Restoration 01 - Getting It Right (17 page)

“Deal.”

An impossible deal, because his case was cold. The van had probably landed in a chop shop right after, obliterating the crime scene and any evidence of the van’s driver. Four months was a long time to hope for a break in the case, and Nate was slowly learning to accept that he might never know who’d hurt him or why. He wasn’t okay with it, but he was pretty sure he could live with it.

Maybe.

James tried hard not to tap his feet while he waited for Nathan to get dressed. After several hours of cleaning, shopping and a quick dinner at a local diner, they’d returned to Nathan’s duplex.

The bulk of their groceries had been coffee, half-and-half, sugar and stacks of frozen dinners.

They’d also gotten a gallon of milk and protein powder. Nathan said it was to help him get some muscle tone back. James had tossed a package of Oreos into the cart because they were Nathan’s favorite.

Then Nathan went to change, while James hung out in the living room. On the couch where he’d blacked out his second kiss with Nathan, during yet another drunken self-pity session. Social drinking was one thing. Getting drunk once in a while was one thing. Tying one on so tight he didn’t remember losing control of himself was another animal entirely. How soon before he did something truly horrible that he couldn’t fix later?

He really needed to stop drinking.

After tonight. Tonight they were celebrating. He’d simply moderate with water.

A few minutes after nine, his cell buzzed with a text from Elliott:
U 2 still coming, yeah?

Yeah, heading over in a few.

Excellent. TTYS!

He made a mental note to corner Elliott at some point tonight and clarify last night’s activities. He really hoped Elliott remembered what they had or hadn’t done.

Nathan’s bedroom door finally swung open, ejecting a somewhat glum Nathan. His black jeans were slightly loose on his hips, cinched up with a smart leather belt. He’d tucked a red Tshirt into the jeans, not quite skin-tight, but sexy. James liked the look. Hot without advertising too much.

“What’s wrong, babe?” James asked. He stood but didn’t walk over.

Nathan came to him, hands in his pockets. “I couldn’t find anything that fit right.”

“It looks fantastic to me.”

He shrugged. Nathan had never been a vain guy, never seemed overtly interested in how other people saw him—until he’d been attacked, and now he seemed convinced that people only saw his flaws. The scars. The weight loss. Hell.

“You look great, Nate, I promise you. And who exactly are you trying to impress?”

James chucked him lightly on the chin. “You already caught me.”

Some of the doubt cleared. “You’re right.”

“Oooh, say it again.”

Nathan poked him in the ribs. “Jerk.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

He laughed, everything about Nathan perked up. “You are such a ten-year-old

sometimes, you know that?”

“It makes you laugh, though, and that’s what matters.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime. You have your wallet and phone?”

Nathan patted his rear pocket. “Yes, dear.”

“Smartass.”

“You started it.”

James bit his lower lip and held back the teasing words he so wanted to say. He wanted to start a lot of things with Nathan, and all of them would prevent them from meeting up with their friends. He wanted to be selfish with Nathan’s time, keep him wrapped up tight in his arms so no psychopaths could ever hurt him again, but that was unreasonable.

“We should go,” Nathan said. “Want me to drive?”

“You’re not drinking tonight?”

He shook his head. “Can’t mix it with my meds.”

James nearly asked what he was taking, but stopped himself. It wasn’t his business.

Nathan would tell him when he was ready—

“BuSpar,” Nathan said. “I’ve been taking it for eight weeks.”

Brand name for buspirone, a relatively new antianxiety medication that was less

addicting than some of the older drugs. Typically used for generalized anxiety disorder.

Interesting choice. “Any side effects?” the therapist in James asked.

“Occasional dry mouth, Dr. Taggert, but so far so good.”

“Sorry—”

“No, it’s fine. Do you prescribe it?”

“A few times, generally to older patients, or former addicts. Not usually to someone who’s suffered such a serious trauma as you.”

Nathan frowned. “Do you think I’m taking the wrong thing?”

“I think if it helps you get through the day, then it’s the right thing.”

“It didn’t help me not hit you in the nose earlier.”

James wrinkled his nose to prove there were no lasting side effects. “I don’t tend to suggest medicating those kinds of reactions. They need to be worked through and talked out. It gets better by degrees, and it takes time.”

“Time to become normal again?”

“No, time to find your balance. Normal is gone, Nate. It left the building when that psycho attacked you. You need to find a way to overcome what happened, and to build a new normal that you can live with.”

Nathan tilted his head to the side, thinking. “So as a professional, would you recommend a patient such as myself get caught up in a new and radically out-of-character relationship while still working through said trauma?”

James swallowed hard. “If you’d asked me that a few weeks after the attack, I’d have said no. If you’d met some stranger who didn’t know you inside and out, and who wasn’t already head over heels for you, I’d have said no. But you’re four months out, and it helps to have someone there to prop you up when things get hard, so yes. I’d recommend this relationship to a patient like you.”

He worked through the words, considering them as spoken, and then Nathan smiled.

“Good answer, Doc.” His dark eyes glittered. “So back to my original question.”

“Remind me?”

“You want me to drive?”

“Sure.” James didn’t plan on getting wasted tonight. No matter whose bed they ended up in afterward, he wanted to remember every detail.

Nate’s stomach was a tangled knot of nerves by the time they walked into Pot O Gold.

The rapid bass of the music slammed into his chest, revving up his heart rate. The mixed scents of liquor, beer and sweat tingled his nose in a heady way that woke up his senses like it never had before. Maybe because the dozen or so times he’d come here over the years, it had been as a tourist. He’d been the straight friend out for the night.

Tonight he was here with James.
With
James. No longer a tourist but still not really a local.

James hovered at his shoulder, almost touching, fingers skating across Nate’s lower back.

Nate glanced at the U-shaped bar to the right, then to the throng of dancing bodies to the left.

The far left wall had a handful of booths, but mostly the floor space was empty of tables and chairs. The thickest cluster of dancers was in the rear, near the VJ booth.

So many strange faces. And any one of them could be his attacker.

James’s hand pressed more firmly against his back when Nate stopped walking. “You doing okay, babe?”

Nate swallowed, his mouth dry in a way that had nothing to do with his meds. No, he couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t imagine every stranger was his assailant, or that every look thrown his way was a threat. “I’m good,” he said, then started walking again.

Elliott had commandeered a booth in the rear left, farthest from the frenzy, but it was still fucking loud. He sprang from the booth, dressed up in green pants that looked painted on and a white mesh top that barely covered skin. He flung himself at Nate, and Nate endured the hug.

“I’m so happy you said yes, honey,” Elliott said as he pulled back. Actual joy glimmered in his eyes—eyes that seemed a little too dilated, even in the bad light. Was he high?

“I figured this was the only way I could get out for a while without having to ditch my bodyguard.” He jerked his thumb at James.

James shot him a mock glare.

“He’s just happy to see you again, honey. We all are.” Elliott turned him over to the group for hugs from Boxer and Tori, who seemed to be the only woman in the place. He shook hands with Allan, Louis and a few other people whose faces he knew but names he’d forgotten.

Elliott took a big swig of something red and fruity-looking, then smacked his lips. “Okay, what are we drinking tonight, boys?”

“Peach mojito,” James said.

The order prickled Nate’s nerves for no good reason—he’d offered to drive so James could feel free to drink. But alcohol was a problem James needed to face someday soon. He’d simply watch tonight and make sure James didn’t overdo it. “Coke,” Nate said.

Elliott wrinkled his nose. “Plain Coke?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged, then darted off to get their drinks. Nate tracked him for a while, concerned, but Elliott wasn’t weaving, tripping or listing. Yet.

The booth was full, but Nate didn’t mind standing. It meant leaning on the wall with James plastered up so close he could feel his body heat. Close without really touching him. He was letting Nate lead this. Allowing Nate to reach first, to say something first. To come out at his own pace.

The idea of announcing anything to the group made his stomach twist up even tighter.

Maybe this was a bad idea. He was still getting used to the idea of being part of a couple, and being at Pot O Gold only reinforced the strangeness of his life now. That he was with an openly gay man, with his openly gay friends, and Nate still couldn’t apply the word
gay
to himself. Not in his head, and not out loud.

“So, you looking to go back to work?” Boxer asked.

“Definitely,” Nate replied. Conversation he could handle. “I need to do some psych evals first, but I’m looking forward to going back.”

“Why?” Louis asked with an obvious shudder. “After what happened? I’d quit and

become a florist.”

“You are a florist, baby,” Boxer said.

“So?”

“Being a cop isn’t what got me hurt,” Nate said. Fine tremors rolled down his arms. “Not directly. Besides, I love my job, and I’ve got a black thumb.”

“I guess I’d be scared to go back to something so dangerous.”

“You get scared killing a spider the size of a ladybug,” Boxer said.

Louis blew Boxer a raspberry.

The banter was cute, easy, an established thing between a couple who’d been together almost a year now, if Nate remembered right. “Police work isn’t as dangerous as it looks on television, trust me. In my twelve years, I’ve never once pulled my gun on a suspect. I’ve never even fired it, except on the practice range.”

Several pairs of wide, disbelieving eyes turned on him.

Elliott returned with their drinks faster than Nate expected, and the conversation switched to some flare trick Donner had performed while Elliott waited for Riley to make his drinks. Nate looked at the bar in time to see a brown-haired man wearing heavy black eyeliner toss a bottle into the air. It spun in two perfect arches, then landed in his hand ready to pour. Little things like that probably got the guy good tips.

“So what the hell, Nate,” Elliott said after he downed more of his drink. “You don’t call, you don’t write.”

The attention was on him again. A hand on the small of his back—James—settled some of his nerves. “I apologized to James already, but I’m sorry to the rest of you,” Nate said. “I’m sorry for making you worry, but cutting myself off was what I needed to do to get better.”

The group at the table all seemed to be waiting, deferring to James on this one. James tipped back his drink, then slid his arm across Nate’s shoulders in a friendly way. Like he’d done hundreds of times before. “Nate and I are good. We had our say to each other, and we’re better than ever.”

Nods and smiles went around the booth. If anyone had picked up on the hidden subtext, they didn’t show it. Part of Nate wished James would come out and say it so uncertainty would go away. The rest of him was grateful the moment hadn’t turned into some dramatic congratulatory group hug, welcoming him to the family.

Elliott heaved a dramatic sigh. “Well, I suppose if James has forgiven you for ignoring him for months, we can too. Welcome home, honey.” He held up the last of his fruity drink.

Everyone got in close so they could clink glasses on a chorus of “Welcome home.”

Nate sipped his Coke, grateful to have such an easygoing group of friends. He couldn’t say they were mostly James’s friends, even though he only knew them because of his friendship with James. Straight or not, he’d always been part of James, so as each new member was added to the cluster of friends, Nate was there. Maybe not as frequently, but everyone knew him. And never in his life had he been more grateful to know them.

He also still had their undivided attention. No time like the present to come out and reveal his newborn relationship with James. Only his jaw locked up, preventing the words from tumbling out.

“I want to dance,” Louis said, with a firm elbow into Boxer’s side. He was a small, pale, wiry thing—the perfect physical opposite to Boxer’s tattooed brawn. “Let’s dance, baby.”

Boxer eyed his drink with reluctance, but he indulged his boyfriend by sliding out of the booth. The two others squashed into the same side of the booth as Boxer and Louis—he was pretty sure one’s name was Brad—tumbled out right behind them.

Allan and Tori seemed content to guard the booth and their drinks.

“Don’t even think you’re getting out of this,” Elliott said, then grabbed Nate by the wrist.

Nate allowed himself to be tugged out into the sea of gyrating male bodies. His insides tingled with nerves as hands and elbows brushed him, innocent touches that were unavoidable on a crowded dance floor. And then a familiar hand on the small of his back—James. Following close.

Elliott settled on a spot in the middle of everything, then swung around and draped his arms around Nate’s waist. The hold was loose, friendly. They’d danced before, usually when Nate was pretty drunk, and tonight he was stone-cold sober while his dance partner looked as if he was tweaking on something. It made Nate glad he was dancing with Elliott, instead of Elliott falling all over some stranger who might take advantage.