Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BY THE TIME evening rolled around, Liam had worked himself into a tizzy. Round and round, he’d gone through the spectrum of emotions from anger to embarrassment to sadness and even compassion.
Right now, he was back to anger. “I get that he’s not ready to come out,” he muttered as he yanked the cork out of a bottle of wine. Not the same brand Tate had purchased for him. That would be sad and pathetic.
Fine. It was the same.
“I really do get it. And I respect it.” He poured a healthy glass of wine. “But for fuck’s sake, did he have to act like I was a damn leper? I was the one who suggested we go upstairs to my bed where we could have had privacy.” He gulped a large swallow of wine. “But he was all, ‘It’s too far away.’ Damn him and his hotness.”
Liam sighed and took another sip of wine.
“And now I’m talking to myself again.” As he’d done way too much that afternoon.
Just as he was about to pull a box of cereal from his cabinet, a heavy knock came at the back door.
He stared at it, knowing full well who’d come to see him.
Was he ready for this? Was he willing to listen to Tate’s apology?
If he didn’t, he’d spend the entire night awake, staring at the ceiling as he wondered what thoughts were going through Tate’s head. He’d also worry whether Tate was okay and if Randy suspected anything, which pissed him off. Why the hell should he be worried about someone who obviously didn’t give a shit about him?
Good. This was the energy he needed to have when faced with Tate. He shook out his arms and legs, then marched toward the door leading to the itty-bitty balcony behind his apartment.
He yanked the door open, prepared to blast the man, only to freeze. Tate stood there holding a giant bouquet of beautiful wildflowers. Had a man ever brought him flowers? It didn’t take more than one second to think back through the men he dated and come up with the answer. A big, fat no.
The gorgeous bouquet wasn’t enough to distract from the man who looked like shit. Bits of grout and dust covered his white T-shirt and work jeans. He even had some in his disheveled hair, but it was the devastation and self-hatred on his face that had Liam’s anger melting away.
Dammit .
“I fucked up,” Tate blurted.
Liam didn’t say anything.
“These are for you.” Tate thrust the flowers into Liam’s hands. “I didn’t know what kind you like or if you even like flowers, but the lady at the store said this was a good idea because it had a bunch of different flowers. Something for everyone, I think she said. She also said it should match well with whatever your house looks like. If you hate them, I can, I don’t know, give them to my mom or something.”
Holy crap, a nervous, bumbling Tate was adorable. There he stood, filthy from work, tall, gruff, and completely out of his element. The flowers were charming, but the awkward speech was what had him saying, “Come on in.”
He stepped back to allow Tate into the apartment. They stared at each other for a moment, tension thick until Tate’s gaze fell to his knees again. “I’m so sorry. Is it bad?”
Shaking his head, Liam said, “Just some deep scrapes. It doesn’t feel good, but it’s nothing major. Though I won’t be on my knees giving blow jobs for a bit.” He chuckled at his dumb attempt to break the tension, but Tate didn’t laugh.
“I panicked,” he said.
“I know.”
“Yeah.” Tate ran a hand through his hair. “I’m really fucking sorry.”
There wasn’t a doubt in Liam’s mind that he meant the words.
“I know that too.” The urge to reach out and hug Tate was strong, but he sensed there was more the man wanted to say, so he stayed where he was and waited.
“I—” He shoved his hands in his pockets, probably to keep them out of his hair. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m freaked out all the fucking time. Not just for myself, though. I’m worried about what will happen to you if Randy sees us together.”
Liam knew exactly what could happen to someone who wasn’t accepted in this town. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugged. “I like you, Liam. A lot.”
Oh, this man.
“Can I hug you?” Liam set the flowers on the table and stepped closer to Tate, who nodded.
“Yeah.”
He wrapped his arms around the bigger man and held tight. Tate’s rigidity lasted another two seconds before he melted into Liam’s embrace, burying his face in his neck. A long, shuddered sigh left the tortured man.
They stayed that way for a while, holding each other by the door. When Tate finally loosened his clasp, Liam did the same and stepped back. “Maybe next time we try for a little exhibitionism,” he said in another attempt at humor. “ I’m the one who should fuck you against the wall. Less risk of bodily injury.”
Tate froze.
Shit, too soon?
“I don’t do that,” he said, voice devoid of emotion.
Liam winced. He shouldn’t have assumed anything. Just because he was vers didn’t mean everyone enjoyed it both ways. “Sorry, I—”
“It’s too—” Tate said at the same time.
Wait one second. Liam tilted his head. “Too what?”
With the expression of somebody caught in a trap, Tate shook his head. “Never mind.”
Oh, hell no. He was not about to say what Liam thought he was about to say. “Too what, Tate?” he asked, jamming his sore hands on his hips. “Too gay? Is that what you were gonna say?”
“What? No, I—” He sputtered as his face paled.
Well, now Liam was pissed. It was one thing for Tate to keep his truth from the rest of the world, but to lie to himself and Liam after all they’d done together? That was unacceptable.
“Newsflash, buddy,” he said, stepping into Tate’s personal space. “You are gay.”
The man’s face went from pale to sickly gray. “No, I’m… I… no…”
“No?” Liam threw his hands up, stalked away, then came back. “You know what? My bad. I know better than to label someone’s sexuality without their input. So gay isn’t the right word. How about bi? Pan? Which one is it, Tate?”
Later he’d feel the hot sting of shame for pressing Tate to label himself when he might not even know for sure, but right then, Liam was too damn mad to think rationally.
“You know what? It doesn’t even fucking matter. The word you want right now is queer. Because all the others fall under that umbrella. You are queer, Tate, and you have as much of a fucking problem with that as your dipshit brother and his stupid friends have.” He was shouting now, waving his arms like a madman as Tate stood there and took it, looking like he might get sick on the floor.
“Here are some words for you, Tate. Internalized homophobia.” The confusion on Tate’s face told Liam what he already knew—it wasn’t a concept with which the other man was familiar. “Now get the hell out of my apartment and go look it up.” His chest heaved as he breathed as though he’d just run through a grueling rehearsal.
Instead of leaving, Tate said, “I’m not lucky like you, Luxe.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He winced. “You’ve never had to live with this fear. You’ve never seen the viciousness of hateful people like I have. You have no idea how cruel life can be.”
Laughing an ugly sound, Liam said, “You don’t know a goddamn thing about what I’ve seen and lived with, Tate. You want to talk fear? You want to talk hate? How about this? When I was fifteen years old, I joined a traveling dance company for the summer. I spent those months performing at state fairs all over the country. Or I did until I came to Swan, Oklahoma. After our performance at the state fair not two miles up the damn road, I was jumped by some bigot who got his rocks off beating on the little fairy dancer kid.”
Tate gasped and stumbled back until he bumped the door. “No,” he whispered, face like he’d seen a ghost. “You’re… him?”
“Him? You heard about that? Yeah, I’m him. They broke my shoulder and busted my ribs. I was covered in deep, painful bruises. I couldn’t dance for months. You have no idea how hard it was to get back to where I was in time for college auditions. You have no idea how much therapy it took to make the nightmares go away. So don’t you dare tell me I don’t know fear, and I don’t know hatred.” He jabbed a finger into his own chest, practically hyperventilating as he finished screaming the words at Tate.
“Why?” Tate whispered.
Liam knew exactly what he was asking. “I’m here to prove to myself and the fucking world that I am stronger than the hatred. I am here to show these backward assholes that anyone who wants to dance deserves to, regardless of their gender, ethnicity, or sexuality. And fuck anyone who gets in my way.”
Tate’s big body was shaking as he turned. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, scrambling to open the door. “I can’t. It’s too much. I’m sorry.” He bolted outside. His footsteps pounding down the stairs faded as the door slammed closed behind him.
Liam stood there, shoulders slumped, breathing hard as regret washed over him. “Shit,” he whispered, then ran to the door, but when he reached it, he couldn’t get himself to open it. Instead, he rested his forearms against the wood and screamed at the top of his lungs.
Memories of the pain and fear bombarded him from all angles. The frustration of fighting an uphill battle to regain his dance skills. The shock and disappointment of his family and friends when he told them where he wanted to move.
He turned until his back met the wall, then slid down. When he hit the floor, he tugged his knees into his chest, wincing as the abraded skin stretched.
He’d handled that so poorly. Screamed at the man who was only trying to prevent himself from meeting the same fate Liam had. It was then he realized something that had him burying his face against his knees and sobbing.
He was the only person in the world who knew Tate’s secret. The only person Tate trusted to know him without judgment. And he’d just thrown everything Tate told him back in his face as though it didn’t matter.
It mattered.
Tate mattered to him.
Maybe more than anyone else.
Why did that make the pain in his chest hurt so much more than the pain in his knees?