He kisses Iggy again, a little harder, not really sure what he’s doing, not until Iggy finally kisses him back. Then it’s lips and tongues and hands, and their chests are pressing together, and Malcolm stops processing anything except touch and taste and the needy little sounds Iggy’s making.
They tumble together into the back of the station wagon, and they kiss and kiss, andkeep on kissing…
Chapter
Seven
“So, what made you want to become a bartender?”
The off-the-cuff question knocked Iggy out of his thoughts on the past, remembering an old dare from the first boy he ever kissed, ever made out with until they both came in their jeans, to steal a bottle of vodka from his uncle’s storeroom. The adrenaline rush of the theft, the pride in presenting the bottle to Monte, the shame of knowing he’d betrayed his uncle’s trust.
How they’d taken the station wagon to their spot on the creek and done shots while playing “Two Truth and a Lie” for hours, until they passed out. Learning things neither had ever told another soul.
“I prefer the term mixologist,” Iggy replied. He eyeballed an ounce of whiskey for each of them, still pretty easy to do even without the precision timing of a pour spout on the bottle. “Or bar chef, if you like.”
“Bar chef?” Malcolm sat in the chair opposite him, shoulders back, a new directness in his posture and expression now that they were alone. “Don’t use that word around here or you’ll get laughed out of the saloon.”
“Maybe. You’d be surprised how many men subtly flirted with me tonight.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows rose. “Who?”
“Nope.” Iggy pushed one glass toward Malcolm, amused by what he could only describe as a flash of jealousy. “What name would you give me?”
“Dunno, you don’t really match the place. Maybe if we got you a ten-gallon hat and a leather vest, we’d just call you the barkeep. Like in an Old West saloon.”
“Just don’t make me wear a six-shooter.” Iggy shrugged and swirled the dark liquid in his own glass. “I fucking hate guns.”
“A lotta people do. You’ve never had one for protection?”
Iggy glared, heat rising in his chest. “Why? Do I look like some swishy queer who can’t defend himself? I’ve lived in big cities since I was eighteen, Monte, I know self-defense, and I own pepper spray, a Taser, and have an alarm on my keys.” He jacked his thumb at his suitcase. “I don’t really think I need it around here.”
Not right now; not yet. He wasn’t a skinny teenager anymore, and so far, he hadn’t gotten a cross word or menacing glare from any bullies he ought to shy away from. But now that he knew he was staying for a while, he should probably put those items in the station wagon, if nothing else. In case he broke down on the road between Chance and Fort Collins, and the wrong person stopped to “help.”
“Why?” Iggy asked, throwing the question back at Malcolm. “You own a gun?”
“I keep a Walther PDP under the front seat of my truck. I’ve got valuable tools in there, and I go out to some rural areas to work sometimes.”
“Then I’m glad you have protection.”
They stared at each other, the silence not so much awkward as…uncertain. Iggy wasn’t sure what to say, and he let his racingbrain latch onto the first thing that zipped past. He picked up his glass and said, “Two truths and a lie?”
Malcolm’s lips twitched. “A drinking game? Do you have to work tomorrow, Mr. Donohue?”
“I told Laurel I’d be in around four, so I’ve got all morning to be hung over. If I lose. You?”
“It’s Saturday. Tommy has a little league game at one. It’s opening day for the season.”
The idea of Malcolm attending his little nephew’s baseball game was too adorable for words. “You want to go first, or should I find a coin we can flip?” Uncle Howie always kept an old tin coffee can of loose change in a cupboard by the sink.
“Hmm. Two truths and a lie, huh?” Malcolm drummed his fingers on the table once. Twice. “I’ve never been west of the Rockies. I dip pretzels in marshmallow fluff. I have a tattoo on my ass, thanks to a drunken bet I lost when I was twenty-three.”
Heat stirred in Iggy’s groin at the idea of a tattoo on Malcolm’s ass. Heat born of both interest and jealousy. Someone else had seen Malcolm’s bare ass? Had been close enough to it to draw a permanent image on it? Or was that the lie? Meant to create a reaction in Iggy? But Malcolm had always been a straightforward guy, speaking his mind about everything except his home life. He was blunt not devious.
Seventeen years and other trauma changes people, you know that.
“The pretzels and marshmallow fluff is true, if a little freaky,” Iggy said, “because you’re the only person I know who insists on dipping hard pretzels in something. Not soft pretzels, because they are nothing without mustard, but crunchy, snacky pretzels. So that’s a truth.”
Malcolm’s face revealed nothing, but Iggy knew he was correct.
