Page 13 of Newly Tied

What made it even worse was that he had a beer for me and a beer for him in his hand, and I was not surprised when the guy looked Lang over and turned tail and walked away.

I did a slow pan to him.

“What?”

“I was tryin’ to hit that,” I told him.

“Eww,” Talia said, walking up beside me. “We don’t say hit that, thus dehumanizing the very handsome man who ran out of here as though he thought you had the plague.”

I groaned loudly, leaving them both to return to my stool in the corner.

“I was just being friendly,” Lang said, rubbing his hand over his short hair. He had the fade touched up earlier, and I was wondering if he’d showered after.

“You keep doin’ that. Are you itchy?”

He started rolling his shoulders then, quickly, and there was more squirming.

“What’s wrong with you?” Talia asked, looking him over. “Do you have cooties?”

“I didn’t shower after my haircut.”

“Are there little hairs all over your back?”

“Now there are,” he snapped but grinned because we’d done shots at the bar before we started playing, and that, coupled with the beers and no food, meant he wasn’t wasted, but he could not have stopped smiling if his life depended on it.

We ended up leaving his little sister with her friends, and going to his condo in River North. He took a shower, and then he wanted pizza, so we ordered in because by then it was late. I slept on his couch. He was fine with me being there, but we both had the same rule about having strangers in our places after midnight because then they might want to sleep over. Neither of us could fall asleep with a guest in our home. We knew too many stories, had seen too many crime scenes to ever be comfortable with that.

Sharpe, one of the guys we worked with, had someone different every night and was sneaking out in the wee hours, doing the walk of shame. I had no idea how he had that kind of stamina or how he got any rest that way. But he too never slept over. It was too dicey.

A week ago, I had picked up a guy at a bar where I was drinking with Bon, Cher, Cho, and Lopez, and they all gave Lang shit when that guy bolted for the door because of him. Lang had shown up in a suit, with his fancy cuff links on, not his everyday ones, looking like he walked off the cover of a magazine, with an extra ticket for a play at the Steppenwolf.

“You’re killing the vibe, man,” Lopez told him.

“What vibe?”

“His game,” Cher pointed out. “He had one on the line.”

“He is trying to take someone home,” Bon asserted. “He has several prospects. There are a lot of handsome men hovering around.”

Nice of Bon, who was straight, to notice I was being checked out.

“You can be my wingman,” I told Bon.

“I would be far better than this one,” he said, indicating Lang.

“Where are these guys?” Lang asked, and really, I didn’t see them either, but Bon was excellent at surveillance, so if he vouched for my prospects, they had to be there.

“I am not goin’ to see a play like this,” I stated firmly, back to the subject at hand, gesturing at my very tight jeans showing off all my assets and the T-shirt that told everyone it was cold in the sports bar.

“No, I know. I stopped at your place and got you clothes and shoes.”

Of course he had, he was thorough like that, and he had keys to my apartment because who else was I going to give them to?

I stared at him, he waited with crossed arms, and like always, I gave in and we went and saw a play. And I loved it, and we had dinner after and drinks and finally dessert in Chinatown.

The following Monday at work, Lopez wanted to know why my partner didn’t want me to get laid.

“He’s oblivious when I’m on the prowl,” I said dramatically, elongating the words for her, making my hands into claws for emphasis.