Chapter 2 Two 14
Conan was on his last beer and his last five dollars, and the guy he was chatting up was not a winner.
He’d looked cute from across the bar, so Conan had bought him a drink.
And then another, and then another. After he’d spent nearly all of his money, he learned the man lived with his mother, and Conan’s hints towards going home with him were being shot down for a lack of privacy.
What was his luck tonight?
If it weren’t so dire, he would’ve bailed earlier. The man–Darian or Devin or Dennis–was childish and annoying. He’d spent most of their conversation telling Conan about some petty coworker grievance. Something about not being able to vape in the office.
Insufferable.
And now there wasn’t even a warm bed at the end of his suffering. What a fucking waste.
Conan avoided rolling his eyes at whatever Derek was saying, and started scoping the bar again.
That was when he spotted him.
At the far end of the bar sat a dark haired man, turned in Conan’s direction. He was Asian, smartly tailored, and eye-catching. Conan felt his heart stumble. He was gorgeous, even from a distance, Conan could tell. Cupid bow lips, pale complexion, sharp jaw.
Where’d he been an hour ago when Conan had been scoping the bar?
Denny kept talking, oblivious to how Conan’s attention had shifted.
The other man smirked, as if he found Conan’s situation amusing.
Was he interested? Conan watched him raise his drink–something tall and purple–to his lips and take a sip, and his eyes stayed on Conan.
New plan.
The other man, with his button up, watch, and leather dress shoes, probably wasn’t going home to Mommy.
Except.
Except Conan had spent his last five dollars on the proverbial child in front of him, and now had no opening. The other man looked… like he wouldn’t be impressed if Conan walked over empty-handed.
But did he have a choice?
He thought about striking out tonight. Thought about trekking back to his car, curling up in the backseat to sleep. It was supposed to snow tonight. Winter was coming, and the temperatures were expected to dip below freezing.
Conan’s car battery had died, so he couldn’t even turn the damn thing on to defrost if shit got bad.
Today had been a combination of bad choices and bad luck.
He’d picked up extra hours at the mill for the money, gotten off after sunset, and by the time he’d walked back to his car, he’d found the battery that had been stuttering for weeks was finally dead.
Tonight of all nights.
Which was how he’d ended up at the bar, spending his last twenty dollars trying to find some pretty thing willing to take him home. A stopgap between now and him getting cash in hand on Friday.
Conan weighed the options. He could keep standing here letting Darrell talk, but there was no future in it. Time was wasting, and even the bars wouldn’t be open forever.
Trying the other man was worth the risk. Conan didn’t have any more cash, but he could still try and spin some flattery. A swing and a miss was better than not getting up to bat.
Decision made, he forced his eyes back to Declan. “Excuse me,” he said, cutting into whatever the man had been saying, “Going to go take a piss.”
Daniel made a face, but Conan didn’t care. He was already moving toward the bathroom. There’d been a little truth in his excuse, he did need to take a leak before attempting this next bit. He had a feeling it was going to take every bit of charm and attention he had.
In the bathroom Conan formulated a plan.
The other man had looked… prissy. His appearance had been neat, and if Conan had to guess, that watch was probably worth something.
So he had money, and he had looks. He was probably used to getting chatted up in bars.
Conan would have to be interesting, different.
When Conan finished washing his hands, he fussed with his hair.
He was still dressed from work in a T-shirt, jacket, and jeans, but he wasn’t going back to the car to change now.
Sometimes the blue-collar thing worked with the prissy types, and he’d just have to hope this was one of those occasions.
As he came out of the bathroom, Conan’s eyes went to the bar stool, and found it empty.
Fuck.
His eyes skirted the bar, looking for that sharp smile, those piercing eyes.
He caught, just as the door shut, a tall, thin man in an expensive looking full length wool coat slipping out.
“Shit,” Conan grumbled, coming to a stop beside the now empty stool.
Tonight was really not his fucking night.
He gave another cursory glance around the bar, but there were no other opportunities. He could go back to Mama’s Boy, but what would be the fucking point?
It had been a second since he’d been this far north going into October, and he cursed himself. He should’ve gone south already. Shouldn’t have spent his small savings on the car engine rebuild.
What good was the car to him now?
Conan sighed and shifted, and his foot brushed something. He looked down, and spotted a scarf. It was a deep maroon red, and when he picked it up, the fabric was decadently soft. Cashmere or something.
It belonged to the man.
A new idea sparked to life. Conan wasn’t usually one to chase after men, but maybe…
Seconds spun by, and his hands curled in the soft fabric of the scarf. Oh, he was prissy alright. Probably had high thread count sheets, one of those rainfall showers.
Fuck it, Conan decided. He took the scarf and hurried out of the bar.
He hit the street just in time to see the figure in the dark coat taking the stairs down toward the canal walkway half a block away. Shit, he was quick.
Conan zipped up his jacket against the cold and started across the cobblestone street. It was already so cold. If he couldn’t make this work, he doubted he’d be getting any sleep shivering his ass off tonight.
All the more reason to make this work.
By the time Conan got to the steps down to the canal, he could barely see the figure. There were no lights this way, and it was almost pitch dark.
It didn’t escape his notice as he started down the stairs that he was a large, intimidating looking man, following another man away from the lit bars and into a dark, secluded area. With the scarf in hand, at least Conan had a reason. Something he could use to approach with.
He’d have to be careful how he did it. If he tried to run up on the man, he could flee. Or worse, be so scared that even if Conan returned the scarf, there’d be no opening for flirting.
But he couldn’t be too slow either. The man was making quick strides, heading toward a dark bridge up ahead, the distance between them lengthening. The further they got from the bar, the more suspicious Conan would seem, so he needed to catch up.
He lengthened his stride, the scarf tucked over one arm.
He kept his eyes on the shape ahead of him.
He needed to be non-threatening, but still interesting enough that the man wouldn’t just thank him and continue on his way.
They’d shared a moment in the bar, and the man had smirked at him in a way that Conan was sure was flirtatious.
As he hurried, he could hear his own footsteps on the cobblestones, the way they echoed against the water. The other man had to know someone was down here with him. There’d be no disguising it.
But if he could get an invite back…
Desire hit him all over again. The man had been awfully pretty sitting there at the bar. The kind of pretty you thought about even months later, having only glimpsed their face in a crowd. The kind of pretty that Conan itched to mess up. To see teary eyed and ruined.
Over the years Conan had talked his way into the beds of a lot of men, but few had been as pretty as that.
Conan wasn’t above acknowledging he was a sucker for a pretty face. It was maybe even part of the reason why he was attempting this at all. Maybe it was a fool's errand, but he’d get another look at those fine features at least.
Conan quickened his stride, trying to step lightly so the sound wasn’t bouncing around so loudly. Seconds passed though, and he wasn’t gaining on the man.
Had he sped up?
Fuck.
At this rate he wouldn’t catch him.
If Conan ran, he was risking being the threatening presence in the dark. But if he called out, the man could still run, and the distance between them was so great he might actually get away.
Conan just needed to get close enough for a conversation, get his foot in the door. He’d always been a big man, and had spent years learning how to put people at ease about it. How to flirt his way in and out of things. He could do this, he just needed an opportunity.
Conan took a breath, long and deep, and made the decision.
Between one step and the next he was off, jogging as quietly as he could to catch up. His heart was thumping, his skin prickling cold because the material of his jacket was too thin.
It would be so, so cold in his car tonight, he reminded himself. It was worth this risk, even if he spooked the man, he could calm him down, right?
The man ahead took off running.
Fuck.
“Wait!” He called as he kept going. Something bright and hot zipped up his spine at his own daring to continue. The odds of this working were decreasing, but he pushed past it. If he could just–just get a word in–!
They were close to the bridge now, the large dark shape looming closer and closer. Conan was gaining, close now.
“Hey, wait a second!” Conan called in a panting breath, “I have your–”
The man ahead of him tripped, his foot catching on one of the stones. Conan’s heart jumped, worried for a moment he was going to fall. They weren’t far from the water and a dip like that would be nasty.
But he managed to catch himself, stumbling to a stop. It allowed Conan to close the last of the distance, and he slowed.
“Hey, are you okay–” He started, reaching a hand out for the man’s shoulder.
It was only a lifetime of living rough that gave Conan the reaction time to avoid a sudden slash of knife.