Chapter 43 Finn
Finn
Imade it to the bar around seven o’clock. There hadn’t been time to go home and change, so I arrived in the same rumpled, barbeque-reeking shirt and shorts I’d worn all day. I hoped the smell of sex didn’t override the scent of seared chicken.
Chase and I spent two hours in his bed. He did, indeed, bang my brains out.
Then we lay there in each other’s arms, still coated in salty, sticky goodness.
We talked, we laughed—God, we laughed—we had sex again.
Somewhere in the midst all of that, we said, “I love you,” approximately five hundred times.
My face hurt from smiling.
The bar was crowded but not slammed, a decent Saturday night crowd.
The Lightning returned from a long road stretch yesterday and had a few days off to rest and recover, their next game on Tuesday night at home.
That meant we didn’t have any watch parties planned, save the one baseball game on Sunday, but those didn’t come close to the excitement—or the increased business—hockey offered.
Benji reigned behind the bar, his crown of neon hair visible from across the room.
Jacks was clearing tables near the front.
Mark was at the register, looking up as I walked in.
His grin was immediate and far too knowing.
Oh God.
My stomach dropped.
I waded through the crowd toward the bar, trying to look casual and professional, like I hadn’t just spent the entire afternoon having the best sex of my life with a man who loved me.
I made it three steps before Benji spotted me.
And yelled.
Loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear.
“SOMEONE LOOKS FRESHLY FUCKED!”
Everyone—and I mean everyone—turned to look at me. I even saw Rod’s head poking through the dispatch window.
I wanted to turn and run.
“Benji!” I hissed, reaching the bar. “Could you be any louder?”
“I could try!” He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “But seriously, boss, you’re glowing. Like, literally glowing. I could see you from space. You look like you just—”
“Benji, I swear to God—”
“Might not be able to sit down all night?” Mark appeared at my elbow, his smile just as knowing as Benji’s. “Because that’s what it looks like.”
“Bloody hell.”
“You love us,” Jacks said, appearing with a tray of empties. He looked me up and down, then bent to sniff the air in front of my chest. “You smell like barbecue sauce and . . . pineapple? I didn’t see any fruit there today.”
Mark lost it and had to retreat to the back.
Benji howled.
Every customer laughed and whispered, though their drunken versions of whispering may as well have been loudspeaker announcements. In seconds, every gay man in Tampa knew I’d been fucked into oblivion.
I wanted to die. Right there in my own damn bar. Just keel over and never rise again.
Jacks clapped me on the shoulder, his meaty paw nearly driving me into the cement floor. “You look happy, like stupid happy. It’s kinda nice. Did you and Chase have a good afternoon?”
The way he said it—so earnest and genuine—made it impossible to be annoyed.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “We had a great day.”
“And by ‘good afternoon,’ he means, ‘Did Chase rail you hard enough for Amtrak to use you next?’” Benji said, waggling his eyebrows. A pair of older guys who’d become regulars nearly tossed full beer steins all over each other.
“Oh my God.” I darted around the bar and pretended to work, despite having no idea what needed doing.
“What?” Benji was enjoying this way too much.
“I’m just saying, you left Chase’s place at what, seven?
And you’re only showing up now? That’s like—” He counted on his fingers.
“Four hours. Four hours alone at Chase’s place.
What could you possibly do for four whole hours without leaving time to change clothes or bathe or anything? ”
“We were talking,” I said weakly.
Everyone burst out laughing.
Everyone except me. I was back to dying a slow death. Death sounded like such a lovely idea right then.
“Sure,” Mark said, returning from the back with a case of beer in his arms. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Chase gives good conversation?”
“No!” Benji said. “He gives good mind!”
The old guys hooted.
“We did talk! We talked a lot!” I snatched up a towel and tossed it over my shoulder.
“And we ate leftover burgers.”
“Leftover burgers,” Jacks repeated. “That’s romantic.”
Benji’s head whipped around, utter confusion scrunching his face at our beautiful, innocent boy.
“It was. Thank you, Jacks.” I started wiping down the bar just to have something to do with my hands. “We had a nice day, okay? Can we please drop this?”
“No way,” Benji said. “This is juicy.”
Mark leaned in and whispered, “Like I bet your ass is right now.”
“Mark!” I nearly knocked the case out of his hands.
He just laughed and moved around me.
But as he passed, he dropped his next bombshell, “Now spill. Did he say it? Did you say it? Are you officially in love?”
I felt my face heat again, and that was answer enough.
“OH MY GOD!” Benji squealed. “You did! You’re in love! Finn’s in love with the hot lawyer!”
The customers around the bar applauded and cheered. The old couple hoisted their steins and drank deeply.
“Benji, please—”
“This is amazing! When did it happen? Who said it first? Was it during or after? Give me details! Oh, God, should we call Priya? Should she hear this firsthand?”
“I’m not giving you details,” I snapped. “And Priya’s at work, saving lives and shit.”
Jacks was laughing now, too. “Come on, boss. Just tell us. We’re happy for you. We just want to know how it happened.”
I looked at all three of them—Mark with his knowing smile, Benji vibrating with excitement, and Jacks looking pleased.
“He said it first,” I admitted. “After everyone left. We were cleaning up the kitchen and he just . . . said it.”
“And?” Benji prompted.
“And I said it back.”
“AHHHHH!” Benji was too loud now. “This is the most romantic thing ever! I’m crying! I’m actually crying!”
“You’re not crying.”
“I’m crying on the inside . . . where it counts most. It’s called an ingrown cry. It’s special.” He grabbed my face with both hands. “I’m so happy for you, boss. You deserve this.”
Something unexpected, something warm, spread through me. “Thanks, Benji.”
“Okay, enough emotions. Back to the important stuff,” Mark said, reaching up and freeing my face from Benji’s grasp. “How many times did you have sex? I need a number.”
“I’m not answering that!”
“We’ll settle for an orgasm count. Three? Four? Five?”
“Benji!”
“He’s not denying five,” Mark observed. “So probably five.”
“Or more,” Jacks added.
“In four hours?” Benji cocked his head. “That would be impressive for a porn star. My money’s on three.”
“I’m going to the office to cut my wrist now. Please clean up the mess before the health inspector comes next week.”
“That’s three,” Benji insisted, holding his palm out to Mark. “You owe me twenty bucks.”
“You gambled on—”
“You know we did.” Mark grinned. “But that wasn’t an answer. No payout yet, Benj, not until we know for sure.”
I was about to respond with something sarcastic when I felt it.
A shift in the bar’s atmosphere.
It wasn’t anything obvious. The music was still playing, and people were still talking and laughing; but there was something different, some ripple of energy that moved through the crowd like a wave.
I ignored my idiot friends and scanned the room.
“What?” Benji asked, following my gaze. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. Something—”
That’s when I saw them.
Three men moved through the crowd near the entrance.
The first thing I noticed was their size—all stood over six feet and were built like they were carved from marble. But it wasn’t just their physicality. They carried themselves with the kind of athletic grace that came from being very good at something—and from being used to attention.
The tallest one, the blond, was probably six-foot-six with a Nordic look that screamed Scandinavian. He said something that made his companions laugh.
Next to him was a shorter guy, maybe six-foot-one, with dark hair and Asian features. He had an open, friendly face and was already smiling at customers who seemed to recognize them.
But it was the third one who made my breath catch.
He was Jacks’s height, six-foot-two or so, with dark hair that was slightly too long, curling at the nape of his neck.
His firm jaw and broad shoulders were matched by intense dark eyes that scanned the bar with obvious appreciation.
He wasn’t just handsome; there was something commanding about him, something that made people gravitate in his direction.
And as they moved through the crowd, that’s exactly what happened.
One customer after another stopped them. Some reached out to touch their arms. Others asked for photos. A few grabbed a cocktail napkin and begged for autographs.
“Holy shit,” Mark breathed beside me.
The three men were getting closer to the bar now, the blond and the Asian stopping every few feet to take selfies with excited fans.
But the dark-haired one—he was moving with purpose toward the bar.
Toward us.
His eyes swept across the space behind the bar, taking in Mark, Benji, and me, before landing on Jacks, who had just returned with another tray of empties.
Jacks froze.
It looked as though someone had pressed “pause” on his remote control.
The dark-haired guy froze mid-step, his attention focused on Jacks. His eyes went wide, his mouth opened, and he said something to his blond teammate that I couldn’t hear.
Jacks set down his tray, his eyes never leaving the dark-haired guy. Then his eyes went wide. “Oh my God,” I heard him mutter. “That’s Skyler Shaw.”
The dark-haired guy—Skyler Shaw, apparently—was still staring but was also moving again, pushing through the crowd with more urgency, his teammates following with obvious confusion.
He reached the bar and just . . . stood there.
Staring at Jacks.
“Holy shit,” Skyler said, his voice rough. “You’re Jackson Armstrong.”
Jacks blinked. “I—what?”