Chapter 9
Riley
The Rusty Anchor is exactly the kind of place I’d never choose myself.
Dark wood paneling absorbs what little light manages to penetrate the windows, the air thick with beer and testosterone, and a crowd that looks like they could bench press me while discussing the finer points of ladder truck operation.
Leave it to Bobby to drag me here on my one free Friday night, claiming we need “brotherly bonding” when I can see his real motive eyeing the firefighters scattered across the room, their station t-shirts stretched tight across broad shoulders.
My brother grins, unashamed, and takes a sip of his overly complicated cocktail: blue with multiple garnishes that looks wildly out of place among the beer bottles and whiskey glasses populating other tables.
“What?” He widens his eyes innocently. “The drinks are good. And the bartender is hot.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling. Bobby’s never been one to hide his intentions, and I’ve always appreciated his honesty, even when it comes wrapped in flamboyance and overpriced accessories.
The bartender appears in front of us, all dark hair and lean muscle beneath a fitted black t-shirt. The name tag pinned to his chest reads “River.” He moves with quiet grace as he wipes down the bar in front of us.
“You gentlemen good with these?” River asks, his eyes tracking everything in the bar even as he focuses on us.
“I could go another round,” Bobby replies, his voice dropping into the flirtatious purr he reserves for attractive men.
“Same for me,” I add.
River’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “Coming right up.” He moves to make the drinks, returning a moment later to slide my whiskey across the bar top before starting to mix Bobby a new blue concoction.
My gaze drifts to the small rainbow flag pinned beside the liquor shelf behind him, next to a sign that reads “All Are Welcome Here.” “Nice to see that,” I say, nodding toward it.
River follows my gaze and smiles, genuine warmth replacing his professional politeness. “It’s important.” His eyes flick briefly toward the Station 13 table before returning to Bobby’s drink. “Everyone deserves a place where they can just be themselves.”
“Amen to that,” Bobby says, raising his nearly empty glass.
River sets the finished blue concoction in front of Bobby with a slight nod. “Enjoy, gentlemen.”
With that, he moves off to serve other customers, and I turn back to Bobby, who’s watching River’s retreat with undisguised appreciation.
“So,” I begin, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. The question has been sitting in my throat ever since… well, since Jacob. “Can I ask you something personal?”
Bobby’s eyebrows shoot up. “Personal as in my sex life? Because there are some things even brothers shouldn’t share.”
“No, not that specific.” I take a sip. “More like… when did you know? That you liked men?”
Bobby stares at me for a moment, his expression shifting from surprise to thoughtfulness.
“I always knew,” he says finally. “There wasn’t some big revelation moment.
I just… never felt anything for girls. Not the way my friends talked about them.
” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Why are you asking me this now? You never asked before.”
I shrug. “Just curious.”
“Bullshit.” Bobby leans forward, his voice dropping despite the noise in the bar. “You’ve known I was gay since I was like, twelve. Mom and Dad knew too. You all just waited for me to say it.”
“And we were right to do that.”
“You were,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t explain why, after ten-plus years of not talking about it, you’re suddenly interested in my sexual awakening.” His eyes widen suddenly. “Holy shit. Is this about you and that fighter? The mountain man who was in your office?”
Heat crawls up my neck, and I know I’m turning the same shade of red that betrays me in every emotionally charged situation. “No. It’s not about Jacob.”
“Jacob, is it?” Bobby’s grin is wolfish. “First-name basis. Interesting.”
“He’s a patient.” I take a bigger swallow of whiskey.
“A patient who had you turning bright red when I made that comment about you trying it with a man.” Bobby’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Oh my god, did something happen between you two? Did you finally—”
“Can we change the subject?” I cut him off, desperate to stop whatever he’s about to say.
“What the hell are these things, anyway?” I point to the collection of bizarre little creatures hanging from his leather backpack—oddly shaped, vaguely demonic-looking plush keychains that seem to multiply every time I see him.
Bobby gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I’m doing but will allow the subject change. For now.
“They’re not ‘things,’ Riley. They’re Labubus.” He detaches one from his bag and sets it on the bar—a green monstrosity with oversized eyes and fangs. “This one’s called Ququ.”
“Uh-huh.” I poke at it skeptically. “And what exactly is a Labubu?”
Bobby sighs dramatically. “They’re collectible toys. They’re designed by this amazing artist from Hong Kong. Each one has a different personality and story.” He picks up the green creature, stroking its head with his thumb. “They’re valuable.”
I stare at the thing. It’s ugly as sin, all bulging eyes and pointy teeth. “If you say so. To me, it looks like something that would eat your soul while you sleep.”
“Take that back!” Bobby clutches the Labubu to his chest in mock horror. “Don’t listen to him, Ququ. He’s a grumpy old man who has no idea—”
He stops mid-sentence as a man with a mop of golden curls and huge blue eyes approaches the bar beside us. The guy can’t be more than twenty-five, with the kind of boyish good looks that make people do double-takes. He flags down River with easy familiarity.
“Cain!” River calls over. “What’s up?”
“Another round for the table,” the man—Cain—says, gesturing to the Station 13 group.
Bobby smoothly shifts his body toward Cain, deploying his most charming smile. “Are you celebrating anything?”
Cain turns, taking in Bobby with a quick glance. “It’s the end of the shift, and we’re all alive. That’s always worth celebrating in our line of work.” He grins, and it transforms his already handsome face into something almost too bright to look at directly.
“I’ll drink to that.” Bobby raises his blue concoction. “I’m Bobby, by the way. This is my brother, Riley.”
I nod a greeting, watching my brother work. Bobby’s flirting is an art form—subtle enough to be friendly if the interest isn’t reciprocated, but clear enough for those who want to pick up what he’s putting down.
“Cain Dawson.” He extends a hand, which Bobby takes immediately. “Pleasure to meet you both.”
Bobby doesn’t release Cain’s hand right away. “The pleasure’s all mine. Are you here alone, or…?”
Cain laughs, a warm sound that carries even over the bar noise. He gently extracts his hand from Bobby’s grip and holds it up, displaying a simple band on his ring finger. “Not alone, and not available. Sorry, babe.”
“Tragic,” Bobby sighs, but his smile doesn’t falter. He gestures toward the firefighter table. “So which one is the lucky man?”
“The one with dark hair at the end of the table,” Cain says, looking back at the man with a dreamy expression on his face.
I follow his gaze to find a muscled, imposing guy in his late thirties with a strong jawline and evening stubble that gives him a ruggedly handsome look.
Bobby clutches his chest in mock despair. “All the good ones are taken.” His eyes scan the table again. “What about those two? The tall one with the dark hair and his friend?”
Cain follows his gaze and laughs. “Sullivan and Martinez? They do like guys… so much that they’re dating each other.” He leans in closer. “And before you ask, they don’t like to share.”
“Bummer,” Bobby says with a theatrical pout. “They’re hot together though.”
“Oh, they definitely are,” Cain confirms with a smile.
Bobby’s gaze shifts to another firefighter sitting slightly apart from the group, nursing a beer. He’s wearing glasses and has a more reserved demeanor than the others. “What about him? The hot nerd with the glasses?”
“That’s Eddie Morgan,” Cain shrugs. “But he’s straight.”
“Are you sure?” Bobby squints. “My gaydar is pinging.”
“Pretty sure.” Cain’s order arrives: a tray of beers and two whiskeys. He hoists it with practiced ease. “But you’re welcome to try your luck. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He winks and returns to his table, where he’s greeted with cheers as he distributes the drinks. I turn back to Bobby, who’s still watching the firefighters with undisguised interest.
“You’re incorrigible,” I tell him.
“I prefer ‘opportunistic,’” he corrects with a grin, turning his attention back to me.
I shake my head, amused despite myself. “So, your online business. How’s that going?”
Bobby takes a long sip of his drink. “OnlyFriends? It’s going well. Really well, actually. The subscriber count keeps climbing.” He twirls the straw in his blue monstrosity. “But I’m looking to collab with someone. Solo content gets repetitive after a while, you know? Viewers want variety.”
I hold up a hand quickly. “That’s about as much detail as I need, thanks.”
Bobby rolls his eyes. “You’re such a prude. It’s not like I’m making porn.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Okay, fine, it’s a little porny,” he admits. “But it’s tasteful. Artistic, even.”
“I’m sure it is.” I drain the last of my whiskey, the alcohol warming my chest. “I need to hit the bathroom. Be right back.”
I slip off the barstool and navigate through the crowd, finding the hallway that leads to the restrooms. As I wash my hands afterward, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
I look tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from more than just long hours at the hospital.
There’s something else there too. A restlessness in my eyes that wasn’t there before.
Before Jacob.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memory of his body under my hands. The way he responded to my touch. The sounds he made. The look in his eyes when he came undone.
We parted amicably last night, though the awkwardness was thick enough to cut with a scalpel.
Neither of us mentioned what happened on the bench.
I focused on his shoulder, explained the therapy plan going forward, and we agreed I’d come to the Knockout gym next week to watch him train. Professional. Clinical.
Except nothing about it feels professional or clinical anymore. Not the way my heart races when I think about seeing him again, or how I’ve caught myself wondering what his lips would feel like against mine.
I’m not gay. At least, I never thought I was. But Jacob has cracked open something in me that I didn’t know existed, and I have no idea what to do about it.
Shaking these thoughts away, I dry my hands and head back to the bar.
As I approach, I see Bobby chatting with the firefighter he’d pointed out to Cain earlier, the one with the glasses.
They appear to be exchanging information, Bobby typing something into his phone.
The firefighter says something that makes my brother grin, then notices me approaching and gives a quick nod of thanks to Bobby before rejoining his crew.
I slide back onto my stool, eyebrows raised in question.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Bobby says, slipping his phone into his pocket. “It’s not what you think.”
“So you didn’t just convert a straight guy in the ten minutes I was gone?”
Bobby sighs dramatically. “I wish. He was asking about the Labubus. Wanted to know where to get one for his niece.” He shrugs. “I gave him my number in case he has questions. Strictly professional Labubu consulting.”
“Uh-huh.” I smirk. “And the fact that he’s exactly your type had nothing to do with it?”
“He’s everyone’s type,” Bobby counters. “But sadly, like Cain said, straight as an arrow. I tried my signature charm on him, but it didn’t work.”
“Which naturally means a person is straight.”
“Naturally,” Bobby says, ignoring my sarcasm. He finishes his drink and stands. “I’m bored. Let’s go somewhere else. There’s a new club downtown I want to check out.”
I follow him out of the Rusty Anchor, the cool night air a welcome relief after the warmth of the bar.
As we walk toward Bobby’s car, my thoughts drift back to Jacob.
Is he at the gym tonight, pushing his body past its limits?
Is he at home, alone in that sparse apartment? Is he thinking about me at all?
I shake my head, trying to clear it. This isn’t me. I don’t obsess over patients. I don’t cross ethical boundaries. And I definitely don’t spend my Friday nights wondering what a man I barely know is doing.
But as Bobby chatters beside me about the club we’re heading to, all I can think about is Jacob’s face when I touched him. And how much I want to see it again.