Ira wiped down a dirty table, then grabbed the bus tub and took it back to the dish pit. The new dishwasher, Aaron, was washing them as fast as he could, but they were getting close to running out of plates. The baker Sara’d hired was bringing in almost more customers than they could handle. Sara must be happy, but they needed more help. Or better help.
He liked working at the Booking Room, for the most part. It paid the bills, and he’d met some interesting people, plus it gave him time to do other things if he wanted. He’d never thought he was cut out for customer service, but Sara didn’t mind his occasional lapse in manners—in fact, she thought there were people who came in hoping to see him cut somebody down to size. Mostly he was being himself, a New Yorker, not a fake nicey-nicey West Coastie. Not entirely fair to his West Coast friends, Ira knew.
Sara also kept trying to promote him to manager. Ira had rolled his eyes the first time she mentioned the idea. She was in the midst of opening another store on the other end of town and wanted him to take over this spot. Ira’d told her he’d think about it. It wasn’t the hours or the pay; she was generous, and the Booking Room was successful. It was the fact that it would raise his profile. And he would have less time to paint. Not that he’d painted much of anything since moving.
He’d been in Skagit two years, schlepping coffee, staring at blank canvases, and riding his bike. He didn’t want to commit to being an upstanding member of Skagit society. He flat-out refused to attend any Chamber of Commerce meetings; he’d told Sara that.
The door chimed, and Ira looked up from his musing to see a crowd of regulars come in. No surprise, all were cops. The shop was located directly across from the SkPD station.
“Guys.” Ira nodded at the group.
“Ira!”
“The usual?”
“Yep, all around, it’s my turn to buy.” Inga Strickland was, secretly, one of Ira’s favorite customers. She was polite, always tipped, cleaned up after herself, and was tough as nails. A lot of these guys acted like they were raised by wolves. And that was giving wolves a bad rep.
Ira mused, as he had many times, that his job wasn’t much different from Cameron’s. Cam of the golden-brown hair and deep amber eyes. Cam who was so off-limits that Ira shouldn’t even be thinking his name. Too young, too smart, too quick to find Ira’s weak spots. Ira’d had a moment of vulnerability, and they’d a freakishly pleasant weekend together, but he hadn’t let it continue.
And yeah, Ira couldn’t keep himself from going to the Loft, where Cam worked, but at least he hadn’t gone home with him again. He was calling that a win.
The door burst open again. Ira glanced over. Shit, it was the kid from the other night. Ira should have known better, but Ira’d wanted company and the kid had made himself very available. Too late, Ira realized he had starry eyes and “Boyfriend” practically tattooed on his forehead.
“Hey, Ira.” The kid had his hips cocked in what he probably thought was a cute pose. At the Loft, Ira’d thought he was thirtyish. In daylight he was adjusting that estimate down to barely twenty-one and cursing himself. Ira liked younger men. He enjoyed the enthusiasm, in bed and out, and their worldviews—so different from the scary, AIDS-dominated world that had colored Ira’s childhood. The problem was not that they were too young but that Ira was too old.
Ira searched his memory. They’d gone to the kid’s apartment and had sex. Ira had left despite the kid’s invitation to stay. He couldn’t remember his name. Kevin? Shaun? No. Colin?
He finished cleaning another table, then made his way to the front counter to help make drinks and dole out pastries. “Did you need something?” he asked Cary—he was sure of it—on his way by.
Cary’s pale complexion flushed a rosy pink. “Oh, uh, not really.” Ira could see him scrambling to come up with an excuse for having stopped by. “I was just in the neighborhood.”
Ira walked behind the counter, where the counter kid was staring at the influx of newcomers. “Sebastian, you want to make drinks or take their money?”
“Uh,” Sebastian stared at Ira through the thick lenses of his glasses, stalling out. Ira watched as Cary left without ordering anything. Wonderful, his reputation as a complete and utter asshole was untarnished.
“I’ll do drinks,” Ira said and pushed past Sebastian to get to the machine.
Ira should’ve asked Sara for the day off, but he’d hoped an extra shift would keep him distracted, and anyway he had a few days ahead of him to brood. Nothing would distract Ira from the fact that this was the month his father was murdered more than twenty years ago, and it was two years since his life fell apart a second time. Two years since he’d talked to any of his remaining family. To Jacob.
The squeal of the steam wand and hiss of the heads as hot water was forced through the portafilters lulled Ira into a kind of calm. He made a bunch of espresso drinks, chatting mindlessly with the uniformed cops who were waiting for their caffeine.
A familiar voice insinuated itself into his hard-won serenity. Ira had to force himself not to turn toward the sound of Cameron McCulloch ordering a drink. Cameron was at the end of the line, nodding and saying hi to the cop waiting in front of him. Ira snuck a look to see if he was with anyone. Cam waited, rocking back on his heels with his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, not talking to anyone else. On his own, then.
As he often did, Cam wore his long hair tied back in a messy knot. Ira supposed it was a man bun or whatever, but on Cameron it was natural and incredibly sexy. Cameron had an air of friendliness, which probably came from being a bartender, or maybe it was his innately sweet personality. But he also had a sadness around him, an invisible cloak giving him a shadow. He hid it well, but Ira recognized it. Was afraid to learn more about it, knowing that the more he knew, the harder it would be to keep him at arm’s length.
Cameron saw Ira glance over at him but didn’t crack a smile. He acted like they didn’t know each other. Yep, Ira was an asshole and a hypocrite. And maybe he didn’t have to worry about keeping Cam at arm’s length anymore. For reasons he didn’t want to examine, he found the thought unsettling.
Cam claimed his Americano, muttering a terse “Thanks.” Then he went and sat at the farthest open table from the front. Ira went back to what he was doing, but he had Cameron radar. He knew exactly where Cameron was in the room and exactly when another man came and sat down at his table.
Ira felt anger rise inside him, hot and heavy. Cameron greeted the stranger with obvious pleasure, shaking hands before the other man pulled him into a hug. Was it unreasonable to expect that Cameron wouldn’t meet dates where Ira worked?
Hypocrite much?
The line was steady, and Ira spent the next hour with his head down making coffees as quickly as he could. He knew when Cameron and his friend left and forced himself to focus on what he was doing, to not look up and watch the two of them leave together. He was the one who didn’t want anything, who’d seen the compassion and caring in Cameron’s eyes. He was the one who was broken and would make a nice guy like Cameron miserable in the long run.
Much later, after his extra-long shift at the Booking Room drew to a close, Ira half-heartedly tried to convince himself not to go to the Loft for a drink. It was Friday though, and he had the next few days free. Cameron had shown up at his work; no reason he couldn’t go to Cameron’s.
Tomorrow he would quit showing up at the Loft. Stop thinking about Cameron McCulloch and the weekend they’d spent together. God. Ira was such a shit. Yeah, and tomorrow he’d get his act together enough to pick up a paintbrush, instead of picking up college kids, and actually do something with it.
The weekend together had been incredible. Ira’d been relaxed, happy, comfortable with himself for the first time in years. He’d enjoyed the sex, of course, but he’d also soaked up the conversation, small touches, and Cameron’s genuine, caring personality. They’d watched stupid TV shows and compared music playlists. Ira’d teased Cameron about his ratty collection of Jane Austen novels until Cameron had pulled one from the shelf and started reading aloud to him. Jane Austen was forever going to be on Ira’s top ten.
They’d snuck out for food when Cameron’s small refrigerator was bare. After a couple rounds in the sack they’d both been ravenous. Pretending the weekend could turn into more had been far too easy for Ira. Which is why he’d ended it before it went too far. Ira was damaged goods. Somehow Cameron would learn the truth about him. If he let Cameron in, Ira didn’t think he could knit himself back together after he left.
Those two magical days had been a vacation from the unadulterated fuckery that was Ira’s real life. When Sunday evening rolled around, reality had set in. Ira’d messed up enough lives; he needed to make sure Cameron didn’t think Ira was able to give him anything. So he’d been an asshole.
He rubbed his chest. It was like he had actual physical pain when he thought about what he had done and the pain he’d caused. He missed them both, so much. The emotion still caught him by surprise.
The bar’s door was propped open by a large man checking IDs. Ira nodded at him as he pushed his way inside, past the line of newly twenty-one-year-old college students waiting to pass muster. Cameron was behind the bar and shook his head in disgust when Ira accidentally looked his direction. He didn’t bother going to the bar; instead he snagged an empty table and waved the waiter down.
“Vodka tonic with lime, thanks.”
In the end he stayed for two drinks and left alone, but not because he didn’t have anyone looking his way. There were plenty out tonight who knew Ira’s rules and were fine with them. But he was out of sorts, exhausted from ten hours slinging coffee and trying to be polite to customers, and he didn’t want to pretend to be a nice person. Also, he could feel Cameron’s baleful glare against his skin anytime he glanced out onto the dance floor.
The drinks sloshed in his empty stomach. The few miles out of town to his cabin were going feel twice as long tonight. The first year he been in Skagit he’d rented the cabin. Then his landlords had offered him the option to buy, and Ira’d spent a hefty chunk of his savings on the tiny house and five acres of land it sat on. It was his and no one else’s, a place he could just be. A place he might someday be able to paint.
He lived off the grid, as much as it was possible these days while still holding down a job and all. No car; no mail delivery, only a PO box; he didn’t even have a library card. He used the internet on his phone and at work. Basically he had cut off contact with all the people from his old life. No man was an island, but Ira was trying his damnedest.
His road bike was locked to a parking meter across the street from the bar. Ira fished in his pocket for the key. He’d walk a little way before riding to clear his head of the brutal headache that had formed somewhere behind his right eye. He’d learned the hard way the first fall and winter in Skagit that he couldn’t have enough lights on his bike; drivers still didn’t pay attention. Last fall he’d ordered a set of lights that attached to the wheels—rainbow, because why not? It felt like riding a Christmas tree. And yet drivers were still oblivious.
Forty minutes later he was bumping down the driveway, the path lit only by the meager light cast from his front lamp and the porch light he’d left on. The sight never failed to thrill him. It was one thing in his life that made him happy. The cabin was his alone; he could relax and be himself. He didn’t need to be nice or even put clothes on. He wasn’t a failed husband, friend, and father. He was merely Ira Fragale, and no one knew him.
Shutting and locking the door behind himself, Ira immediately headed for the medicine cabinet for aspirin. He left his bike outside leaning against the side of the cabin; no one would bother making the trip down the drive to steal it. Stripping off his jacket, he tossed it over the back of his small couch. Sometimes he slept there, when he didn’t feel like dragging himself up the ladder to the loft. Tonight was a couch night.