Beautiful Disasters

By Willa Okati

Two wrongs don't usually make a right. But sometimes - if you're lucky - against all odds, they do.

A Beautiful Disaster: After being betrayed and abused by an ex-lover, Sean has learned not to give his heart away. But he can’t help wishing he could trust gentle-hearted tattoo artist Riordan…

Enough To Let You Go: Paul loves his simple country life. Problem is he’s in love with Max, who’s got his nose pointed toward London. Paul loves Max enough to let Max go… Now they’ll have to love each other enough to find their way back.

Make a Right: Tuck would take care of the world if the world would let him. Even on the edge of a breakup with Cade he can’t give up hope for their future. Cade knows their one chance at a reconciliation is giving up his secrets, but can he find the courage to take the risk?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: May 24, 2019

Willa Okati

Willa Okati can most often be found muttering to herself over a keyboard, plugged into her iPod and breaking between paragraphs to play air drums. In her spare time (the odd ten minutes or so per day she's not writing) she's teaching herself to play the pennywhistle. Willa has forty-plus separate tattoos and yearns for a full body suit of ink. She walks around in a haze of story ideas, dreaming of tales yet to be told. She drinks an alarming amount of coffee for someone generally perceived to be mellow.

Book preview

A Beautiful Disaster

Willa Okati

After being betrayed and abused by an ex-lover, Sean learned not to give his heart away -- but he can’t help wishing he could trust gentle-hearted tattoo artist Riordan. When these two vulnerable men, scarred inside and out, find each other, neither is willing or able to walk away.

Both starved for touch and lonely in his self-imposed exile, Sean can’t help wanting Riordan both body and soul and in his bed, and Riordan is captivated by the sweet nature and the beauty he can still see beneath Sean’s scars. Yet despite his hunger for affection, Sean can’t break free of a cycle of shame and despair, not even as Riordan’s falling in love with his beautiful disaster.

Will Sean be able to break through the barriers he’s built around himself and let Riordan in -- and will Riordan find the key to unlock Sean’s frozen heart?

Prologue

Sean would only ever have one chance to leave Leo. Tonight. If he missed his moment, he’d never find another.

He’d watched the clock since coming to the club. Leo wasn’t among the group tonight. He’d sent a text claiming a business meeting kept him working late.

Business meeting. Right. More like he’s fucking his paralegal. He knows I know too.

He thinks I give a damn about his cheating. I don’t.

And he thinks I won’t do anything about it. That I won’t ever try to get away from him.

He’s wrong about that too.

He’d taken a risk coming out with a group of Leo’s friends, though he’d done it before. Leo trusted them to look but not touch. Even so, Sean hadn’t asked Leo’s permission.

If Sean were going home to the man, he’d be punished for that.

But he wasn’t.

He’d be free soon. Please, God. Please.

Sean checked his watch. The second hand seemed to crawl as it ticked past the minutes. His chest ached, burned. He couldn’t draw in enough air, and it all smelled of liquor and the ghosts of cigarette smoke. His wrist protested when he reached for the glass he’d filled and refilled with water, claiming his abstemiousness was on Leo’s orders. His sleeve covered the dark purple smudge that marred the pale skin beneath. He’d worn the watch over the mark just in case, a chunky, heavy thing he’d always hated, with a face big enough to span the distance between the points of his wrist bones.

Two fifteen. Time to go.

None of Leo’s friends could be allowed to suspect -- except one. The one who’d believed Sean about all the things Leo did to him, and promised to help. Peter.

Sean listed to the side, dropping his head on Peter’s shoulder. Peter hadn’t stuck to water. He’d downed vodka instead, glass after glass. Sean stole one sip for courage and spilled the rest in purposeful accident.

Peter, he whispered, turning his face to hide the movement of his lips. We need to move.

Stop that, Peter hissed. It’d probably looked as if Sean were trying to kiss him. He was tense enough to snap in half.

Please, please, let no one notice. Twisting threatened to pull open one of the belt marks on his back. Now, Sean said, nudging him. "Peter. Now."

If everything had gone according to plan, a police car should have pulled up to Leo’s apartment by now. Sean had called in an anonymous tip about drugs changing hands on the premises, which was nonsense, but that didn’t matter. They’d still come to check it out and keep Leo tied up. See how he likes it for a change. That left Sean with just enough time for Peter to help him slip away unquestioned. He’d get out of town on his own.

If everything went right.

If. If. If.

Peter hadn’t moved. Sean twisted the edge of Peter’s sweater and tugged. They had to go. Don’t lose it on me now. Don’t.

Please.

Peter flicked his thumbnail against the fallen glass. I think someone’s had too much to drink, don’t you? Silly boy.

Someone took the glass and set it upright. I thought he wasn’t drinking.

So did I. Apparently he’s been sneaky about it. Ugh. He reeks.

Eye rolls and chuckles greeted that announcement. Take him home and put him to bed, someone suggested. The leer in their tone painted Sean with a slick of oil.

Sweetie, I would if I could, but we all know how our dear Leo does not take to others handling his pet.

Sean’s fist clenched. His nails bit into his palm. He barely felt the sting.

I will, however, risk putting him in a taxi and giving the driver his address. If you’ll excuse us? Peter scooted out of the booth filled with people whose names Sean didn’t know and didn’t want to learn. They were all Leo’s friends, in one way or another. He didn’t have any of his own. Not anymore.

They didn’t matter now.

Sean let Peter carry him out of sight, through the side door. Peter dropped him before he could let go, but he’d had practice in catching his balance. Though Sean stumbled, he righted himself with two steps.

The night was cold, nibbling at them with sharp teeth. I can’t believe I just did that, Peter said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d have been better off taking his handkerchief to his forehead to daub away the sweat. Leo is going to kill me. No matter what I do, I still --

Not if you don’t tell him you knew. He doesn’t have any reason to suspect you.

Besides your draping yourself over me like he’d let me borrow you? Peter’s chin wobbled. Sean wouldn’t let himself despair, not yet, but to be putting his faith in a man like this made his stomach churn.

You’ll be fine. He won’t bother you. I was drunk. Remember? Supposedly drunk. Everyone in there will tell him the same thing. You helped me outside. That’s the last you’ll have seen of me. No one knows where I’m headed. Not even you. Sean checked his wallet. Still there. He counted his money. Leo didn’t allow him much. He’d drawn everything he could out of the account they shared. Groceries had been the excuse. He always gave a reason. It’d get him a few towns over tonight. Far enough to figure out his next move.

Peter’s lips were pale, a greenish tint to his skin. Sean took him by the forearms and shook him as hard as he could. He was stronger than Peter, though he’d never dared show it before now. "Don’t lose your head now, Peter. Stay focused just a little longer. Please."

Peter wasn’t listening. He won’t believe me. You know he won’t.

"Shut up, God, or someone is going to hear you. Sean dragged them out into the middle of the side street. No one would risk the narrow passage between buildings at this time of night. He shook Peter harder. Listen to me. All you have to do is keep quiet. When Leo asks, you don’t know anything. Just for a few days."

Oh, sweetie. Peter covered his mouth. I am so sorry.

No. God, no. Sean stepped back, skirting the center line. What did you do?

I, ah… I… Peter stood up straight. He tugged his sleeves down. Still sweating. Too much white showing around his irises. You can work this out, Sean.

Bile rose, burning harsh and bitter in the back of Sean’s throat. He didn’t have to ask. He knew. You told him.

He found out. I’m so sorry. But it’s for the best. Leo takes care of you. What else do you need?

What do I need? Sean wrenched at the band of the awful watch. His pressure on the bruises gave him strength, and Peter stared at his arm as he bared it and held it in a pool of light cast from the lone streetlamp. Peter couldn’t look away from the circlet of blue, purple, and black smudges, and Sean was glad. I need someone who doesn’t do this to me.

Peter looked as if he were on the verge of emptying his stomach. I didn’t know.

You did. It was just easier to pretend you didn’t. Sean let the watch fall and speared his fingers through his hair. Fuck. Okay. Peter had told him. Leo knew. But Sean had called the police. They should have caught Leo in the apartment and kept him there.

Unless Leo had left before they’d arrived. Maybe long before.

But that’s not it at all. Leo told me he just wanted to talk to you, Peter said, ignorant of the tumult in Sean’s head. He stared at the bruises as Sean’s arm moved. And I thought I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t --

Fuck you. Sean made up his mind. He’d risk the main road. He could get a taxi from there. He crouched to scoop up the watch and thrust it at Peter. The thick leather strap slapped the open V where Peter had undone three buttons of his shirt. To remember me by. Go to hell.

Wait!

Sean didn’t. He wrenched himself about, face forward, to the main road.

He saw the headlights flick on. High beams.

Afterward, he remembered putting his arms up, as if they could protect him from Leo’s car coming at him.

He…

Chapter One

Lift your arm.

Riordan knew this part of the exercise better than his name and address. You’re going to put me through the whole gamut today?

I don’t have anything better to do right now. Jae’s lips quirked in a slanted smile. Do you?

You’re a hard man to work with, Jae.

And I get results. Extend your arm and lift it. I want to see a straight line from shoulder to fingertips.

Okay. He practiced this at home. Should be no problem.

Slow, Jae warned.

Sorry. Riordan always forgot and took the first movements too quickly. Slower, more careful. Better. Muscles stretched as he extended his arm, elbow joint and fingertips stretching to straighten together. He winced.

Easy. Jae pressed his thumb over the epicenter of the sting. Still sore?

Not as much. Not like it used to be. Good thing too. A tattoo artist needed strong arms and sure hands. Jae’s testing disguised as homegrown physical therapy helped reassure them both Riordan was still capable of the work he did.

You see? Well worth the trouble. Jae tapped the point of Riordan’s elbow. Still crooked. Straighter.

Inhale. Exhale. Riordan concentrated, frowning with the effort, until -- there. Straight as could be.

Hold it for a count of five. Jae guided him, hand just beneath in case he slipped, and ticked off the seconds. Bend your elbow and draw it back as far as you can. Good. Out again and down. Take the rubber ball in your pocket, squeeze for a count of twenty-five, and you’re done.

The ball in question had come from a penny arcade. He fished it out, flashing the dark blue and flecks of gilt that remained of the garish stars once painted on. Never spent a better fifty cents. I told you I’d get this one.

Luck, Jae replied. If you didn’t know him, you’d think him unmoved and expressionless. If you did know him, you could see the hint of amusement in the crinkling by the corners of his eyes. Count. He stepped back, steady on the sidewalk without looking. Senses like a cat. Any pain now?

Not to speak of. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Strong like an ox. See?

Jae didn’t take Riordan’s word for gospel. He watched the rest of the reps before nodding. A cool wind, unseasonably chilly for the time of year, swept up the city street and grasped at their clothing as it whipped past. Every now and then, I still wonder.

Twenty. Twenty-one. Hmm?

You’re lucky to be alive, you know. Jae spoke quietly, with conviction. He shrugged deeper into his coat and turned into the wind to let it blow his hair out of his face; turned back with his lashes spiked damp as a casualty of blinking into the unfurling stream of air. When I heard that gunshot from the drive-by and saw you go down, I thought that was the end.

You weren’t the only one. Riordan released the rubber ball. He flexed his fingers one by one. Glad we were both wrong. I’m almost as good as new.

You’d better be. Jae leaned against the sturdy lamppost on the sidewalk outside their shop and caught the ball Riordan tossed to him. More specifically, you’re good for today? A full morning shift at the hospital, plus an afternoon-to-evening shift back here. Jae nodded at the tattoo studio they co-owned, a small brick storefront crowded in with a group of other small businesses.

The sight still made Riordan proud. He and Jae had opened the shop together and worked around each other’s schedules until they both had nursing degrees. So they could do the work they wanted, reconstructive art that helped people reclaim their bodies.

Riordan hadn’t ever thought the day would come when he’d want reconstructive art for himself. But that was life for you. All you had to do was be in the wrong place at the wrong time, without even knowing it, and pow. The gangbanger who’d shot him didn’t know Riordan from Adam or Eve. He’d just been in the way.

And now here he was.

Riordan tested a biceps curl. He rubbed his chest, over the rounded scar, and grinned. No one knew how he’d survived the GSW -- medically speaking, he shouldn’t have -- but Riordan had lived, and he planned to take every last advantage of his second chance. Bring it on.

Good man. Rest for a few. Jae stretched up to peer at the bus rumbling toward them. He and Riordan always met near the J stop outside their studio now that they didn’t live together, though they preferred to wait a few yards away from the bus shelter for at least a little privacy in their conversation and to avoid secondhand smoke.

That’s not ours, is it?

No. Jae clicked his tongue. Wrong line.

Riordan rubbed his hands together. You think they make it confusing on purpose?

In a college town? Probably.

The bus rumbled to a stop in a cloud of diesel fumes, grinding brakes, and the hiss of sealed doors folding open. A short queue of men and women huddling together inside the flimsy shelter, a glass box with aluminum benches, formed a ragged line snaking to the pneumatic doors.

At the rear of the crowd, one man moved more slowly than the others. Stood apart from them. Not very tall. Maybe five feet nine, or ten at a stretch. He wore a thick, charcoal-gray sweater with a heavy rolled collar. His jeans were crisp as if they’d been ironed. Did people iron jeans? Running shoes, a name brand and a style a couple of years old, stiff with white shoe polish and new laces. Nice job, but he couldn’t hide the scuffs and scars at the toe, nor the wearing down of the instep where he dragged his foot with each step. A heavy knapsack over the right shoulder counterbalanced his skew to the left, but not enough. He’d combed his hair, longish and dark as espresso, forward over his face and cheeks in a way that reminded Riordan of feathers.

He made a good effort there too but couldn’t hide all his scars, especially in the wind whipping the city streets. Some were silvered and some still faintly pink, fading to white. The man glanced sideways, once, and hunched his shoulders. Don’t look at me, he ordered without saying a word. Leave me alone.

Jae had noticed him too, both his body language and his scars, and Jae was as good a student of damaged human nature as Riordan. What do you think? Hit and run?

That’d be my take on it. Someone else who was lucky to be alive, though he didn’t seem happy about surviving. Thoughtful, Riordan tapped his chest, where the bullet had punched through less than half an inch from his heart, and over his ruined tattoo in need of repair. But I don’t think that’s the whole story.

* * *

Sean turned away from the blond man and his curious stare, but he could still feel it prickling needle sharp on his back. He rolled his shoulders. No one ever noticed before when he was hurt. Now they never stopped staring. He’d tried growing a beard. Hadn’t helped. Raised keloid scars striped him from forehead to chin on his left side, across his cheekbone. When he shut his mouth tight, the plate holding his lower jaw together clicked.

If they’d just stop looking at me…

He’d thought he could find anonymity here, hundreds of miles from home. A university town with a sprawling campus, a behemoth of a medical college, and clinics where students could practice for cheap.

His hand slipped as he tried to hitch his knapsack higher. Sean always forgot, somehow, the trouble in the first step from curb to bus, that moment when he suspended his weight between bad leg and good and choked on gas fumes. His knuckles went white around the guide rail. His backpack, weighed down with everything he’d need if he had to run again, nearly tugged him off balance.

He’d never be anything but clumsy again.

Let them look, then. Sean blocked out the staring behind him, or tried to, and forced himself to move forward. For once, no one had claimed the broader sideways seating at the front, facing the shelter he’d just come from. Sean sat heavily, biting back a wince, and planted his knapsack on the empty space beside him.

The tall blond and his friend lingered near a street lamppost, talking back and forth. Sean couldn’t hear them over the idling of the engine and the low hum of chatter, rustling, shifting, and frustrated sighing of the other passengers. You got what you paid for, and the bus was free. They could deal. He could.

The little details he’d missed before jumped out at him, even through tinted glass. The blond should have had a coat but wore only a pair of scrubs. Was he a doctor, a nurse, a student? His sleeves weren’t long enough and his neckline wasn’t high enough to cover the whorls and bold lines of tattoos peeking out over his collarbones and down his wrists. When the wind lifted crisp, overlong curls away from his nape and held them aloft, Sean saw more tattoos there, stretching up the back of his head. Sean didn’t see any jewelry on the man, but anyone so decorated must have had piercings once upon a time. Labrets through his eyebrows, a stud through his tongue, and a ring through one side of his nose. Multiple studs and hoops would have bristled in his ears.

As Sean watched, the man laughed and thumped his friend -- just as lavishly tattooed, and in the same distinctive style -- on his back.

Sean flinched.

God.

He’d never get over the fear, would he? Once, he’d tried to while away an afternoon at a movie. A buddy flick. Cops and robbers. It should have been so simple, but Sean hadn’t thought. The first violence he’d seen on-screen had tied his guts into twisting knots. He’d barely made it out of his seat before he’d fallen to his knees and emptied his stomach on the gummy, tacky floor.

After that, he stuck to museums and galleries, walking for hours if need be to keep his muscles from seizing and his mind buzzing with static white noise instead of thought. Human contact was dangerous. He’d learned that lesson by heart.

Why not go home instead, every chance he could? Why not tuck himself away in the safety of his tiny studio apartment? Because he couldn’t bear the sterile solitude of a room with a single bed and nothing else, where all he could do was think, that’s why. It was all he could afford on disability payments. If he’d had any kind of usable skill, he’d have gotten a job, maybe, and found something better, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t handle the stares and being told no over and over again. Not yet. So he had a box to call home, which wasn’t home at all.

But that wasn’t the whole truth. Not really. Sean tightened his hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to admit this…

And yet Sean had to, if he was going to be honest with himself. He understood loneliness now in a way he hadn’t before. Hell. Sean recognized the contradictory nature of the problem; he did. Though he shrank away from contact, he still missed touch in a way he hadn’t thought he ever would or even could. The warmth of a friend’s hand. A gentle nudge. A kiss. He couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- count physical therapy. He couldn’t abide a pitying touch, and he’d loathed the emotional absence that came after he’d rejected sympathy.

It’d been so long. Sometimes Sean would forget how long and have to stop and count to drown out the burning need that never died to ashes, and --

He shouldn’t be alive. That was the thing. Leo hadn’t been able to build up much speed from a dead stop coming down the narrow street, but his car was made to go from zero to sixty, and he’d hit Sean with enough force to…

He should have been killed. No one knew how he’d survived.

Sean didn’t remember anything after the moment of impact, when Leo’s car crashed into him. Sometimes he wondered what it would have sounded like inside his head as his body crumpled and twisted. If broken ribs snapped like chicken bones, going crack, crack, crack as he fell to earth, and they were only the start. He counted the damage off on damaged fingers. A fractured pelvis. Crushed femur. Tibia. Fibula. Metacarpals. Clavicle. Worst on his left side, where the car hit. Still damaged on the right, where he’d landed.

And his scars -- gashes and gouges and scrapes that painted him in stippled red/white/pink/silver along the length of his side. More from the surgeries to patch him together.

Sean knew he shouldn’t be alive.

The tattooed man and his friend, also dressed in scrubs, lounged and loitered. They’d want the next bus, the one to the hospital. Not his. They only wanted to stare at him. Catalog what was wrong and what could and couldn’t be fixed.

Sean laid his hand over his heart and willed it to slow down.

Come on. Let’s go already.

The blond turned his head, as carelessly as if checking the crosswalk lights, and settled his gaze on the bus. On Sean. He couldn’t see inside. Could he? Sean’s nails scraped through the weave of the sweater, against his skin. He couldn’t flinch. All he could manage was sitting still as a stone, staring back because he would not blink first if this was the way the blond wanted to play it.

Outside, the blond blinked his hooded, sleepy-seeming eyes and inclined his head in a neutral nod. No. Not quite neutral. Curious. Watching him. Penetrating the dirty gray glass and the disarray of his hair and the weight of his sweater, and --

Sean squeezed his eyes shut.

The bus rocked and groaned. A sharp whiff of cigarette smoke made Sean’s nose itch, hinting at a sneeze to come. Doors hissed closed behind the driver settling himself.

They’d be gone in a second. He wouldn’t see the blond again in a city this size.

Good thing.

Three seconds left.

The blond raised his hand as if to say hello or good-bye, and Sean couldn’t tell which.

Two.

Sean turned away, staring forward across the bus.

One.

The bus jolted loudly into traffic.

Gone. Good. Good.

Chapter Two

Here. You look like you could use this. Jae’s voice jostled Riordan out of his thoughts, and the rich, bitter scent of coffee from the large paper cup he put at Riordan’s elbow did the rest of the trick.

Like you wouldn’t believe. Riordan cracked the lid on the coffee and breathed in the steam. Best stuff in the world, right there. Still too hot to drink, but he couldn’t help himself. He blew once across the surface, tried a sip, and shut his eyes. You’re my favorite. Did I ever tell you that?

I seem to recall hearing as much once or twice. Jae hooked a rolling stool with his foot and pulled it in to take a seat at Riordan’s workstation. Riordan watched, amused, as Jae automatically started tidying the scatter of pencils and scraps of paper Riordan tended to accumulate when he lost himself in the work. He realized what he was doing halfway through slotting the pencils back into their caddy and bounced one off Riordan’s nose.

Riordan grinned. You’re getting better.

And you, Jae replied companionably. He picked up the papers to flip through them instead. He paused on one, a depiction of cherry branches with blossoms and a phantom shadow of a cat slinking through them. Nice. I like this one.

That’s for Lainey, Riordan said. She’s nearly healed up enough after the mastectomy to get this done.

Jae hmmed and held the drawing to the light.

You need glasses, old man. I keep telling you.

I’m too pretty to spoil it with glasses. Jae kicked him gently. You’ve been here for hours. It’s past six.

Is it? Riordan checked the clock. I wanted to finish this.

He massaged his thigh under the table. His muscles always knotted up around this time of day, especially if he’d spent a few hours hunkered down drawing. Jae teased him about how he sat as if bracing for takeoff, leaning into the starting position with his weight on his toes. That wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t also put the brunt of his torso’s weight on his left arm. His actual physical therapist would chew him a new one the next time he surrendered himself to the man’s quote-unquote tender mercies.

So be it. Riordan shrugged and drank deeper of the cooling coffee. Strong but sweet, with a sprinkle of cinnamon.

One of Jae’s superpowers was knowing when someone needed a break. The man rested his elbow on the drawing table and his chin in his hand. The paper cup Riordan held blocked out everything but Jae’s tousled dark hair and bare forearm when looking at the man from this angle. Memories pricked at Riordan. Once upon a time, a long ago time, Jae used to take that pose every morning when he woke up, and he almost always woke up before Riordan. If Riordan woke first, he’d taken to pretending himself still asleep until Jae roused, just for a look at that face and fond, tolerant smile.

They’d had a good run of things, but it hadn’t been meant to be permanent. They’d both known that from the second they started. And they’d stayed friends -- still partners, if in business only -- afterward, which was better than most managed.

Jae still got him. Could still read him like calligraphy at first glance. Rough morning shift? he asked, not so much for confirmation as to offer a gambit for Riordan to take, or not, as he chose.

An image of Marguerite flickered in Riordan’s mind’s eye. Down to ninety pounds now, on her second round of treatment, with doctors making insistent noises about hospice care. She had the balls to look them in the eye and swear she wasn’t about to give up yet, pointing to the tattoo Riordan had done for her as proof she’d survived before. And when they’d gone, she’d cried with her head against his chest until he was soaked with tears and snot.

Fighting for your life wasn’t ever pretty, and it wasn’t always noble. Fighting didn’t guarantee a win. She and he both knew it.

Yet she fought on, and she had a chance no matter what anyone said.

Rough enough, Riordan said. He shifted to display the pager at his waist. They were becoming passé, but some hospitals still used them instead of streamlining everything on smartphones. He gave his contact information to his clients as well as his patients. Which was all a lot of beating around the bush to stop himself from being so keenly aware of how wearing a pager was the worst. A ticking time clock with an indeterminate countdown. No matter how prepared he might be, he still flinched when the thing buzzed. He didn’t think he’d get a call about Marguerite tonight, but he couldn’t be sure.

Jae nodded. He’d been down the same road a few times himself. He didn’t waste their time with platitudes, but he thumped Riordan’s shoulder, grasped it, and left the warmth of his hand there. Tell me something good.

Riordan sipped coffee, thinking. His chest ached. He suspected changes in the seasons wouldn’t treat him kindly, the new scars as good as a barometer warning him of an oncoming storm. Maybe even snow.

The man on the bus, he said, drawing the simple words out, soft and smooth, like a whisper of caramel across his lips.

Jae raised an eyebrow. He really did catch you, didn’t he?

Amen to that.

All right. Jae settled back. Tell me how he’s good.

I would, but I don’t know yet. Riordan drummed an absent rhythm on the side of his cup, remembering. Blue eyes, a pale winter-sky blue, striking under the heavy fall of almost-black hair, looking sideways through the strands as they blew across his pointed face in the rush of late-season wind and bus exhaust.

The eyes were what he remembered most. More than the limp. That was physical. The eyes held the kind of pain that hit with the power of a punch to the chest. He hadn’t so much as exchanged a word with the man, but once seen, he couldn’t be forgotten. He’s in here. Riordan tapped the side of his head. I can’t get him out, and I don’t think I want to.

Jae nudged one drawing carefully beneath another. I see that. Riordan barely remembered drifting off into doodling, but at some point he’d drawn the man with a crown of thorns.

Transparent, huh?

Little bit. Jae lifted Riordan’s cup in wry salute and stole a sip. Odds are you won’t meet again. It’s a big town.

True. Too bad. There’d been something about him. Something different, an edge Riordan couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Enough. Take the night off. Go get some fresh air and walk. The corner of Jae’s mouth lifted. Or something else, if you’d rather.

Yes, please. Riordan perked up. He hadn’t realized how long it’d been since he’d gotten a leg over until he stopped to count up the weeks. No wonder he was tense. He pushed his hair back and dug a rubber-band tie out of the caddy. You’re sure?

As quiet as it is in here tonight, I think I can hold down the fort. Jae nudged his ankle. Go on. I know that look. You need to finish wearing yourself out so you can rest.

When he was right, he was right. Riordan stretched as he stood, brushing the ceiling with his fingertips. Sounded perfect to him. It’d been one of those days. Time for one of those nights. Get out, get a beer, get laid.

Maybe that’d clear his head.

And if not, that wasn’t such a bad thing. If a man didn’t have something to dream about, to work for, then he didn’t have anything at all.

Odds were odds, sure, but he wasn’t a fortuneteller, and not knowing was the fun part. Anything could happen, if he let it or made it.

He’d roll the dice and take his chances.

* * *

Across from the gallery where Sean spent most of his days, there perched a bar. Or rather, across and down, set into a half basement with high windows spilling evening lamplight onto the street. Seven steps down.

Sean wasn’t in the habit of buying drinks. He hadn’t wanted alcohol in months. Years? Maybe years. Even now he could still taste that stolen sip of vodka lingering on his breath when the paramedics reached him and almost believed Leo’s story instead of his. Those were the bad nights, the ones in which he tossed and turned in tangled sheets.

But he liked the look of this bar, and its name, picked out in chipped gold paint over the door. BLIND TIGER. A Laundromat crowded it in on one side, and a secondhand bookstore on the other. Shop after shop from left to right.

One street to cross, but no side streets or even alleys near the Blind Tiger. Sean hesitated on the steps of the gallery, wondering, What if? What if?

The bar’s door opened to let a small knot of three men up the stairs and out to the sidewalk. They were his age. Maybe younger. Hard to tell across two lanes of traffic. Young enough. Disheveled. Cheeks red from drinking enough to warm them, ties loosened and jackets carried over their rolled-up sleeves. Two of them bumped into each other, while the third stood to the side and teased them. They weren’t listening. Too busy kissing.

The world melted away from them. The ones who kissed. Sean could see it. Nothing else existed for them.

And Sean wanted.

Not them. They could have each other. But there were other men coming out every now and again. Mostly in pairs.

Sean gripped the strap of his knapsack. He could go down among them. If he wanted. At least he could try.

Seven steps down, broken in the middle by a landing and a turn to the right. He could do it. He could.

* * *

The bartender had more than her fair share of customers, and it took her the better part of fifteen minutes to reach Sean on the tall stool he’d picked. Its back was wedged into a corner at the far end of the long expanse of her domain. Old wood polished so that the scars stood out in sharp, dark relief against its lighter color.

Sean traced the crooked lines and kept his head down. If he looked around, he could see men and women. Mostly men. Quiet but carefree. Happy to be there. Glad to be with one another, or on the prowl and taking their chances. Not the noisiest dive Sean had known, but the bartender still had to raise her voice to be heard. What’ll you have? she called, working on her last order, gliding a tequila bottle from one glass to the next over a rubber grid.

Damn it. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, and he froze.

A man, yet another stranger, slipped onto the bar stool beside Sean. He slid an empty highball glass at the bartender, who caught it without looking. Set me up again. Bourbon neat. His regard struck Sean like light cast off a broken mirror. Try what I’m having.

Sean bowed his head to let his hair fall over his face. He sneaked a glance at the man. Tall. Lean. Cropped brown hair. A wry smirk. Open collar, three buttons down. Handsome enough.

No one special.

The bartender filled his order without a second one for Sean. He raised the glass to her. Sean’s gaze followed the glass, and the glass went to the man’s mouth. He looked askance at Sean’s scars. Only briefly. The hair must have covered most of them. Static hung heavy in the air. Sean couldn’t see properly through his fringe.

You are pretty, aren’t you?

I’m really not.

The man chuckled. Eye of the beholder, little man.

Don’t call me that.

Touchy, aren’t you? My turn. He lifted Sean’s chin, his fingers cool and smelling sharply of bourbon. I haven’t seen you in here before. What’s your name, gorgeous boy?

Sean’s stomach flipped. Move your hand. Now.

And he did. Laughing. All right, calm down. Easy come, easy go. Ask Mare here if you want. I’m harmless.

The bartender shrugged with one shoulder.

Mostly harmless, he amended. Mare? Whatever he wants. This one’s on me all the same, pretty boy. You look like you could use it. He patted Sean on the shoulder. The right one.

And he left. Just that easy. Gone.

Mare cast about for other customers and faced him when there were none. He’s good for it. Do you know what you want?

No. Just a beer. Whatever’s on tap.

A cardboard square of a coaster, a tall glass of dark Irish beer with a thick head of foam. Sean ran his forefinger around the rim of the beer stein, translucent with frost. Tequila chaser too.

Sean didn’t touch the liquor. Not yet. Or the beer. Leo had liked stout, the darker the better. He wished he’d ordered something lighter. Maybe a pale ale. Out of arm’s reach, the founder of his feast prowled to a pool table and picked up a cue. Sean held himself still.

No need. He couldn’t read lips, but he could guess at the teasing and playfulness. They let him break queue, whoever he was. One man in a dark green polo, rumpled from a long day’s work, took him by the nape and stole a kiss in trade. Only a light one, and quick. They were friends, then.

Sean remembered when he used to do that, a long, long time ago. How he’d taken touch for granted, too busy enjoying the dance. The game. Those two would leave together, probably. Neither had thought of it before, but it was a good idea for them now. And they’d be fine.

He lifted the shot glass to his lips and flicked his tongue into the tequila to taste. Sharp, bitter, stinging.

The man with the tattoos lurked behind Sean’s eyes. Sean could see him every time he shut them, and he could feel an itch between his shoulder blades that made him want to roll them to shake off the discomfort.

A mirror hung behind the bar. Oh. Well, they did, in bars. Sean had forgotten. He could see himself through the gaps between bottles of liquor. His hair clung to his cheeks in fine wisps and drifted over his eyes like fallen angel’s wings. His scars weren’t hidden at all.

If he could stop thinking about the scars, that would help. If he could stop thinking, stop caring what others thought of them, he might be able to breathe again. But he couldn’t stop.

Sean needed -- he wanted --

God, he missed sex. He’d never been easy, but he wasn’t a tough sell. Maybe he should have been.

Some of the men had taken off their shirts. Not many. Some. They kept it warm down here, too warm. Sean’s sweater itched. Sweat made his skin rub raw against the boiled wool.

He’d lived. He was surviving his life. But that wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

Would anyone take him for what he was, if they knew? If they didn’t?

Stop it.

Sean lifted his shot glass to drink properly, but he didn’t get quite so far as taking a sip before, over the rim, he saw the door open, and a man stepped through. A blond man with tattoos curling up his neck and down his wrists.

A man who looked back and saw him.

* * *

Well, look at you. Riordan really hadn’t expected he’d see the man from this morning again. He’d come to the Blind Tiger because that was where you went when you were in the mood for something new or something comfortable. At last count the city boasted almost three dozen bars, pubs, and holes-in-the-wall, or it had that year he and Jae planned out a holiday crawl through as many of them as possible before they fell down.

They’d made it as far as the Blind Tiger and stopped while the stopping was good.

The dark man had been here long enough to get served. He recognized Riordan, or Riordan thought he had. His small mouth with the scar denting one corner opened a half inch in surprise and stopped Riordan in his tracks.

He hadn’t done the guy justice when drawn from memory. He looked younger than Riordan remembered. Scared.

Riordan lifted his hand in a wave. The dark man’s mouth snapped shut, and he looked away. Scared, yeah. Vulnerable. He’d never been at the Blind Tiger before, or at least he’d never visited back in the days when Riordan used to hang around. He looked so uneasy Riordan had to wonder if maybe it was his first time.

First times should be special. You were allowed to be scared or edgy or even hostile the first time doing anything. It was an unwritten rule in a big book kept somewhere. No one ever saw the book, but pretty much everyone in the Blind Tiger knew most of the bylaws by heart. Live, let live, and seize the moment when it came, because no one knew what’d happen next.

The dark man curled in a comma shape, crouched over his shot and beer, shoulders tilted and rounded. Go away.

Riordan didn’t think he would. Second chances weren’t that common or easily come by. He started for the far end of the bar --

Rio, Gale called from the pool table, close enough by the door for Riordan to hear without straining his ears, surprising Riordan into a ninety-degree pivot.

Who let you out to play? He took the cue from Gale and pretended to tap him on the shoulder. I thought you had a keeper these days.

That I did, and now I don’t. Gale tilted his head at a redheaded kid Riordan hadn’t seen before. On the bright side, the night’s looking up. Want to play?

He meant more than a game of pool, and they both knew it. Riordan elbowed him indulgently. Pass. I never got the hang of threesomes. Too many arms and legs. I’d end up fucking myself if I wasn’t careful.

Perfect timing. Gale choked on his sip of bourbon and, laughing, slapped the back of Riordan’s head. Asshole.

The finest kind. Riordan spun the cue in a vertical spiral and passed it back. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

So, free license for whatever I want?

The redhead didn’t look displeased. Riordan winked at him. Watch out. He bites.

You’re not staying? Gale already had his shot lined up.

Riordan checked the corner of the bar. The dark man still sat there. His drinks looked as if he’d barely sipped at either. Maybe. Maybe not.

Huh. Gale followed his line of sight. Pretty but touchy. Talk about biting. Do you know him?

Not yet, and I’m not surprised you tried your luck.

I am what I am. Gale took the shot. You’re looking better, by the way. He wanted to stare at Riordan’s chest but didn’t, which was more than most people who knew managed. Good luck.

I’ll take it where I can get it.

Don’t we all? Gale called after him. Riordan snorted, amused, and tossed him a backward wave.

The crowds didn’t part easily for Riordan. He’d been gone for far too long from a place he used to know well, and some wanted to talk, some wanted to stare, and some whispered behind their hands or in one another’s ears as he passed them by. Riordan let it all slide off his back. Either they knew and they were cool, or they didn’t and they would or wouldn’t be. As long as he didn’t lose track of the man in black, it worked for him.

Rio. Mare leaned over the bar for a kiss on the cheek. He knew better than to try anything like tousling her hair, or he’d draw back a bloody stump. Everything good?

Riordan was close enough to the slight dark man to get a sense of his aura and to see him sneaking -- in the mirror when he thought Riordan wasn’t looking -- glimpses and glances here and there, like an edgy cat creeping close to the demarcation of shadow between his hiding place and the rest of the world. One wrong word, and he’d bolt for sure.

Mare showed Riordan her wrist. What do you think? She’d had a watch tattooed on, the long and short hands set to five minutes past last call. Yeah, it’s as subtle as a brick to the face. Whatever. Got it done when I was in Miami. What do you think? Decent work?

He took Mare’s hand and turned it to and fro. More than. Her artist had used light and shadow to give the watch an almost three-dimensional look, and when she turned her wrist, it cast the illusion of moving time. Give me the artist’s name later, would you?

The man in black hunched his shoulders tighter, almost at his ears now. Riordan nodded once at the guy and raised an eyebrow at Mare. She met and matched him and held up both hands, palms out. You want your usual?

Thanks. Riordan could sense the tension gathering. Never mind a wrong word. If he didn’t take care, this one might break and run, hurrying out and away, and Riordan couldn’t let that happen again.

Riordan tapped his glass against the dark man’s. The dark man flinched, an exaggerated startle response. The corners of Riordan’s mouth crimped in an empathetic frown. Whoever this was, he didn’t need scars to tell his story. Life hadn’t treated him well, and this one needed handling with care.

That was the interesting part. People who came to the Blind Tiger knew what they wanted. Riordan didn’t think this man did.

Riordan had the man’s attention, though. That was something at least. He liked having that intense blue focus fixed on him, shining through the sweep of black hair. I’m Riordan, he said, leaving his glass kissing rims with its mate. I’d ask if we’ve met before, but I already know the answer. He held out his hand and waited to see if the man would take it, and if he’d hear the stranger’s name.

The dark man’s hand was dry and rough with scar tissue. Sean, he said, barely moving his lips. Still, it was a start, and Riordan had done more with less. I’m Sean.

* * *

Riordan. The name fit him. Different. Not outlandish. He wasn’t wearing his scrubs tonight, but a casual shirt and soft-washed jeans instead. His hand was long and firm. A few calluses. Only a few. Strong fingers. They were so gentle on his that Sean clenched his tighter, wanting to slap the blond.

Sean took his hand back and wrapped it around his almost untouched beer. The bitterly yeasty smell made him want to sneeze, but instead he closed his eyes and drank. The hops and barley were too strong for him by far, thick and sticky on his tongue.

He could feel Riordan watching.

He looks at me as if he likes what he sees. That’s not -- I don’t -- Sean drank again and wiped his mouth with his fingertips. You don’t look like a nurse when you’re out of uniform.

Riordan let out a small, surprised laugh.

Sean tensed. What’s so funny?

I didn’t expect a baritone.

Sean touched his throat. Oh. He’d forgotten. No one commented on his voice. I can’t sing.

Neither can I. Riordan eased onto the empty bar stool beside him. I am a nurse, actually. A good one.

With those tattoos? Sean drank. He flexed his empty hand. I’ve seen enough hospital staff to -- I’ve met a lot of nurses. They weren’t tattooed.

Maybe not where you could see the ink. I’ve met plenty of nurses with body art, and I am a nurse. I work every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and weekends if they need me. Other times too. He shifted to show Sean a pager clipped to his belt. See? He had a lean waist and strong thighs. He moved with a sort of confidence, as if certain his body wouldn’t ever betray him. He probably hadn’t known a sick day in his life. I have two jobs. One as a nurse and one as an artist. They go together better than you’d think.

The itch between his shoulder blades would drive Sean mad. A drop of sweat rolled from below his nape to the small of his