No Place That Far (7 page)

“The other day” being shorthand for “six months ago, just before the blazing argument after which you slammed the door behind yourself without ever taking a key to get back in and then being too proud to ask for it.”

“Yeah, I'd like those.”

“They're in the car.” Ray leaned back. “So where are you working these days?”

“Wilde's.” Marcus forced himself to meet Ray's gaze. No hiding. He wasn't ashamed of where he was working or what he was doing.

“I didn't know they offered food.” Ray's tone was carefully neutral; he was hiding something.

“They're not. I'm a bartender.”

Ray nodded, face still artificially neutral. “Back to the student job, then?”

The implication grated. He hadn't come full circle or fallen to the bottom of the literal food chain. “I needed a change. Didn't want to turn into one of those crazy chefs who start hunting waiters down with carving knives.” He laughed, and Ray's face lit up. “It's different. That's what I need at the moment. I don't think that's what I'll do forever, but right now, yes.”

“A friend of mine just started a cocktail bar in Medina. He's been looking for somebody to manage the bartenders. I can put you in touch.”

That should easily be three times his Wilde's paycheck. “Thanks, but I'm not in the headspace to be running anything or anybody.”

“That bad?”

And damn you for that compassion tinged with superiority.
“No. I just need some time to think. I can't throw myself into the next set of responsibilities right now.”

“There's a part-time sommelier job open too.”

“No.”

Ray sighed and lifted his hands. “All right.”

“Thank. You.”

The air between them was suddenly tense and cold, with no sign of the banter that had been there just a moment ago. Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “I'm doing fine, Ray. I promise.”

That damned eyebrow again. “You're working in a bar—and I use that term loosely—for minimum wage.”

“The tips are good.” God, that sounded pathetic. “Yeah, the paycheck's not great, but I can make five hundred or more in tips a night. Chris and I both pulled in almost a grand a piece last Saturday.”

Ray inclined his head. “Chris?”

“Yeah. Another bartender. He's been showing me the ropes.”

“Has he, now?”

Oh, is that jealousy I hear?

“Yes,” Marcus said through his teeth. “Especially since I'm filling in on some of his shifts while he's on his honeymoon.”

Ray startled slightly. “Oh. Okay.”

“I didn't mean those ropes.”

“I didn't make any accusations.”

Not out loud, no…

Ray fidgeted a little. “Listen, I know this has been a huge change for you. Financially and in every other way. And a significant part of that is because of me.” He paused, holding Marcus's gaze. “If you need anything, just say—”

“I'm doing fine,” Marcus growled. “Look, I agreed to get together because you said you had a few things for me, but can we do this just once without you trying to get me to take money from you?”

“You're not taking it from me.” Ray locked eyes with him. “We built that place together. I'm more than happy to share money coming out of it with you.”

Marcus pressed his fingertips into the bridge of his nose. “Ray, please…”

“Okay. Okay.” Ray sighed, and it was that resigned sound he made when he still thought he was right but didn't want to argue anymore. “Just remember the offer is always—”

“I know.” Marcus dropped his hand and looked straight at Ray. “Honestly, I just need you to fucking trust that I can stand on my own two feet without your help.”

He hadn't thought before he'd spoken, and now that the words were out, he cringed. The two of them were equally responsible for their marriage melting down—Marcus could say a lot about Ray, but he owned his contributions to their divorce—and it spoke volumes about Ray's character that he still wanted to take care of Marcus.

The problem was Marcus didn't want anyone to take care of him, and resented the implication that he needed it. Even when he did. Like now, when he was playing bills-go-round with his credit cards—paying the Visa with the MasterCard, the MasterCard with the American Express and the American Express with the Visa. Or when his car, which looked great on the outside, was in shambles on the inside, held together with Bondo, duct tape and prayers. Marcus would find his own way, even if he did it on foot with a bloodstained credit report in his pocket.

“I'm sorry,” he said into his coffee cup. “I know you mean well. I do. But…I can do this.”

“No doubt.” Ray placed both hands flat on the table. “Shall we?”

Chapter Five

After meeting Ray, Marcus didn't really have time to go back home—and he tended to avoid the apartment anyway because of the boxes and the emptiness. Those, and the accusation implied in the unassembled flat-pack furniture had a way of making him even more morose.

Going from a “home” with years of volatile history to a place that felt very temporary, leaving his ex-husband behind, should have been a liberation. He'd fully expected it to be when he'd been chafing in the relationship. That once he was out of there, he'd feel freer and happier, and for a few days, that had been true, up until the reality of having to restart from scratch set in.

Baby steps. He was holding down a job and rebuilding a social life that didn't include Ray or one of his many friends or employees. He was doing all right at Wilde's, both as a participant in the meat market and an employee, making friends and not screwing up. Right now, that was all he was planning to do, flat-packs be damned and burned.

Marcus's work tux was in the trunk of the car. His gaze rested for a moment on the box underneath—Ray had given him the pile of papers, old letters, training certificates and qualifications, as well as photos he had planned to one day organize if he found the time. Just more debris for his current apartment. He slammed the trunk shut and stalked over to Wilde's.

Jack let him in, and he continued to the back room where the staff changed. Kieran was just wrapping the cummerbund around his waist, mumbling a “Hi, Marcus” when he entered.

“Hey.” He pulled open his locker and set his stuff down.

“You have a good time at the wedding?” Kieran glanced at him. “I didn't see you much after the cake was cut.”

“Oh, I was around.” Marcus hung his trousers and shirt on the open locker door. “Sorry I didn't come find you. I never did get a chance to meet your husband.”

Kieran shrugged. “Don't worry about it. He swings in here once in a while, so you'll meet him sooner or later.”

“Good, good.” He pulled off his shirt, wincing slightly—and at the same time grinning—at some of the stiffness in his back and shoulders.

Well done, Timur. Well done.

“So who was that guy you were talking to?”

“Huh?” He glanced at Kieran. “Which—”
Right. Which guy did I talk to last night? Gee, let me think…

“I saw you chatting with the best man, didn't I?” Kieran tugged at his cummerbund, then picked up his bow tie. “He was fucking
hot
.”

An oddly possessive feeling tightened beneath Marcus's ribs.

Back off.
Mine.

Marcus forced a laugh. “Does your husband know you were ogling the wedding party?”

Kieran rolled his eyes and started effortlessly tying his bow tie. “Please. Alex is the one who pointed him out to me.”

“Oh.”

“So? What's he like? He seemed…” Kieran's fingers paused, and his eyes unfocused for a second. Then he met Marcus's gaze as he continued with the bow tie. “I don't know, seemed pretty…”

“Unique?”

“Hmm. I guess that's the word. Different, but not in a negative way. I couldn't put my finger on where he's from, let's put it that way.”

“Somewhere in the Ukraine, by the sound of it.” Marcus took his shirt and hanger off the locker door. “He's one of Julien's buddies from the Legion.”

“I figured as much.” Kieran checked himself in the mirror, straightened his bow tie and turned back to Marcus. “You gonna see him again?”

Instantly, Marcus's fingers turned to butter, and the hanger clattered to the floor at his feet. He grabbed the shirt and hanger. “Uh…”

“Nice.” Kieran playfully smacked his shoulder as he walked by. “I thought you two were giving each other a look. Explains why you disappeared for a while.”

Marcus's face was scorching hot all of a sudden, and he had zero idea what to do with the shirt in his hand or all its buttons. “Uh…”

Kieran halted beside him and grinned. “Sorry. I'm…I can be a bit direct with the guys here. I keep forgetting you're the new kid.”

“Oh no, it's okay.” Marcus laughed. “I guess that means I'm fitting in?”

Kieran chuckled. “So far, so good.” He turned serious. “Anyway, I…” Waving a hand, he shook his head. “Sorry. I didn't mean to pry quite so hard. No internal filter, I guess.”

Marcus laughed again, and it was a bit more genuine this time. “That's probably why we get along so well. No harm done.”

Kieran eyed him cautiously, then smiled. “All right. Good. Anyway…” He nodded toward the door. “I should get started prepping. Liam's probably out there tapping his foot already.”

“Probably. I'll be out in a minute.”

“Take your time. We still don't open for a while yet, and it'll probably be a light crowd tonight.”

Kieran left, and Marcus's fingers eventually remembered how to work buttons. He dressed, all the while trying not to think about that gorgeous Ukrainian legionnaire who'd fucked his mind, as well as, well, him. It was probably a good thing he was still clumsy with the damned bow tie—it gave him something else to concentrate on besides the memory of calloused hands, tanned arms and tattooed skin.

The memory of Timur's naked body sprawled on the bed in the early morning light sent a shiver through him, and his fingers once again forgot what they were supposed to be doing. Swearing under his breath, he pulled off the bow tie and started over. Again.

When he was properly dressed and at his own station, all the pieces fell back into place. Prepping and mixing was like riding a bicycle in some ways. All he had to do was fall into Wilde's specific rhythm. Kieran worked at the station nearest to his own—pair up a “newbie” with one of the oldest-serving (hah) bartenders to handle overflow if it happened. Marcus had worked his first few shifts with Chris, and part of him still kept an eye open for him. It only drove home deeper that Chris was gone because he was off on his honeymoon with his new husband.

Actually, the sheer number of married men in this place was astonishing. Kieran, Chris, Liam—they had all settled down permanently, and all Marcus could do was not tell them that a marriage wasn't necessarily permanent just because now it was legal. All gays had achieved was the right to be just as fucking miserable and tangled up as straight people, with all the custody and financial issues that entailed. Hooray for equality.

He was glad when the doors opened and a large group practically stormed Wilde's. The sense of relief was short-lived, though. It was a bachelor party with two grooms. Jesus Christ.

But the bartenders had the situation very much under control, and it was turning into one of those evenings that didn't leave him feeling broken and unable to spell his name or stand on his feet for just a moment longer. It was approaching midnight when a familiar shape entered the bar—Marcus recognized him even from the corner of his eye, but maybe that was either due to the fresh memory or wishful thinking.

Timur entered, and compared to some of the other guests, he wasn't spectacularly dressed or groomed, by any means. But he filled out that simple black T-shirt and blue jeans like very few other men in the room, with the possible exception of Jack, who immediately perked up the way he did when he noticed a man who could be trouble.

By the grace of God, Marcus didn't drop the drink he was preparing right then, and through sheer muscle memory—and, well, probably more grace of God—he was able to finish mixing it without fucking it up. All the while, he was aware of that conspicuous shape moving through the crowd. Moving toward him. Homing in on him like a wolf to a deer.

Marcus shook his head. Melodramatic much? So the guy had come into a bar. He was a soldier. Soldiers drank. And Julien had probably told him this was the best place in town to pick up the finest pieces of ass. Any single gay man with a hard-on and decent standards came here, so—

“Marcus.” Timur was suddenly
there
. Right in front of his station, looking him right in the eye, not even checking out his surroundings.

“Timur.” Marcus swallowed hard. “I…I didn't realize you were still in town.”

Of course he was still in town. Surely the poor man wasn't flying out the day after a wedding, when anyone would expect to be hungover. Or at least walking with a hitch in his step, as it were.

Timur moved in closer, enough to be heard, but didn't fold his arms or lean on the bar the way all men did. Everyone had some way of leaning—either the drunken slump, the flirty swagger or just
oh my God it's one in the morning and I'm tired of holding up my own weight
. Not Timur. He stood ramrod straight as if he were in uniform or still playing the role of best man.

“Here for a month,” he said over the music. “In Julien's place.”

Oh. Right. Chris and Julien had adopted a couple of cats a few weeks ago, and neither of them could stand the thought of leaving the poor creatures alone for more than five minutes. It hadn't occurred to Marcus that they might bring in the goddamned French Foreign Legion to pet sit, but knowing those two…

“Wow. So…” Marcus folded his arms on the bar. “…you're here for a while, then.” Duh. He just said that. “What brings you in”—he gestured around them—“here?”

He fully expected a shrug, a sweeping glance and “I thought I'd check the place out”. Then he remembered whom he was talking to, and somehow wasn't surprised—and yet was still fucking blown away—by the direct, unflinching eye contact and “came to see you”.

Marcus straightened. “Oh. I… Well, it's good to see you.”

“Are you…” Timur quirked his lips and furrowed his brow the way he seemed to whenever he was searching for an English word. Gesturing at the bar, he asked, “You're here until when?”

“Three.” Marcus glanced at his watch. Three more hours. Christ. “Have to close up after everyone goes home.”

Timur's huge shoulders dipped slightly. “Oh.”

“I do have a break coming up. In fact…” Marcus looked over his shoulder. The office door was open, and the light was on, so Liam was probably in there. Turning back to Timur, he said, “Wait right here.”

Timur nodded sharply.

Marcus stepped away from his station and poked his head into Liam's office. The shift manager was hunched over the desk, poring over schedules and time-off requests.

“Hey, boss?”

Liam looked up, and Marcus jumped—he'd known Liam for a while now, but had never noticed just how green his eyes were. He'd never really noticed green eyes in the first place, uncommon as they were, but suddenly they were on his radar.

Gee. I wonder why.

“I'm, uh, going to step out on my break.”

Liam nodded. “How's the crowd out there? Do I need to fill in while you're out?”

Marcus looked back, scanning the room briefly. “Nah, I think it's under control. Starting to die down a bit, actually.”

“Okay. Sure, go ahead. Just let Kieran know to grab me if he needs backup.”

“Will do.” Marcus returned to the lounge area, passed the message along to Kieran and then went around the bar to join Timur. “I've got fifteen minutes. Step outside with me?”

Timur followed him, and Marcus sought the quietest area he could find—leading them right out to the parking lot and up to his car. It wasn't that he was ashamed of being seen with Timur, but he did want a bit of privacy. “Nice of you to come visit.”

Timur took a step forward, and Marcus had barely realized he'd stepped back when his own car came up behind him. Oops. Timur hesitated. “Not going to hurt you.”

“Just surprised.” Marcus felt his heart race, but that wasn't fear. It wasn't even Timur's insistence—just the proximity. Forces at work that felt like a kind of turbocharged, dizzying attraction ever since he'd ogled the best man at Chris's wedding. And nothing Timur did or said, and nothing that happened, had diminished that. “Wilde's is a good place to find a guy for the night.” Nudge, nudge. Considering how much Timur knew what he wanted—and also how easily he got it—the Wilde's clientele would be all over him.

Timur's gaze was blank. “Got one.” He reached out and placed a flat hand on Marcus's white dress shirt, palm hot and strong through the fabric. Hard to play it cool now. No doubt Timur could feel just how hard Marcus's heart was beating. Marcus leaned in closer, took that last step, and common sense jumped out the window.

Timur's face came closer, and suddenly they were kissing again, Marcus's back against the car, Timur's strong body in front. But he didn't really care or notice, because while the kiss started gently, as much asking permission as taking it, Timur wasn't shy by any means. The kiss deepened and grew more demanding in no time at all. Marcus pulled Timur closer, suddenly ravenous for the touch and closeness. Damn. There went the no-two-night-stands rule.

Marcus broke the kiss, shook his head to clear his thoughts, but, Christ, the chemistry with this guy was unbelievable. It took all he had not to get onto his knees and blow him then and there. Mostly because he didn't think they could both get off in such short a time, and while Liam was fairly relaxed about some things, overrunning your break while everybody else was working wasn't exactly fair to your colleagues. “I… Tell me what you want to do.”

“Fuck you again? Tonight?”

“It's going to be a few more hours.”

“Okay.” Timur kissed his neck, and Marcus groaned. “I can warm up without you.”

Marcus chuckled. “Warm up, eh? What are you going to do?”

“Plan what I will do to you.” Timur withdrew just enough that Marcus could breathe. “What I will do first.”

Marcus swallowed. The two-night rule was silly, right? He could definitely make an exception for a guy who'd be gone in a month anyway. Especially a man whose idea of killing time before getting laid was planning what would happen when it came time to get laid. Fuck rules.