The Square Peg (11 page)

“What the hell is your landlord’s problem?” was the first thing he asked Vincent

when the young man turned up for his shift.

“Ben?” Vincent frowned and turned back from hanging his coat. “Nothing. Why?”

“Because he came in here and acted like a prat this morning.”

“Huh. I don’t know why,” Vincent said. “It seemed like he was in a good mood

when he left the house.” Vincent seemed to be in a good mood as well, and his often

lank hair looked freshly washed and combed. “What did he say?”

Shane sighed as he heard the delivery truck pulling up out back. The guttural

rumble of its engine was unmistakable. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“We still on for poker on Wednesday?” Vincent asked. “Stephanie said she and

Cara will bring those weird fruitcake cookie things you like.”

Shane brightened. “Yeah? That’s nice of her. Yeah, I’m in.”

The Wednesday game was for the off-duty staff, any of their close friends, and

anyone on duty who could persuade their fellow shift worker to mind the bar solo for a

short while. The bar was usually empty enough that night that Shane often set up the

table in a corner instead of using the break room. It meant the visitors spent money on

drinks and snacks instead of bringing their own, and it gave the place the illusion of

being busy. If there was an unexpected influx of customers, the game relocated. Shane

had learned the hard way not to include any customers who asked to be dealt in. The

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last time it’d happened had cost him some grazed knuckles, six broken glasses, and a

table reduced to kindling.

The guy he’d punched for cheating had never returned, so he didn’t know if the

lesson in etiquette had stuck. Probably not. A skull that thick, he’d have needed to use a

sledgehammer.

“I asked Ben to drop by.” Vincent grinned and shook his head, long hair flying.

“He asked what game we were playing. Think he was joking, though. I mean, who

plays anything but poker?”

Shane followed Vincent out into the bar area, going over to a table to pick up a

forgotten glass. He had to squeeze past the pool table as usual, and he struck his thigh

on the corner. “Fuck!”

“You okay?”

“This fucking table!” Shane glowered at it, less pissed off about the bruise he was

going to have than the idea of Benedict showing up at the game, clueless, asking

questions, slowing them all down. “We’re moving it,” he decided.

“During the renovations?”

“Right the hell now.”

“It’s too heavy,” Vincent objected. “Wait for Dave to show up. And where are you

going to put it?”

Shane glanced around, but Vincent was right. Until the renovation redefined the

space, the pool table wasn’t going anywhere.

“So we leave the pool table and get rid of one of these small tables. Make more

room around it. I’m sick of a fight every third week because someone’s cue got jiggled

and ruined their shot.”

“Okay,” Vincent said agreeably. “We could rearrange them a little bit, I guess.”

Halfway through, Shane lost interest, but they couldn’t leave the place as it was,

chairs shoved off to the side, some tables touching, some in yards of space. His back

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aching, keenly aware of how grubby the place was in the unforgiving sunlight that

made it past the grimy windows, he felt depression settle over him. Too early for a

drink, no one around to fuck—staff were off-limits—so his usual antidotes weren’t

available.

“Ben sure had a hangover on Saturday,” Vincent said with a reminiscent grin,

dusting off his leather pants. Shane couldn’t swear to it, but he thought Vincent had

added another piercing to his right ear. How the hell the lad kept his head upright, with

the weight of all the metal adorning it, he didn’t know. “I don’t think he drinks much.”

“That’s what he said.”

“He was nervous about Friday night.” Vincent shook his head when Shane looked

at him. “No, he didn’t say it, but I could tell. He probably thought a few drinks would

take the edge off.”

It had certainly taken something off, Shane mused, though clearly not what

Benedict had expected. “Was he ill?”

“Throwing up, you mean? I don’t think so. But he slept half the day, then lay on

the couch all afternoon taking ibuprofen and drinking water as if he’d just been rescued

from the desert. And when I got back from here, he was asleep on the couch with the

TV still on. I had to wake him up and send him to bed.” Vincent seemed more amused

by the incident than anything. “This is kind of a different world for him.”

“It is,” Shane agreed grimly.

“He’s like a kid in a candy store. Excited. It’s adorable.” Vincent pushed another

chair under a table to get it out of the way. “You should hear him when he talks about

it.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

Vincent grabbed the broom from where he’d leaned it against the wall and went to

put it back where it belonged. “Because he doesn’t want you to think he’s totally

clueless.”

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“He is totally clueless.”

“He’s not. He’s smart. And he’s a nice guy.” It was odd hearing Vincent defend

Benedict. “He’s learning, you know? He’s going to—” Vincent closed his mouth

abruptly, looking guilty.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m not supposed to tell you.” Determinedly, Vincent went to work

wiping down the bar.

Shane could’ve put some pressure on Vincent—he knew the man’s weak points—

but it would’ve felt like cheating. He settled for a noncommittal grunt and promised

himself he’d get Benedict to share with him later.

Learning. Learning what? How to hold his fucking drink?

Shane rubbed at his shoulder, the bite mark Benedict had given him no longer

visible, though he knew just where it’d been, and wondered if he’d ever get the chance

to see Benedict like that again.

Probably not, and it was probably for the best. It’d been fun, but the fallout wasn’t

worth the big bang.

He realized he was still touching his shoulder, more of a caress really, and that

Vincent was staring at him, eyebrows raised.

Shit.

“You missed a bit,” he said and walked off with as much dignity as he could

salvage.

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Chapter Seven

Ben wasn’t sure what a poker night entailed in the way of clothing or

contributions. Since the game was set in a bar—his bar—the usual gift of a bottle of

good wine was redundant, and though there was no menu as such, the bar did sell

bowls of chips with sour cream and salsa.

“No cooking, takes a minute to get ready, and it makes them thirsty, so they drink

more,” Shane had explained with admirable brevity.

Yes, they needed to provide food, especially at lunch. He’d been wrong to push

that to the future. There were a lot of businesses in the area around the bar with staff

who might like to have something hot and fresh to eat instead of sandwiches or a

predictable slice of pizza. They had to find a way to fill the bar every day, afternoons as

well as evenings. Ben had plenty of ideas for that, none of which he’d shared with

Shane yet.

Baby steps. Shane was so resistant to the idea of change…

He flashed on a memory of Shane bending over for him, letting Ben manhandle

him into any position, and shuddered with arousal.

No. He wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t. He’d jerked off multiple times since

Friday and very firmly kept his fantasies Shanefree. Well, mostly. He’d tried. If every

nameless guy he pictured had an English accent and light eyes, that didn’t mean

anything beyond the fact Shane was, naturally, in his thoughts because they were

business partners.

There weren’t very many people in the bar when he went in: just a few older men

who Shane swore were straight but who seemed to like Square Peg just the same. God,

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that was such a shitty name. He had to come up with something better, then somehow

convince Shane that it was time for yet another change.

From behind the bar, Vin raised a hand in greeting. Ben went over to say hi.

“Quiet night,” he observed.

“That’s why it’s poker night,” Vin said. “Shelly’ll be in any minute to keep an eye

on things out here. After the first half dozen times when she lost her whole paycheck

and ended up in tears in the bathroom, Shane said he’d pay her time and a half if she’d

sit it out and cover the bar instead.”

“Lost to who?” Ben was pretty sure he could guess.

“Shane. He’s really good.” Vin gave him a long look. “So be careful, okay?”

“Vincent,” Shane said from behind him. “I’m sure Benedict knows how to handle

himself.”

Ben found himself standing up straighter as he turned around. “I brought some

snacks,” he blurted and thrust the paper bag of groceries he was holding at Shane, who

took it.

“Ta. You didn’t have to, though.”

“I wanted to contribute,” Ben said and realized how stiff he sounded. He tried

again. “Thought it’d be a good idea to soak up the beer with something.”

Okay, that was even worse. Shit
. Now Shane had to be thinking about Friday, and

yeah, judging by the cool smile Ben was getting, Shane definitely was.

“Won’t argue with that seeing as how you keel over after sniffing a soggy beer

mat. We do sell nonalcoholic drinks, though.”

“I’m not driving,” Ben said through his teeth, humiliation rising. He wasn’t that

much of a fucking lightweight when it came to drinking, and he guessed for Shane it

was definitely a failing not to be able to drink vast amounts.

“Listen to you two,” Vin said with a shake of his head. “Hopeless.” He held out

his hand for the bag of snacks. “I’ll find some bowls.”

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Ben watched Vin leave with the same emotion a drowning man would feel

watching a lifejacket drift away.

“So,” Shane said with a smile spreading across his face. “You play poker often?”

“I’ve played it once or twice,” Ben said cautiously. He’d spent a week in Vegas

with Jenson to celebrate Jenson’s thirtieth birthday, and they’d hit the tables most

nights. He didn’t intend to share that with Shane, though. Let Shane see him as an easy

mark if he wanted to. Ben planned to be the one walking away from the table with his

pockets heavy.

“Well, if you just want to watch, we’d understand.” Shane seemed way too

amused by this whole thing, which threw Ben off balance. He’d expected Shane to be

mad at him, since that emotion had been the underlying thread in all their interactions.

Shane being amused was a change.

Unless he was amused because he planned to get even. Considering that made

Ben even more determined to win. He knew he was setting himself up to feel like shit if

he lost, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t going to let Shane walk all over him.

“I don’t mind playing,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll all be nice to the new guy.”

“Hey, Steph!” Vin called. Ben turned to see two women, one with a haircut so

short it was almost a crew cut, coming through the door. He pasted a polite smile on his

face, already feeling the chilly awkwardness of being the new guy, the outsider. But

Steph and her girlfriend Cara were too welcoming for his shyness to last much past the

introductions.

“Fresh meat,” Cara explained when he mentioned it. Her hair was a wild froth of

blonde curls that made Ben think of cotton candy. She took the seat beside him and

gave him a beaming smile. “We’re so fucking bored of taking money off this bunch

because we know every tell they’ve got. You’re going to make things interesting.”

“But we’re still going to take all your money too,” Steph said serenely. “Sorry.

We’ve got three cats to keep in tuna.”

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“Are they always like this?” Ben asked Shane, laughing, forgetting in the moment

everything that lay between them.

Shane pursed his lips. “Not really, no. They gave you a warning. That’s new.” He

smiled, cracking open a pack of cards, then shuffling them with a dexterity that was

another warning. “They must like you. Can’t think why. You’re definitely not their

type.”

“It’s not all about sex,” Steph said. She tilted her head. “Wait. Can I take that back

in case a deity I don’t believe in strikes me down with a bad case of celibacy?”

“I’ve got a cure for that,” Cara said with a demure smile.

Vincent made a gagging sound and tapped the table. “Deal. Before they go at it on

the table.”

Ben let himself sit out the first two hands, just to get a feel for the dynamic and

because he honestly needed the reminder—not of the basics, but of how players studied

one another while pretending not to. Playing with people who knew one another had to