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He pushed through the front door of BJ’s at quarter to six. Kiddy Smile’s Be Honest was thumping through the speakers, and the happy-hour crowd was already three deep at the rail. He waved to Adam and Blake—who looked like men treading water in a shark tank—and headed for the employee entrance.

In the back, Chad went to his locker, popped it open, and shoved his backpack inside. He pulled off his George Michael Faith t-shirt and caught his reflection in the small mirror mounted on the locker door. Lean torso, defined abs, tribal tattoo on his left shoulder. The body that paid his rent.

“Chad!”

He turned to find Tim approaching—balding, fifty-something, salesman grin already in place.

“How’s my favorite money-maker?” Tim’s gaze dropped to Chad’s bare chest, lingering a beat past plausible deniability.

Chad was used to this. Everyone looked. Customers, co-workers, his boss. It came with the territory of being a twenty-three-year-old bartender in a gay bar. You either got comfortable with the attention, or you found a new line of work.

“Running a little late,” Chad said, grabbing a towel from the stack, letting the motion put distance between them.

“You’re fine. Listen—any way you could pick up Sunday? Day shift.”

“Sure. I can always use the extra cash.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Tim’s grin widened. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

File that under things that will never happen.

“Actually,” Chad said, “any chance I could get tomorrow night off? A professor mentioned a lecture⁠—”

“Tomorrow? Wayback Wednesday? Eighties night?” Tim looked at him like he’d suggested closing early on Pride. “Kiddo, I’ve got Blake, who’s still learning the garnish wheel. I can’t throw him out there solo.”

“No worries. Late notice anyway.”

“I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

“Sure, boss.”

Chad headed for the employee restroom—a cramped single-occupancy with a toilet, sink, and a mirror that showed every flaw in harsh fluorescent light. He splashed cold water on his face and studied his reflection. Blue eyes, good bone structure, dimples when he smiled. Light stubble he’d let grow a day longer than usual.

Fuckable, as the customers liked to remind him nightly. But all he saw were the shadows under his eyes.

Twenty-three and already running on fumes.

His gaze drifted to the ADA railing mounted on the wall beside the toilet, and his stomach clenched.

In stolen moments, Mac had bent him over there, and Chad had used that railing for support more times than he could count—back when he was the rookie, naive, and convinced it was something more.

Employee of the month, right here.

Chad turned away from the mirror and headed out to the bar.

By six-thirty the main room was packed—bodies pressed close, voices rising to compete with the bass, the air thick with cologne and spilled beer and the humidity of too many people having too good a time. Neon from the bar signs threw blue and pink light across everything. The sticky-sweet residue on the bar top was already a lost cause. Chad would deal with it later. Or never. Probably never.

He loved it, though—the chaos, the energy, the performance of it all.

Chad Ellsworth might be a broke art student drowning in debt, but behind this bar, he was in control.

He slipped behind the long counter and scanned the room. Familiar faces mixed with new ones. The usual Tuesday Tunes regulars staking out spots early, even though the sing-along didn’t start for another ninety minutes. A knot of guys near the pool table, already on their second round, arguing about Wicked.

And then his eyes snagged on someone at the far end of the bar.

A man sitting alone. Big. Bearish—broad shoulders straining against a white Oxford shirt, thick arms, a dark beard shot through with silver. He wore khakis and a red Washington Nationals cap pulled low, like someone trying very hard to blend in and absolutely, spectacularly failing.

He was off. Not dangerous off. Just… misplaced. Like a hymnal in a jukebox.