Chapter Four

Saturday came with Erik still on River’s mind. It had been four days, and Erik, with his muddled olive eyes and angular smile, was still interrupting his morning yoga—coming to him at night and refusing to leave. River bit his lip so hard that it bled Thursday night in the shower, as he spun out what it might be like to peel Erik’s layers off, to watch the tightly held power of those sinuous muscles work.

It’d been a while.

“Man, c’mon,” Steve, his best friend, complained over the phone, trying to convince River to try a new bar he’d heard of through some complex social networking River wanted nothing to do with. Instagram portfolio aside, River didn’t have much use for any of it. The last time he’d looked at Facebook it had been a different year. Social media made it impossible to escape reminders of his ex, Brigid, of what remained after a shared life and social circles. Her picture and comments had popped up constantly, haunting traces winding into his heart. Unfortunately, deleting an app was about as definitive an action he could take at that time.

“I hear they have great pool tables and usually aren’t too busy to grab one,” Steve said.

“What’s it called again?”

“Gem.”

“Sounds like a dive bar.”

“Well, yeah, that’s the point.”

River couldn’t argue with that. He didn’t have the patience for the posturing required for an on-trend night out. “Fine, fine,” River said. “I’ll meet you there?”

“Awesome, definitely.”

River had to smile. Steve’s enthusiasm was generally contagious; River rarely had a bad night out with him. They’d been friends since high school, and in the nearly ten years they’d known each other, River had learned the futility of arguing with Steve when he was on a roll.

River ran the water in the shower for a bit to warm the room as he got ready. Despite the Easter-blue skies that day, the air was the kind of damp his mother always called bone cold. The kind that settled under your skin and squatted despite the mild-for-January temperatures; the kind only a hot drink or a shot of liquor chased away. In the slowly steaming mirror, River contemplated shaving. His three-day stubble did nothing to make him look older, and he wasn’t nearly impartial enough to know if it made him look lazy or a scruffy sort of attractive. As happened most days, he discarded the idea.

He checked the time once he was out of the bathroom and cursed when he saw two missed calls from his mother. He tossed the phone on his bed, pulled out a shirt, and ignored the anxious curdling in his stomach.

It wasn’t until he was in the dark backseat of the Lyft that he forced himself to listen to the first message. “Hey, honey, it’s me.” His mother’s voice was syrupy sweet, ringing the kind of false he knew meant she needed something from him. “I hate to do this in a voicemail, but I’m in a bit of a bind, and I could really use some help. I’ve been trying to reach you all week. I had to take some time off of work a few weeks ago—well, you know. Anyway, Darren said he’d have to dock my pay even though I had sick time, and now I’m just a little short on rent. I kno—” River cut her voice off mid-sentence and paused the message, sighing out a curse. Damnit. He knew the increased calls likely meant she needed something—generally something she expected him to bail her out of.

But River didn’t want to deal with it tonight—ever, really—so he deleted the voicemail and its unheard companion before pocketing his phone and resolving to call her in the morning.

…

“So, how’s the steampunk stuff coming along?” Steve asked. River and Cheyenne had started a large-scale back piece a few days ago. Thankfully, River was practiced at ignoring the itch and burn that followed ink. He laughed and met Steve in a one-armed hug, coming up on his toes to meet him halfway. Steve’s hair was shoulder-length now and up in a stubby ponytail. River tugged on it.

“We don’t say hello anymore?”

“Hi.” Steve’s laugh was always gut rich.

“So, this is the place?” From the outside, Gem was anonymous in the night. Brick, damp with just-passed rain, dark-stained reds and browns. Skinny Gothic revival windows were its only marker of interest, odd and ugly. The tiny panes were smoky. There was no name on the outside of the building. The unused door on the other end of the building looked haunted. Interesting that the space hadn’t been gobbled up by a fresh new bar or store yet.

“Yeah. It’s supposed to be kind of a cool dive place.”

“Doesn’t that qualify it as a hipster bar, man? Because you’re definitely not dressed for a dive.”

In a jewel-blue button down and dark-wash jeans, Steve made River, in an old band shirt and torn-up pants, look like a slouch, even with his favorite brown leather jacket dressing it up.

“I always gotta show up looking good, you know me.”

River shoved him playfully, wobbling when pushed back. Their laughter carried into the bar past the pull-through door.

Dim, with red carpet—who carpets a bar anymore?—and low ceilings, Gem play-acted coziness turned dingy. From what River could tell, the pinball machine in the back was ancient, the pool tables not much better. Hopefully they were even and the pool cues un-warped. Only one was unoccupied, so River made himself busy threading between randomly placed four-top tables to claim it.

“I’ll get the drinks,” Steve called. River nodded, already selecting a cue after having draped a jacket on one corner of the table. He eyed a brunette at the back of the bar, wondering if he had it in him to approach her. She threw her head back, laughing, and in that moment the dark sheen of her hair and lovely curves of her body reminded him of Brigid. His fingers curled into fists, and his heart lurched.

“You gonna piss on it next? Sit on it? I think it’s clear, man.” Steve bumped his arm with his drink. River was contemplating his fifth cue. The other four were on the table.

“No, I was just—”

“I know.” Steve picked up a cue at random. River’s skin warmed under the weight of assessing eyes in a room filled with regularity.

“Back to my original question. How’s that back piece coming?” Steve racked them up. River winced; his Moscow Mule was all vodka and a hint of ginger beer.

“Good,” River said. Pool wasn’t his strength. Really, his favorite part was being on display. River was never one for attention at work, but on a night out, he liked drawing eyes. He tugged down the hem of his shirt when he stood back up after a poorly aimed shot. “We had to cancel the last session. She just finished the first layer this time.”

River coveted Cheyenne’s work for as long as he’d been at Styx. She was well known for her photorealist and steampunk-inspired tattoos. As a rule, he only had tattoos from other artists he admired. After months of fiddling, secretive and coded questions, and more than a few requests to take his shirt off (about half of which he rolled his eyes at), he found himself in her chair.

It was different, on his back than his arm, because at least when Carl tattooed him, he’d been able to watch every layer go on. There had been a measure of control even in blind faith. Each piece River had was a measure of trust. The artists designed without his input.

Canvases, after all, only spoke in their emptiness—in their potential.

All in all, the beginning of his back piece hadn’t taken very long, a flat map of the world in solid black, one hand-width spanning a diagonal space between his scapulae. Cheyenne had layered it over a barely-there backdrop in grays that hinted at her signature style. It was nothing too complex, deep black shapes of continents with no depth. He loved it for its stark visibility and contrast. It shouted for attention.

“You gonna show me?” Steve chuckled when River missed another shot. River’s drink burned down his throat, and after a few sips, made him forget its strength.

“Not here.” River rolled his eyes. “I’m not taking my shirt off in a bar.”

“Ah, how I miss the good old days,” Steve said. River tossed the chalk at him on a laugh.

“You ready for another?” A hint of lightness touched him, rooted pleasantly in his head. “I’m buying.”

Steve drained what was left in his own glass, winced, and shook his head at it before holding it out to River.

“Ginger beer and whiskey.” Steve lined up a shot. In the hanging fluorescent light over the table, his cobalt eyes were colorless, cast in deep shadow. He missed the shot epically. “Lighter on the whiskey, though.”

Great minds. A low-slung, battered bar slid down the far wall almost to the door. Unlike the haphazard tables, it was completely occupied. River wormed his way in at the very end, next to the wall. He occupied himself during his wait by sucking on ice cubes, one by one, only biting down on them at the very end.

“How can I…”

River’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline. Holy shit, Dragon Dude.

“Erik…?”

Erik’s hands were wide on the bar rail. When he leaned in, his shoulders flexed. Here, his face was sharper than under the bright lights at Styx. His eyes more predatory. His smile a dangerous, private thing. “What brings a nice boy like you to a place like this?”

“C’mon,” River said. The pad of his finger traced the lip of his glass. “You can do better than that, can’t you? You know I’m not a nice boy.”

Erik scoffed. River wanted to rub that smirk off his lips with his thumb, to scrub it away with his lips. “Nicer than me.”

River leaned in and held his gaze, “Yeah, that might be true.”

“E, come on,” a sharp voice cut through. The other bartender, a beautiful Black woman whose compact frame managed to convey even more promise of strength, barked at him.

“Fuck. Sorry.” Erik grimaced and nodded toward River’s glasses. “Whaddya need?”

“Moscow mule, and a ginger beer and whiskey.” River pushed the empty glasses forward. He was so busy leaning over to watch Erik—and his gorgeous, tight ass—he forgot to ask him to go lighter on the liquor.

“Man, you had one job,” Steve complained after the first sip.

“Sorry.” River held his own face impassive when he drank. “Pretend you’re doing a shot?”

“I haven’t tried to chug something carbonated since I was a dumbass college kid, and I am not starting now.” Steve straightened the front of his shirt. The hem had slipped loose from his pants, one tail out, and his hair had begun to slip, strand by black strand, out of its ponytail.

“You’ve been out of college for a year. We’re twenty-two. You’ve still got a good six months before you go full grandpa on me.”

The bar rail was too crowded for River to watch Erik clearly. He was taller than most, so every now and then he would look over the row of heads in River’s direction. The third time their eyes met, Erik winked. River’s knuckles went white on his pool stick. He finished his drink in one gulp.

“I need another.” River gestured with the vaguest look in Steve’s direction.

“I’m good for now.” Steve’s question was unasked, curiosity under the words. “But say hi to the hot bartender for me.”

River grimaced around a half laugh, flipping Steve off as he went.

He found himself at the bar, waiting a bit longer for Erik. The smile River got as a reward was bigger. Not happier, exactly—but something warm that sat heavy in his stomach. He wanted more.

“Another?”

“Mmm”—River leaned in, really leaned—“but maybe not as strong.” His eyes were on Erik’s forearm, where the tattoo was healing well. Under it, the shift of muscle, beautiful. Erik’s fingers wrapped around River’s. He bit his lip, a mockery of coyness when his eyes were anything but. River caught the healing bruises and scrapes on his unwrapped hand. The butterfly bandage was no longer on his cheek. The scabbed-over slit in its place was unreadable. Would it scar? How many scars might a fighter carry? How many bruised memories lingered under his skin?

“Who’s your friend?” Erik asked. River waited patiently while Erik mixed drinks for others. He could tell just from watching that he was shit at pouring drinks. He was warm, liquor sitting deliciously in his bones and muscles.

“That’s Steve.” River looked over his shoulder. Steve leaned against the pool table, watching them. “We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

“So…not together?”

The other bartender swatted Erik on the shoulder. “Seriously, Erik, could you eye-fuck him later?”

“Damn, Desiree, really?” Tragically, Erik pulled away. “Listen.” Erik turned back to him, shutting her out. She strode off, tucking a white rag into the back pocket of her pants. “She’ll kill me if I keep this up, but maybe… Maybe you wanna hang out for a bit? We could talk.” He paused to smile, caution suddenly colliding with the confidence he’d broadcasted all night. “I’m off at one.”

River sucked on his lip and thought of the tiny pinpricks in Erik’s where he must have been pierced at one point. He imagined biting down on Erik’s lip, on his neck, leaving his own marks. There was nothing in Erik’s sharp beauty that reminded him of his ex. Instead, there was flirtation that felt like recklessness. Heady want. The kind of easy he’d walk away from with no regrets.

“Yeah,” River said. Erik’s face gentled into an expression that could be cousins with sweetness. River wondered how far he could chase that, what it might take to turn those hard edges into something soft and open. Erik walked away; he didn’t hear River’s amusement. Erik hadn’t even made his drink.

“Can I get you something to ease your thirst?” The other bartender—Desiree—came back, smiling smugly with her whipcord strong arms crossed. River had the good sense to drop his gaze when he blushed.

“Sorry about that, I’m causing a problem—”

“Naw, his dick and your pretty eyes are causing problems.”

River was helpless to the surprised laughter. She put a drink in front of him. Not only was it what he’d been drinking, but it was mixed perfectly. Thank God. Too much more and he’d go from skirting too-tipsy to drunk. Now that he had the promise of Erik in a few hours, he wasn’t interested in anything else.

He and Steve played through one more game. River couldn’t make a shot to save his life. He took Steve’s ribbing with grace and laughter.

“You leaving?” River asked. Steve slid his cue onto the rack. “What if I need a wingman?”

“Dude, you got this,” Steve said. “I gotta go home. You should stay and flirt awkwardly for a bit more.”

“Oh, fuck you, man.” River laughed. “Besides, he asked me to stay until he’s done. I don’t need to flirt anymore.”

“Seriously,” Steve said, patting his shoulder. “Never stop working it. Keep ’em on their toes.”

River snorted. Erik probably spent plenty of time fighting, poised and ready, a silent weapon cocked, on his toes. He shook his head when Steve reached for his wallet. “Don’t worry, I gotcha.” Stretching a smile around the words when he was on the loose edge of tipsy made it harder to speak.

River took his time setting the pool table to rights before heading back to the bar. He slid into a recently vacated seat. Erik’s expression sat between apologetic and amused. River shook his head slightly. He didn’t need serving, but he was enjoying the view.