while mixing a Negroni with his eyes closed and had. But tonight, with Hank watching him from the end of the bar—watching him, not the screens—the lyrics landed differently.
How do you measure a year in love?
Don’t. Don’t do that.
He tried to focus on work. Blake was drowning—a group of birthday boys had descended on his end of the bar demanding shots of something blue, and Blake was staring at the bottles like they’d personally betrayed him—so Chad worked both stations, moving on autopilot while the bar sang its way through Don’t Rain on My Parade, All That Jazz, Defying Gravity.
Between songs, during the brief interludes when customers weren’t four-deep and shouting orders, he found excuses to drift back down to Hank.
“So,” he said, refreshing Hank’s water glass—the bourbon was lasting impressively. “What do you think?”
“It’s—” Hank shook his head, and his expression had gone past entertainment, past enjoyment, into territory Chad hadn’t expected. Raw. “I thought gay bars were just dance clubs. Loud music and… I don’t know what I thought. Not this.”
“Community,” Chad said. “That’s what makes BJ’s different. Especially on Tuesdays.”
“Do you sing?”
“Sometimes. If I know the words and the tequila’s flowing.” Chad grinned. “Why? Want a private concert?”
Hank’s blush was immediate, nuclear, glorious. The flush climbed from his collar to his hairline in two seconds flat.
God, he’s cute when he’s flustered.
“I’m teasing,” Chad said. “But seriously—are you having a good time?”
“The best.” Hank met his eyes and held them. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For talking to me. For making me feel—” He paused, searching. “I was terrified walking in here. I circled the block three times.”
“You don’t seem terrified now.”
“No.” A pause. “That’s because of you.”
The moment stretched between them, the bar noise fading to a hum. Chad was suddenly very aware of the six inches of scarred wood between Hank’s hands and his own.
Then someone three seats down started waving a twenty, and Chad had to pull away.