Shadows You Left Page 3

  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.

  Chapter Five

  Erik kept his hands busy. He dried mason jars, restocked glasses, wiped down the bar. Even though his attention revolved around work, his eyes couldn’t help themselves. He watched River go about his night, traced the stretch of his body across the pool table, caught the edge of his smile around the rim of a glass.

  Desiree made playful jabs at him as the last hour passed. Her rich, midnight skin was a stark contrast to the pastel-pink sports bra clinging to her chest. Her high-waist black jeans wore stains from spills.

  She swung her hip into him and smirked. “He’s cute. Real sweet, though. Probably too sweet for a guy like you.” Her dark eyes narrowed as she fiddled with the edge of her slouchy black beanie, covering short, tight curls. “Might rot your teeth if you aren’t careful.”

  “He’s not candy, Desiree.” Erik slid a drink to a customer. “And even if he was, I only eat candy once in a while. A few bites won’t hurt.”

  Desiree barked a laugh. “Sure, Erik. Whatever you say.”

  His gaze swept to where River sat in the low light, laughing about something with his friend. Erik still wondered if he could bottle the sound of it. He’d get drunk off it, maybe. Mix it with Patron and take it with a lick of salt.

  “This is really strong,” a girl said, interrupting his thoughts. She wrinkled her nose and poked her cocktail with two thin black straws. “Like, really strong.”

  “It’s last call, sweetheart,” Desiree said. She nudged Erik with her elbow and shot him a hard glare. “But Erik owes you a free drink next time, all right?”

  Erik cleared his throat, dragging his gaze from River to the girl, a pretty blonde wearing too much mascara. “Sorry about that. Too much rum?”

  “Uh, too much everything?” She offered a pained smile and pushed the cocktail toward him. “It’s not a big deal. Just… Cover me next time?”

  “Yeah, for sure.”

  “Maybe tomorrow? You’re fighting here, right?” The girl winked. Erik froze. Usually patrons kept Gem’s back room a secret, the place where bets were made and blood was spilled. He gave a stiff nod and glanced from her to River. She tapped her crimson fingernail on the bar beside his freshly tattooed hand. “I’ve got my money on you, O’Malley. Always do.”

  Thankfully, Erik didn’t have to respond because Desiree swatted the bar top and pointed toward the door. “That’s it! We’re done for the night! See you assholes next time!”

  The blonde bounced away.

  “I’d tell them to tip their bartender, but you still can’t pour a drink to save your life, so—” Desiree’s teasing morphed into laughter when Erik shouldered past her. “It’s true! If you’d stop letting people beat on that pretty face of yours, I’d actually teach you a thing or two about handling liquor.”

  “You still let me back here, don’t you?” He flashed a fanged grin, which earned him a slow roll of Desiree’s eyes.

  “Go on.” She snapped a towel at him. “I can finish closing. Go tend to your sweet tooth.”

  “You sure?” Erik wiped his hands with the bar rag he’d had tucked into his back pocket and shrugg
ed his coat on. The thick wool collar stood around his neck, but he didn’t bother buttoning it. He snatched his beanie off the hook on the wall and tugged it over the back of his head.

  Desiree counted out their tips from the till, folding his in half and tucking them into his hand. He unfolded the bills and removed about a third, tucking them into her back pocket. “D, you know I didn’t earn that.”

  “Work on your pours, and you’ll be getting half of that, no problem. But still, you do the hours, you get paid.” It was a familiar dance they played, which always ended the same way.

  Erik waved a hand. “I’ll work on my pours.”

  “Yeah, sure. See you tomorrow—speakin’ of which, don’t forget an Ace bandage. You’ll need to wrap that new ink before shit goes down.”

  Erik gave a two-finger wave, a silent I got it, before he made his way out the door and onto the sidewalk. Brisk air bit his cheeks. The night felt charged at one a.m. Anticipation lingered beneath uncertainty, and the city stirred lonesome strangers together under a blanket of storm clouds. A woman stumbled by in a pair of skyscraper heels. A group cackled at the moon as they stomped the damp sidewalk.

  River stood against the wall beside the door, a smile on his face and hands buried in the front pockets of his leather jacket. He cocked his head, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed. “You look surprised.”

  He was. Not because River was there, waiting for him, but because Erik had hoped he would be. “I am,” he said.

  “You asked me to stay. I stayed. What now?”

  “You hungry?” Erik nodded toward the intersection at the end of the street. “There’s some food trucks up the block. They stay open till three.”

  “I’m starving,” River confessed, voice overrun by a light laugh. “Lead the way.”

  They walked together, footsteps quietly mingling with car tires on wet asphalt, noisy nightclubs, and crowded eateries. River’s shoulder bumped Erik’s. Their hands brushed, a hushed breath of fingertips over knuckles and palms on wrists before Erik shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and pretended to answer a text.