Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
“So, what made you want to become a bartender?”
The off-the-cuff question knocked Iggy out of his thoughts on the past, remembering an old dare from the first boy he ever kissed, ever made out with until they both came in their jeans, to steal a bottle of vodka from his uncle’s storeroom.
The adrenaline rush of the theft, the pride in presenting the bottle to Monte, the shame of knowing he’d betrayed his uncle’s trust.
How they’d taken the station wagon to their spot on the creek and done shots while playing “Two Truth and a Lie” for hours, until they passed out. Learning things neither had ever told another soul.
“I prefer the term mixologist,” Iggy replied. He eyeballed an ounce of whiskey for each of them, still pretty easy to do even without the precision timing of a pour spout on the bottle. “Or bar chef, if you like.”
“Bar chef?” Malcolm sat in the chair opposite him, shoulders back, a new directness in his posture and expression now that they were alone. “Don’t use that word around here or you’ll get laughed out of the saloon.”
“Maybe. You’d be surprised how many men subtly flirted with me tonight.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows rose. “Who?”
“Nope.” Iggy pushed one glass toward Malcolm, amused by what he could only describe as a flash of jealousy. “What name would you give me?”
“Dunno, you don’t really match the place. Maybe if we got you a ten-gallon hat and a leather vest, we’d just call you the barkeep. Like in an Old West saloon.”
“Just don’t make me wear a six-shooter.” Iggy shrugged and swirled the dark liquid in his own glass. “I fucking hate guns.”
“A lotta people do. You’ve never had one for protection?”
Iggy glared, heat rising in his chest. “Why? Do I look like some swishy queer who can’t defend himself?
I’ve lived in big cities since I was eighteen, Monte, I know self-defense, and I own pepper spray, a Taser, and have an alarm on my keys.
” He jacked his thumb at his suitcase. “I don’t really think I need it around here. ”
Not right now; not yet. He wasn’t a skinny teenager anymore, and so far, he hadn’t gotten a cross word or menacing glare from any bullies he ought to shy away from.
But now that he knew he was staying for a while, he should probably put those items in the station wagon, if nothing else.
In case he broke down on the road between Chance and Fort Collins, and the wrong person stopped to “help.”
“Why?” Iggy asked, throwing the question back at Malcolm. “You own a gun?”
“I keep a Walther PDP under the front seat of my truck. I’ve got valuable tools in there, and I go out to some rural areas to work sometimes.”
“Then I’m glad you have protection.”
They stared at each other, the silence not so much awkward as…uncertain. Iggy wasn’t sure what to say, and he let his racing brain latch onto the first thing that zipped past. He picked up his glass and said, “Two truths and a lie?”
Malcolm’s lips twitched. “A drinking game? Do you have to work tomorrow, Mr. Donohue?”
“I told Laurel I’d be in around four, so I’ve got all morning to be hung over. If I lose. You?”
“It’s Saturday. Tommy has a little league game at one. It’s opening day for the season.”
The idea of Malcolm attending his little nephew’s baseball game was too adorable for words. “You want to go first, or should I find a coin we can flip?” Uncle Howie always kept an old tin coffee can of loose change in a cupboard by the sink.
“Hmm. Two truths and a lie, huh?” Malcolm drummed his fingers on the table once. Twice. “I’ve never been west of the Rockies. I dip pretzels in marshmallow fluff. I have a tattoo on my ass, thanks to a drunken bet I lost when I was twenty-three.”
Heat stirred in Iggy’s groin at the idea of a tattoo on Malcolm’s ass.
Heat born of both interest and jealousy.
Someone else had seen Malcolm’s bare ass?
Had been close enough to it to draw a permanent image on it?
Or was that the lie? Meant to create a reaction in Iggy?
But Malcolm had always been a straightforward guy, speaking his mind about everything except his home life. He was blunt not devious.
Seventeen years and other trauma changes people, you know that.
“The pretzels and marshmallow fluff is true, if a little freaky,” Iggy said, “because you’re the only person I know who insists on dipping hard pretzels in something. Not soft pretzels, because they are nothing without mustard, but crunchy, snacky pretzels. So that’s a truth.”
Malcolm’s face revealed nothing, but Iggy knew he was correct.
Never traveling west of the Rockies was possible. When Malcolm’s parents divorced, Iggy heard that Malcolm and his mother moved east to be closer to her folks. But the butt tattoo…as much as he wanted that to be true, for the sheer visual aesthetic…
Malcolm began humming the Jeopardy! theme.
“The lie is the tattoo,” Iggy finally said. “There’s no tattoo on your butt.”
A slow grin spread across Malcolm’s face, and Iggy knew he’d lost. “I went to Boston for my twenty-third birthday. Made a bad bet on a Celtics game, and I woke up with a shamrock tattooed on my ass.”
Iggy crossed his arms. “I’m not drinking until you prove it.”
“You want me to flash my ass at you?”
“Yes.”
“So, you refuse to believe this is the farthest west I’ve ever traveled?”
“I mean, it’s not impossible, just highly unlikely. You’ve really never gone to Seattle or San Francisco, or even Vegas?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve honestly not lived in many places besides here. Why? Have you?”
“Yes.” Iggy stared at the brown liquid in his glass, in no hurry to drink it without a mixer, but mixers were cheating in this sort of game.
“I’ve lived all over the country. I suppose I never put down roots as an adult because I never had roots at a kid.
Other than here. Okay. Fine.” He tossed back the shot.
His entire body shuddered as the liquor slid down his esophagus to warm his stomach.
Malcolm poured Iggy’s second shot, which Iggy estimated was off by a half-ounce. “Your turn.”
This game had been easier to play as teenagers, when their lived experiences were much smaller and narrower in scope.
Then again, Iggy admitted to traveling a lot, so he could make his responses as outrageous as possible just to mess with Malcolm’s head.
His adult life had been pretty nuts, at points.
“I know someone who once tried out for MasterChef and didn’t get on the show.
” Iggy worked hard not to flinch at the memory of Darren’s rejection and reaction later in their hotel room.
“I got divorced when I was twenty-nine. One of my drink recipes was stolen by a mixologist who later featured it at an expo in Aspen without giving me credit.”
“You aren’t divorced,” Malcolm said without pause.
Iggy stared. “How are you so sure?”
“Because we both agreed that marriage was a scam that led to bitterness and anger, and we each swore off ever doing it. My parents ended up in a war. Your parents enabled each other into prison sentences for drugs and violence.” Malcolm frowned.
“Unless you married for money, but that doesn’t feel like you. ”
“I’d never marry for money, I’ve made my own way.” Iggy threw back the second shot of whiskey fast so he didn’t taste it as much. Or see the smug look on Malcolm’s face. “No, I’m not divorced. Never was married, but I was semi-engaged once.”
Malcolm grunted. Was that annoyance? “Semi-engaged?”
“We made promises about a life together.” Iggy took the bottle and refilled his own glass, under-pouring a little to make up for Malcolm’s slight over-pour.
“No rings or fancy declarations, just plans and promises.” Plans and promises that Darren had made with no intention of keeping, not according to his journals.
Darren thought it would make everything hurt less for Iggy later.
“He get cold feet?” Malcolm asked.
“Something like that. Well, we’re two-zero in your favor. You’re way too sober.”
“Hey, I had some beers tonight. You’re catching up.”
“You still haven’t proven you have a tattoo on your ass.”
“You catch my next lie and I’ll do a double-shot and show you my bare ass.”
Iggy added another shot of whiskey to Malcolm’s glass. “Deal. And don’t make it easy on me.”
Malcolm gently spun his glass in a circle, the liquid inside barely sloshing up the sides, his eyes seeming to go distant.
Thinking. That quiet, contemplative look that always preceded Malcolm saying something incredibly insightful, or morbidly shocking.
Iggy had no idea what to expect tonight, after they’d both had long days, consumed alcohol, and were sharing secrets previously unknown to the other.
Not so different from two closeted teens trying to get to know each other, while hiding what they shared from the outside world. Except neither of them was in the closet anymore, and while both were tired and loose, no one was drunk on stolen vodka.
“I’ve had one surgery,” Malcolm said with zero inflection or emotion. “I’ve had two surgeries. I beat cancer over a decade ago.”
Iggy nearly sent his glass flying off the table. He didn’t want any of those three things to be true, and two of them were, which meant—“You had cancer?”
“Yep.”
“Monte.”
Malcolm shrugged but that nonchalance didn’t reach his eyes.
“When most twenty-one-year-olds are feeling run-down and losing weight, they slam a few energy drinks, eat more pizza, and power through it. One of my roommates at the time was obnoxiously pre-Med, and he used every opportunity to show off his studies. He told me if I went and got some bloodwork done, he’d cover my share of the utilities that month. ”
“So, you went.”
“To prove him wrong and save some cash on electric and internet? Yeah, I went. Turns out, he was right. I had Hodgkin Lymphoma. Early. Treatable. Did six cycles of chemo, beat the hell out of the cancer, and I still get annual PET scans, but so far so good.”