Chapter Two
Maurice
Maurice walked out of the courthouse riding the high of a clean win—one of those cases that reminded him why he loved the fight.
His shoulders finally loosened as he slid into his red sports car, the leather still warm from the sun.
Dinner with David sounded perfect. He could already taste chips, salsa, and the first sip of something cold.
Cozy Cactus sat on the south side of Charlottesville, tucked between a bakery and a tattoo shop, its neon cactus sign buzzing faintly in the early evening light.
Inside, the place smelled like warm tortillas, grilled peppers, and lime.
Strings of papel picado hung from the ceiling, and the booths were upholstered in bright turquoise vinyl that squeaked when you slid in.
It was loud enough to feel alive but not so loud he couldn’t hear himself think.
He spotted David immediately—of course he did.
The man always drew the eye without trying.
He was in their usual booth, a margarita sweating on the table in front of him.
Sun-kissed skin, sharp blue eyes, blond hair falling in those loose waves that looked like he’d just rolled out of bed in a very attractive way. The beard didn’t hurt either.
A grin tugged at Maurice’s mouth. Show-off. He probably didn’t even know he looked like that.
David stood the second he saw him, arms already open. “There he is! The man of the hour.”
Maurice laughed as they hugged, David squeezing him like it had been months instead of a week. “You act like I’ve been deployed overseas.”
“Winning a big case counts,” David said, pulling back with a proud smirk. “Sit. Drink. Tell me everything.”
Maurice slid into the booth, the vinyl giving its usual squeak, and let himself relax. Good food, good company, and the buzz of victory still warm in his chest—yeah, this was exactly where he wanted to be.
Maurice ordered a margarita the second the server reached their table—salted rim, extra lime. He needed something cold to take the edge off the day and, honestly, the nerves he hadn’t admitted to yet.
“So,” he said, leaning back in the booth, “what have you planned for our vacation?”
David grinned like he’d been waiting for that question. “We leave Saturday morning. I’ve got our tickets for the Pride Express.” He slid a ticket across the table with a little flourish.
Maurice picked it up, turning it over in his hand. An entire week on a Pride Train. With… a lot of gay men. More than he’d ever been around at once. His stomach did a weird flip—half excitement, half what the hell am I getting into?
“What do we even do on the Pride Express? And where are we going?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“It’s a train ride across the country,” David said, sipping his margarita. “We stop to pick up guys from sixteen states. It ends in San Francisco. Three days of Pride events there, then we fly home.”
Maurice blinked. “Wow. I’ve never done anything Pride related.”
David gave him a look—the kind that said exactly. “That’s why I picked it. You need to feel more comfortable around other gay men. And it wouldn’t hurt if you met Mr. Right.”
Maurice laughed, but it came out softer than he meant. “Mr. Right. Sure. Because he’s just waiting for me on a train.”
“You never know,” David said. “Stranger things have happened.”
Maurice took a long sip of his drink. The tequila burned pleasantly, but it didn’t quiet the thoughts spinning in his head.
A whole week surrounded by queer men who weren’t half-drunk in a club. Men who talked, laughed, flirted in daylight. Men who might actually want something real.
Maurice swirled the salt on the rim of his margarita glass with his thumb, the tang of lime hitting his nose a little too sharply.
It reminded him of that night behind the club in Richmond; he’d pushed a younger guy with citrus-scented cologne against a brick wall and kissed him like they were both starving.
Hot, fast, forgettable. The kind of thing Maurice pretended didn’t bother him. But it did. More than he ever said.
He cleared his throat. “What if I don’t fit in?”
David looked up from the menu, tilting his head. “Maurice. You’re gay. You fit in by default.”
Maurice laughed. “Yeah, but I’ve never been around all that. Not for more than a few hours at a club.” He didn’t say not without his hands on a stranger in the dark, but the memory lingered.
“That’s the point.” David leaned back as if he’d been waiting for this opening. “You deserve more than hookups and work and pretending you’re fine.”
Maurice glanced down at the Pride Express ticket again. The colors were obnoxiously bright, as if they were daring him to look away. A whole week surrounded by gay men laughing, flirting, and existing out loud. It was just too overwhelming. Too exposed. And yet something in him tugged toward it.
“Guess I’m going to Pride.” He aimed for a joke. It landed crooked, but David grinned anyway.
David clinked his glass against Maurice’s. “Damn right you are.”
Maurice squeezed a lime wedge into his margarita and took a sip while David flagged down the server.
The place smelled like sizzling peppers and onions, and the air was warm from the fajita skillets being carried past their booth every few minutes.
When the server came back, they both ordered chicken fajitas—extra tortillas for David, extra guacamole for Maurice.
David wiped salsa off his thumb and tossed out there like it was nothing, “Oh—by the way. There’s a Meet-a-Daddy Party on the train.”
Maurice paused mid-bite. “A what now?”
David’s grin went sly; the same one he’d used in college whenever he was about to stir trouble. “You heard me. Theme night. Lots of boys looking for… guidance.”
Maurice snorted. “Guidance. Right. That’s what we’re calling it these days?”
“Call it whatever you want,” David said, shrugging. “Point is, you might meet someone who actually likes your bossy streak.”
“I don’t have a bossy streak.”
David gave him a look that said please. “Right. And I don’t alphabetize my spice rack.”
Maurice rolled his eyes, but didn’t show the comment hit a nerve.
Liam had liked that vibe. Liam had called him Daddy Dubois with a grin that made Maurice feel ten feet tall.
Rules, consequences, structure—Liam had wanted all of it, and Maurice had given it freely.
That relationship had been the closest thing to real he’d ever had. And he missed it more than he admitted.
Maurice cleared his throat. “Even if I did meet someone, he’d probably live three states away.”
“Long distance isn’t fatal,” David said lightly. “People move. People adjust.” He took a sip of his drink, too casual to be casual. “You’ve got the space.”
Maurice raised a brow. “You trying to set me up or get me to adopt someone?”
“Just saying,” David murmured, tapping his glass. “You’ve always had that caretaker thing. Some guys like that.”
Maurice leaned his elbows on the table, trying to steer himself back to safer ground. “Uh-huh. Well, before I go collecting strays, what am I supposed to pack? I don’t own anything rainbow except that tie someone gave me as a joke.”
David grinned. “Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”
Maurice wasn’t sure if he meant the tie or the Meet-a-Daddy Party. And David didn’t clarify—he never did when he wanted Maurice thinking about something later.
David laughed, shaking his head. “You don’t need rainbow everything. Just bring stuff that makes you feel good. Shorts, tanks, maybe something fun for the parties.”
Maurice raised a brow. “Parties? You didn’t mention parties.”
“It’s Pride, Maurice. There are always parties.”
Maurice groaned and rubbed his forehead. “I’m going to look like a lawyer who got lost on the wrong train.”
“You are a lawyer who got lost on the wrong train,” David said, grinning. “But you’ll be fine.”
Maurice nudged him under the table with his foot. “You know, you could use a boyfriend yourself.”
David’s smile faded into something smaller, more careful. He shifted in his seat, tapping a slow pattern into the condensation on his glass—the same nervous tic he’d had since college finals week. “I know. And… there’s something else I need to tell you.”
Maurice set his margarita down, the ice clinking. “What’s going on?”
“I got fired.”
For a second, Maurice thought he’d misheard. “From the firm or a case?”
“The firm.”
The server dropped a skillet of fajitas between them, the sizzle loud enough to turn a few heads. Maurice barely glanced at it. “Then come work at my firm. Easy.”
David didn’t reach for a tortilla. He just watched him, eyes steady in that way that always meant slow down, you’re missing something. “Don’t you want to know why they fired me first?”
Maurice shrugged, too quick. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve wanted you at my firm forever.”
David let out a breath—not quite relief, not quite agreement. “They wanted me to take the Brown case. I told them it was an ethical conflict. He fired me on the spot.”
Maurice scoffed. “Of course he did. That case is a disaster. You know the Browns. I know the Browns. No one with sense touches it.”
“I know,” David whispered. “But I couldn’t prove the conflict. And… you and I share the same values. That’s why I didn’t take it.”
Maurice finally reached for a tortilla, mostly to keep his hands busy. He piled on peppers and chicken without really seeing them. “So come to my firm. We’ll figure it out.”
David hesitated, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. “Would you still want me there if it… complicates things?”
Maurice looked up. David wasn’t talking about HR policies.
He was talking about the years between them—the late-night study sessions, the road trips, the way they still fell into old rhythms without trying.
The kind of friendship that didn’t break easily but could bend in weird ways if they weren’t careful.
Maurice gave him a small, crooked smile. “I’ll send you the contract. Read it. Sign it if it works for you. And whatever happens at the firm? It won’t touch us.”
David’s shoulders eased, but not all the way. “Okay.”
Maurice lifted his margarita and tapped it gently against David’s. “Good. Now eat. You’re gonna need your strength for this Pride Train you’re dragging me onto.”
David laughed, but the sound had an edge like he was still thinking about the job, about them, and about the line they were about to blur. Maurice felt it too, sitting there between the sizzling fajitas and the bright Pride ticket tucked under David’s phone.
A celebration, sure. But with a shadow curled around the edges.