The Square Peg (25 page)

“It’s not difficult,” Shane told him. “Most of the pumps, you just put the glass

under and open the tap. I’ll show you how to change a barrel another day. Concentrate

on the Guinness for today. It’s what most of them will be drinking. Can’t stand it

myself. Feels as if I should be chewing it, not drinking it. Go on then; get yourself

behind the bar. Move your arse and get him a Guinness glass, Vincent.”

The note of authority and confidence in Shane’s voice was intriguing, and Ben

responded to it with something approaching relief. He needed this reminder that when

sex wasn’t involved, Shane was more than prepared to take the lead. God, a therapist

would have a field day with Shane and his issues.

The view from behind the bar wasn’t completely new to Ben; he’d helped restock

the shelves, after all, but to stand there in charge of things was a novel sensation. He

took the glass and stood with it in his hand, giving his audience an expectant look.

“It takes about two minutes to pour one properly,” Shane said, “and it’s supposed

to come out cold. Forty-two point eight degrees, to be exact. What you do is fill it, let it

settle, then give it a nice, thick, creamy head. The double pour, they call it.”

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“Perfect drink for us,” Vin said with a wink. “Nothing like a creamy head.”

Shane grinned. “Don’t fluster him.”

“If you’re both finished…” Ben said, but he couldn’t work up a glare. The sun was

shining, the bar looked stunning, and Shane was smiling at him, heat and a promise in

his gray eyes.

He screwed up his first two attempts and drenched his hand, but the third pint

was perfect.

“What now?” he asked, admiring the glass as it stood on the bar, its dark contents

gleaming in a shaft of sunlight.

“Now you drink it. Or you do when we’ve got everyone in here and fixed up with

whatever they want.” Shane nodded at Vin. “Go round them up and get them in here

for a toast.”

It didn’t take long for Vin to do that—the bar was the same size it had been,

despite the extensive renovations and the staggering bill that had eaten nearly every

cent of the life insurance check Craig had left behind—and a few minutes later they

were all standing with a glass in hand. Benedict lifted his and looked around at the

small group clustered around Shane. Dave, Shelly, and Vincent. Ben wasn’t sure how he

felt about being part of this little family Shane had created. He appreciated it, of course,

but he didn’t want to feel like one of the gang. He wanted to be special to Shane.

That thought floored him and made him late to say
Cheers
when everyone else did.

He’d missed Shane’s entire speech, he realized. Shane seemed to realize it too, if the

puzzled look he was giving Ben meant anything.

But all Shane said was, “Patrick’s late. Should have been here twenty minutes

ago.”

“And that’s my fault somehow?” Ben was starting to feel mentally unstable and

more than a little obsessed. He couldn’t seriously be jealous of Patrick, whom he’d

barely recognize again.

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“No. You’re—” Shane broke off in frustration as Patrick came in. “You’re late,” he

growled.

“Not very.” Patrick sounded as cheerful as Ben remembered. “You haven’t even

opened the doors.”

“It’s only nine thirty,” Vin pointed out. “We can’t start serving alcohol until

eleven.”

“But we can sell coffee,” Dave said, his voice quiet. Ben hadn’t gotten to know

Dave well, though the man was friendly enough. Older than the others, in his late

forties, he worked efficiently, but with a distant look in his eyes. Shane had told Ben

privately that Dave’s partner of fifteen years had left him six months before, and he

hadn’t taken it well.

“Yes, we could,” Ben said. “On the house. With some food, though we’ll charge

for that. Get them in here; then they’ll stay when we start serving alcohol.”

“We weren’t planning to do food today,” Shane said dubiously.

“There must be something we could serve them. Something Irish?”

Shane snorted. “Such as?”

“Liverpool’s not that far from Ireland—”

“Not in miles, maybe, but let me tell you—”

A sharp whistle from Shelly interrupted them.

“What?” Shane asked.

“If you two have finished flirting, can I put in a suggestion for bacon sandwiches?

My granddad was from Dublin, and he said he used to have them for breakfast on

Saturday when they couldn’t afford a full fry-up, whatever that is.”

Shane nodded. “Bacon, eggs, sausages, black pudding, fried tomatoes—never

mind. Bacon butties. Yeah. That could work.”

Sometimes Ben didn’t have a clue what Shane was talking about. “I think it’s up to

Dave. He’s the one who’d be doing the cooking, right?”

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167

“It’s okay with me,” Dave said. He’d gone the week before to a class that had

ended in his being certified to prepare food safely—as far the government was

concerned—and they’d gone through the inspection process. There was no technical or

legal reason why they couldn’t serve food. “We’d need a few things, but there’s time for

someone to run out and get them.”

Shane seemed to be considering the matter; then he nodded decisively. “Do it.”

The next hour passed in a flurry of work, and by the time the bar opened its doors,

the smell of bacon was still lingering in the air despite the high-quality fans that had

been installed in the kitchen. Customers came in, many of them sniffing appreciatively.

Even Ben recognized some of them, but Shane seemed to know them all by name,

shaking hands and welcoming them like old friends. People seemed happy enough

with coffee, and many of them walked around the bar exclaiming at the changes. Shane

had a strange expression on his face as time went on, as if he didn’t know whether to be

happy at the compliments or irritated that the place had been so run-down before.

“What do you think?” Ben asked, going over to join him where he was leaning

against the wall.

“I think I’m going to need a few drinks myself by the time the day’s over.” Shane

rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and grinned at Ben. “It’s good.”

“Think Patrick might be willing to come on full-time?” He was just making idle

conversation, enjoying the fact Shane was in a good mood.

Shane shook his head. “He likes his proper job too much.” His hand dropped

down to his side between them, and Ben felt Shane’s little finger touch his. “What about

you?”

“What about—” Ben swallowed and curled his hand into Shane’s. “Yeah. I’m here

for the long haul. Assuming you can stand having me around.”

Shane studied him in silence for a moment, taking the question seriously. Ben

appreciated that on one level, but part of him would’ve preferred an instant

reassurance.

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“You’re an easy man to get used to,” Shane said finally. “I miss you when you’re

not here, for what it’s worth. I’m not talking about the sex.” He sketched out a gesture,

pointing vaguely. “That’s off there somewhere separate. I’m talking about the…the

quiet moments.” He shook his head, a bemused look on his face. “I’ve had too much to

drink. Listen to me drivel.”

“You’re not,” Ben said more emphatically than he’d intended. The background

music gave them some privacy, and more people were arriving every few minutes,

seemingly deciding that the crush of bodies in the bar was a good reason to stay, rather

than take the sensible option of finding somewhere else to drink. The buzz of their

conversation hung like fog in the warm room. “I love it here. Working with you,

making this place popular. It feels real, not just fiddling with numbers so someone rich

can get even richer.”

Shane’s mouth twisted cynically. “You’re an accountant to the bone,” he objected.

“This is a working holiday. Fun for a month, but you’ll get sick of it soon enough. Wait

until someone throws up over you, or realizes he’s in a gay bar and gives you an earful

about how sick and perverted queers are.”

“I know it’s not all fun and games; don’t worry,” Ben said. He looked at the

crowd, enjoying the way every face was lit up with pleasure. Sure, copious amounts of

green alcohol were partly the cause, and yes, here and there sections of the crowd were

pushing the limit of what Ben wanted to see done in public, but the mood was festive,

and no one was actually naked or fucking.

Yet.

Deciding to stop tiptoeing around and just ask for what he wanted, Ben said,

“Speaking of fun, Vin’s not staying at my place tonight. Maybe you could come over

after we close? Or I could stop here? And, yes, I’m talking about having sex, assuming

you’ve forgiven me for daring to suggest the bar needed a new name.”

Shane chuckled, the sound lost, but his amusement plain. “Yeah, I’ve forgiven

you. Next time I get moody, don’t wait for me to get over myself. Just boot me up the

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169

arse and tell me to put a sock in it. We won’t close until the early hours, though. You’ll

be too knackered to fuck me the way I deserve. Tomorrow night’s better. I’m on the

early shift, so I’ll be free from around eight.”

Ben could think of exactly what kind of sex Shane deserved after his prolonged

sulk. His breath caught as he saw Shane bent over the pool table, covered now with a

board to provide a makeshift table and to protect the cloth. He’d make Shane spread his

legs wide, that pale ass waiting to receive whatever Ben thought was suitable

punishment. Maybe he’d use his hand, spank Shane’s skin red and rough, maybe

unscrew a cue and use the tapering piece of wood as a cane to draw blurred lines of

scarlet on suffering, shrinking flesh.

Or maybe he’d crouch down and use his mouth to reduce Shane to nothing but

shameless begging, licking at dark, secret places, fucking Shane’s hole with soft stabs of

his tongue, sucking marks into tender skin, leaving it bitten and bruised.

“Okay,” he said, thankful the noise covered the fact that his voice was shaky.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Shane?” Vin called from behind the bar. “Could you grab another bottle of

Jameson for me?”

“Duty calls.” Shane squeezed Ben’s hand and went off to the small storage area.

Ben grabbed a tray and started making the rounds picking up empty glasses. They

were everywhere, but he was trying not to get too hopeful about how busy the place

was. It was one night and a big one for drinking. The crowd of customers eager to

spend money might only be temporary. It was dangerous to get his hopes up.

If they were successful in turning the bar around, he and Shane would probably

work things out between them, but if the bar failed… Who knew what Shane would do?

Move back to England? Chances were he wouldn’t want to stick around for nothing

more than a relationship with an accountant.

After he’d loaded the dirty glasses into the dishwasher, he went looking for

something else to do. A woman with a determined expression came toward him. She

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was holding a small pad of paper and had an indefinable air of being a visitor. “Hi,”

Ben said. “Can I help you?”

“The girl over at the door said you’re the owner. Is that right?” Her eyes were a

dark brown and her lipstick an odd shade of peach.

“One of them,” Ben said.

“Mary Jaffarian with the
Tribune
,” she said, offering her hand. It felt small and

kind of alien in Ben’s. “I was hoping to get a quick interview?”

“Ben Lozier. My partner’s around here somewhere, I’m just not sure where.” He

sounded apologetic.

“And when you say
partner
, you mean…?”

“His business partner,” Shane said, having appeared as if summoned. “Shane

Brant.”

It was stupid of him to take Shane’s clarification as a rejection. They’d decided to

keep their relationship—and that bland word didn’t come close to describing their

passionate clashes—secret, and Shane was just saying what he thought Ben would want

to hear.

“I see.” Mary introduced herself to Shane, then gave them a tight, perfunctory

smile. “Busy day for everyone, so I’ll keep this brief. The
Tribune
wanted to do a small

piece on the restoration of the bar. I’ve got a photographer on the way too. He just

texted to say he’s stuck in traffic.” Her tone made it plain she didn’t buy that excuse for

one moment.

“It’s hardly news,” Ben objected, before he realized as a business owner, publicity

was a good thing, and he shouldn’t try to discourage her.

“We’re not the
New York Times
,” Mary said. “We’re a local paper who focuses on