CHAPTER 14
ACE
CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ARE sentient and they hate me.
That's the only explanation for why this tangled mess in my hands has somehow gotten worse in the last ten minutes.
I started with what looked like a manageable knot.
Now I'm holding what can only be described as a Christmas-themed tumor, and I'm pretty sure it's growing.
"How," I mutter, tugging at a strand that immediately tightens three others. "How is this physically possible?"
The bar is chaos around me. Half the team showed up to help decorate, which means nothing is getting done efficiently and everything is getting done loudly.
The burnt Christmas tree has been replaced with a new one that Jinx is absolutely, under no circumstances, allowed to approach. There's actually a perimeter. Becker drew it in tape on the floor. Jinx has been sulking about it for twenty minutes.
I yank at another strand of lights. The knot somehow gets bigger. I'm going to be here forever. They'll find my skeleton still clutching this demonic ball of wire and LEDs.
Across the room, Becker and Petrov are having what appears to be a very serious argument about an inflatable reindeer wearing a hockey jersey.
"By the door," Becker insists, gesturing emphatically. "Marketing 101. First thing people see when they walk in. Boom. Instant holiday spirit."
Petrov shakes his head. "By bar. People see reindeer, people drink. People drink, people donate. Is simple. You Americans, you don't understand marketing."
"I literally just said Marketing 101!"
"You said wrong thing in confident voice. Is American specialty."
Wall's still fighting with the banner. "This thing is cursed," he mutters, adjusting one corner only to have the other droop immediately.
Jinx's head snaps up. "Don't joke about curses."
"I'm not joking. This banner has it out for me personally."
"Curses aren't funny, Wall."
"Neither is your face, but here we are."
Hendrix is perched on the bar top, watching this unfold with those beady eyes that definitely contain evil. Then he opens his beak. "Slide the pole, baby!"
Every single person in the bar freezes. Becker's still holding the inflatable reindeer. Petrov's got one hand raised mid-gesture. Wall's balanced precariously on the ladder. I've got Christmas lights wrapped around both arms like tinsel handcuffs.
We all turn to look at Hendrix.
He ruffles his feathers importantly.
"I'm sorry," Becker says slowly. "What?"
Hendrix puffs up his chest. "SLIDE THE POLE, BABY!"
"This bird is now... inappropriate," Petrov observes.
But Hendrix isn't done. "Pump it! Pump it real good!"
Groover emerges from the back room, takes one look at Hendrix, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "What the hell did Marcus teach him?"
"Teach him?" Becker's face is splitting into a grin that spells trouble. "This isn't teaching. This is a gift. This bird is a gift."
"Pump it!" Hendrix agrees enthusiastically. "PUMP IT!"
"We can't let him say that during the fundraiser," Wall points out.
"We absolutely can and will let him say that during the fundraiser."
"Becker—"
"He's the star attraction now. Move over, puppies. Hendrix is the main event."
I finally manage to free one arm from the Christmas lights some fifteen minutes later. The knot looks somehow even more complex than before. I'll be done never.
Sighing, I prop my chin on my palm and take in the scene, my eyes automatically drifting to the corner of the bar where Devon's crouched down to Hendrix's eye level. His lips are moving, but I can't hear what he's saying over the continued debate about the reindeer.
Curious, I drift closer, lights trailing behind me like the world's least festive cape.
Devon's face is scrunched up in concentration. He clears his throat, then half-sings: "Someday...?"
Hendrix stares at him.
"Someday...?" Devon tries again, more emphasis this time.
Hendrix tilts his head. "What the puuuuck?"
Devon sighs and tries again. "Someday...?"
"Someday," Hendrix echoes.
Devon's eyes light up for a split second before he shakes his head vigorously. "No! Hendrix. We've been over this. We'll know. Your line is we'll know. Again." He clears his throat dramatically. "Someday...?"
Hendrix considers this for a long moment. Then: "Fuck off."
I bark out a laugh.
Devon's shoulders slump in defeat. "You're doing this on purpose. I know you're doing this on purpose. You learned 'pump it real good' in like five seconds but you can't learn two words of a song?"
Hendrix preens his feathers, utterly unbothered.
Devon straightens up, running a hand through his already messy hair. Then, in this determined voice that's honestly kind of adorable, he belts out: "Someday we'll know!"
Kayla appears at his side, wiping down glasses. "What are you teaching him?"
"Nothing, apparently." Devon's voice drips with resignation. "Absolutely nothing. This bird has learned an entire firefighter vocabulary in one afternoon, but he refuses to learn one simple lyric."
Kayla looks into space, brows. "I feel like I've heard it before."
Devon's entire face lights up. "You have?"
"I think so? I can't quite place it."
Devon points at Hendrix. "This conversation is not over." Then, he turns back to Kayla. "’Someday We'll Know.’ New Radicals. Only the most underrated band of all time. I thought I was literally the last fan on earth."
Something cold runs down my spine.
No. No, no, no. I heard that wrong.
Kayla nods. "I mean, I know like one song? The one from that movie?"
"That's a start. I can fix you." He then goes into full-on spiel mode. "They're absolute legends, legends, thank you very much. Gone too soon. One album and then poof, vanished into the ether, leaving us mere mortals to mourn what could have been—"
The rest of the conversation dies down somewhere deep inside me, my ears picking up the words, my brain refusing to process them, and now I'm having a full mental debate, arguing with myself.
This is a coincidence
Total coincidence.
This is Chicago, for fuck's sake. There's like, what, three million people? There's gotta be more than one niche band fan in the city.
Well, more than one gay niche band fan.
Okay. More than one gay, roommate-having niche band fan.
Total fucking coincidence.
"Ace!" Becker's voice cuts through my spiral. "Reindeer duty! We need a tiebreaker!"
"Yeah." My voice sounds distant. "Right. Be right there."
I don't move.
Devon's still talking to Kayla, hands moving expressively as he explains something about track listings. He looks happy. Animated. Completely unaware that I'm standing six feet away having a complete mental breakdown.
My fingers are shaking as I pull out my phone. This is beyond stupid. It's not him. There's no chance in hell it's him.
But I have to make sure.
I open the Reddit app, navigate to my DMs, and type out the first words that come to my mind.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: What's your take on Christmas music?
I hit send.
Then I just stand there, phone clutched in my sweating palm, staring at Devon.
Nothing happens.
See? Coincidence. Total coincidence.
I'm being paranoid. Three million people in Chicago and I'm losing my mind over—
A phone pings.
On the bar.
Right next to where Devon is standing.
It's fine. Everything's fine. That could be anyone's phone. Kayla's phone. Becker's phone. Some random phone that materialized out of thin air because please God, let it be anyone—
Devon reaches for the phone.
He looks at the screen, then smiles.
My lungs have forgotten how to function, while my brain works a million bits per second.
"Spill," Kayla says, and I tune back in so fast I almost get whiplash.
Devon looks up from his phone, face carefully innocent. "Spill what?"
Kayla motions at Devon's phone with her chin. "Who's that? You've got a look."
"I don't have a look."
"You absolutely have a look. It's the same look you had when that guy from your philosophy class asked you to study together."
"That's—" Devon huffs. "That's completely different."
"Is it though?"
Devon rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of color on his cheeks that wasn't there before. "Just some guy I've been chatting with. I hooked him up with a tailor." He waves his hand dismissively. "Long story."
The Christmas lights slip from my nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a sad little clatter that no one notices because they're all too busy with their own chaos.
I hooked him up with a tailor.
It's him.
Devon is OnlyNewRadicals_69.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
"Ace?" Becker's voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. "You with us?"
"Fine," I manage. "I'm fine. Just... the lights. Wrestling with the lights."
"The lights are on the floor."
I look down. "Yep. They won. Very sad."
"We need you to—"
"Be right back," I blurt out and make a beeline for the bathroom, avoiding looking in Devon's direction like he's a Medusa about to turn me into stone.
The door closes behind me and I brace my hands on the sink, staring at my reflection.
I look insane. Wide eyes. Flushed cheeks. The expression of a man who has just realized he's been accidentally sexting his secret crush.
Because that's what this is, isn't it?
Sort of.
We didn't actually... I mean, there were pictures, but we didn't... and I told him about...
Oh God, I told him about the guy at work. The guy I couldn't stop thinking about. The guy who was driving me crazy.
I told Devon about Devon.
I press my forehead against the cool mirror and groan.
This is fine. Everything is fine. He doesn't know it's me. I didn't use my real name. I never mentioned hockey.
All Devon knows is some random fitness guy is questioning his sexuality because of a coworker. That's it. That's all he knows.
He doesn't know the fitness guy is me.
He doesn't know the coworker is him.
I'm safe.
I'm totally, completely safe.
Except…
Except now I know it's him.
And I still have to work with him for the rest of December.
And every time I look at him, I'm going to think about that picture. His torso. The way I imagined his face while I—
Nope. Not going there. Not thinking about that.
I splash cold water on my face, take several deep breaths, and give myself the most unconvincing pep talk in history.
You're fine. This is fine. Just… avoid him and you're golden.
My reflection looks skeptical.
I dry my face, square my shoulders, and head back out into the bar.
Devon's still there, now helping Kayla arrange bottles behind the counter. He's laughing at something she said, head thrown back, and the sound hits me right in the chest.
Two weeks.
I just have to survive two more weeks.
I grab the abandoned Christmas lights off the floor—might as well have something to do with my hands—and station myself as far from Devon as physically possible while still being in the same room.
Becker appears at my elbow. "So? Reindeer? Door or bar?"
"What?" I blink at him. "Oh. Uh. Bar. Definitely bar."
"Ha!" Petrov pumps his fist. "I told you! American marketing is garbage!"
"That's not what he—you know what, fine. Bar it is."
They drag the inflatable reindeer toward the bar, arguing the whole way.
I focus very intently on the Christmas lights.
I do not look at Devon.
And I definitely don't think about the fact that somewhere on his phone, there's a picture of my stomach covered in cum.