31. Lance
Lance
We’re still inside George’s truck when Marcus texts that he’s already at the bar.
Neither of us makes any attempt to move.
Mostly because I’m straddling George’s lap like I was born there, the steering wheel digging into my spine while his hands grip my waist. The windows are completely fogged, turning the bar outside into vague, glowing shapes I couldn’t care less about.
Inside his truck, the rest of the world might as well not exist. There’s just him—too close and way too fucking distracting.
He tilts his head and kisses me, his tongue sliding against mine. I moan into his mouth and grind down on him, chasing the friction, because obviously my body has zero chill left.
My phone buzzes on the dash again. I ignore it.
George pulls back just enough to mutter against my lips, “He texted again. We should go.”
“He can wait.”
“Fuck, Lance—”
“Five more minutes.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“Then I’m being consistent.” I roll my hips and watch his eyes go black. “Besides, you started this.”
His answer is to kiss me harder, one hand cupping the back of my neck, thumb pressing under my jaw to tilt my head exactly how he wants.
The kiss turns sloppy, and I’m so hard it hurts.
The way he’s breathing against my mouth like he’s barely holding himself together is doing dangerous things to my self-control.
His hands slide down my back and slip inside my jeans, palming my bare ass with a firm, possessive grip.
Then three sharp knocks hit the driver’s side window.
I bite George’s lip by accident. He lets out a very unsexy grunt. I flail sideways, elbow slamming into the horn for one long, humiliating beep. George’s head smacks the glass. I crash down hard on the center console with my full body weight.
“Fuck!” I exclaim.
We freeze.
Marcus is standing right outside, staring through the smeared condensation like he just walked in on us committing a very illegal act in public.
He tilts his head toward the bar, turns, and walks away without a word.
I look at George.
George is rubbing the back of his head, staring at me with an unreadable expression.
“Yep,” I say.
“Mm,” he says.
We get out of the truck and follow Marcus inside The Lantern.
It’s his last night in San Diego, so we’re doing the whole “normal farewell dinner” thing at this fancy bar and restaurant before his flight tomorrow.
Marcus picked the place—an upscale spot tucked into the polished hills of Bonita.
Dark wood everywhere, low warm lighting, and soft jazz playing just loud enough to feel intentionally sophisticated.
Nobody here looks like they’ve come straight from a twelve-hour hospital shift or smell like motor oil and hospital sanitizer.
It’s all clean lines and people who own multiple versions of the same watch.
Marcus is already settled at a corner table, jacket draped neatly over the back of his chair, drink in hand like he’s been emotionally preparing for this reservation for hours. What I wasn’t expecting was the full reunion committee waiting with him.
“Lance!” Brent booms the second we approach, standing up like we’re long-lost brothers in a Hallmark movie.
He’s still loud, obnoxious, sporting that same messy brown hair that refuses to lie flat no matter the decade and a blue shirt stretched across gym-built shoulders.
He and Marcus went to prep school together before Stanford Law.
Two other guys I vaguely recognize sit with them—sharp tailored shirts and posture that screams “time is money and I’m very important.”
And then, there’s Claire.
Claire with the sharp blonde bob and that unflagging, always-on charm offensive. She used to orbit our group back in the day and never quite gave up on her long-running campaign to land her friend’s younger brother.
I always told myself it was because she was part of the group. Don’t shit where you eat. Don’t complicate things. Don’t date someone you’ll still have to see at every fucking barbecue after it inevitably goes to shit. Solid theory.
The truth was simpler: we were too much alike. She could charm a room in under five minutes, and so could I. On paper, it should’ve been easy. In reality, it just made me tired.
“Lance Bradford, oh my god!” Claire’s voice is warm honey as she spots me.
Before I can even brace myself, she’s out of her seat and wrapping me in a full-body hug, her sweet perfume wrapping around me.
Her arms squeeze tight around my shoulders, and one hand lingers a little too long on my back.
It’s friendly. Too friendly. My skin goes tight with awkwardness.
I pat her back once and immediately step away the second social etiquette allows it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch George’s jaw flex hard, just once. The tension in his shoulders is subtle, but it’s there.
Marcus starts introducing everyone, mostly for George’s benefit. By the time the conversation settles, I lean slightly toward him.
“It’s nothing,” I murmur. “Old habit. She hugs everyone like that.”
George gives a short grunt.
The sound settles heavy in my chest. I shift closer under the table, keeping my voice low. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
He doesn’t respond. So I lean in even closer, sliding my hand discreetly beneath the table to brush along his inner thigh, then cup him lightly over his jeans. “Properly.”
That finally pulls the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but I’ll take the win.
George takes the same hand, squeezes it once, then stands up. “I’ll get us some drinks.”
He heads toward the bar without waiting for permission or objection, like he needs an excuse to get away.
The second he’s gone, Marcus turns his attention to me. He waits a little until Brent gets distracted talking to one of the other lawyers before speaking.
“I didn’t realize ‘friends’ now encompasses climbing into each other’s lungs, in the middle of a public parking lot,” he comments dryly. “You two were seconds away from providing the whole block free adult entertainment.”
“Marcus,” I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face.
“What? I’m phrasing this as diplomatically as I can.”
“Ha! You’re hilarious.”
“And,” he continues, lowering his voice further, “I had no idea you’re into men.”
That catches me off guard.
“Recent development,” I simply say, but I stop myself. I’m done letting it be the easy answer. “No, not recent.”
Marcus studies me for a second too long.
“Is this serious?” he asks finally. “Should I be worried that it is?”
George and I haven’t even talked about it yet, but I tell Marcus my truth.
“He’s not just some guy, Marcus,” I argue, giving him a small smile. “It’s…more.”
Obvious concern flashes fast on his face.
“You should find someone you actually want to do this kind of shit with too.” I catch myself before I get any more specific. “You know. Normal adult stuff.”
He still doesn’t look reassured. If anything, his expression darkens. I swear I see bloody murder in his eyes at the mention of “finding someone.”
George shows up again a minute later and sets my drink down in front of me without a word. I take it gratefully, already counting down the minutes until we can escape this fancy booth and I can get my hands on him somewhere private.
But we’re here for Marcus, even with the unexpected and somewhat unwanted company.
“So,” I say out loud to the rest, forcing a smile, “How was the panel?”
“Productive,” Brent declares, leaning back in his chair with that polished, slightly superior smile he wears like a second skin.
“Marcus gave a very…passionate talk on ethical boundaries in client representation. Quite the performance. Some of us felt it was perhaps a touch dramatic for the venue, but what can you do? Your brother’s so opinionated on a lot of subjects. ”
Marcus’s smile is razor-sharp. “And some of us prefer actual principles over billable hours, Brent. Wild concept, I know.”
Claire, meanwhile, is looking at me like I’m the most interesting new toy she’s seen all year. “Marcus told me you’ve been out of town! I would have loved to hang out with you. I’ve missed you, handsome.”
I laugh, trying to deflect the full weight of her attention. “Well, I’ve been sort of out of town.”
More like George has been coming into town on me so hard and often that I’ve barely had time to remember what my own bed feels like without him wrecking it.
A silent wave of gratitude passes between me and my brother.
If he hadn’t apparently convinced Claire I was spending most of my life somewhere far away, she probably would’ve spent the last week inviting me to whatever activities attractive, terrifyingly persistent women use to wear a man down.
It’s not that I’ll have trouble turning it down though.
Brent, across the table, leans in the second there’s a lull.
“Lance Bradford,” he drawls, shaking his head like the sight of me amuses him. “Still in San Diego. I keep expecting to hear you’ve finally come to your senses and have come home.”
“I have,” I say pleasantly. “That’s why I’m still in San Diego.”
A couple of polite laughs ripple around the table. Somewhere between my first and second glass, I mention George’s Gran Torino restoration project. My brother starts asking questions, sounding genuinely interested.
George walks him through where the project stands, giving more detail than he usually would to someone outside the work. Marcus nods, asks the occasional question. George answers each one straight. They’re both being polite, careful with each other.
Marcus sets his fork down and picks up his wine.
“You know,” he says, swirling his glass and looking at nothing in particular, “I respect how you built your own shop. You started with a couple bays and a lift, and transformed it into a place that not only does business but also supports the neighborhood. You invest in helping kids learn the trade and service the people who can’t afford it.
It’s noble, showing up for the community. ”
George nods once. “Thanks.”