Page 2 of Wedge

“Hey Geoff,” I smile.

“Stephen,” he nods back. “See you later, Daddy,” he chirps at Ben, waving the toddler’s messy hand as he leaves.

Ben’s face colors, and I laugh. It’s a good look on him.

I smirk. “You and your cradle robbing.”

He laughs. “Don’t knock it, Stephen. Young guys have a lot of energy.” He quirks his eyebrows as he says it.

I cough on my beer, which makes him laugh harder. Out past the deck, Geoff swings Jasmine up onto his shoulders and heads for the parking lot, one sticky little hand waving at nobody. Whatever I feel watching them go, I don’t put a name on it.

“So,” he says, turning back to me. “You’ll do it? Caddie for me?”

“I’ll think about it,” I concede. Tonight seems to be my night for it.

“Great, I’ll put you down.”

Jeezus, when did “Maybe” become “Yes”?

Babylon announces itself from the parking lot. I feel the bass in my chest before I hear it, a second heartbeat that doesn’t match mine. Caleb hauls me past a line of people waiting under a buzzing pink neon sign, sequins and mesh and denim and one guy in a full tuxedo, laughing, smoking, checking their phones. The bouncer waves Caleb in with a fist bump. Of course he does.

Inside, the heat hits first, then the smell: sweat, spilled sugary drinks, fog machine. Lights sweep the ceiling in slow ribbons of magenta and blue. It’s loud. And crowded. Old habit takes over, and I find the exits before I find the bar. Two doors, one back hallway, none blocked. Four years a Marine, and some things never leave.

Caleb’s hand closes around my elbow. He has read me the way he reads everybody, quick and kind. “Nobody in here bites,” he says into my ear. “Unless you ask nicely.” Then he’s swallowed by the floor, glancing back twice to make sure I haven’t bolted.

The dance floor is a tide of color. Harnesses and glitter, a sequined jacket over nothing, a bride’s veil bobbing above the crowd, a man in a perfect three-piece suit dancing like nobody has ever watched him. A mustached dancer in long dangling earrings twirls alone with eyes closed, in a private world of their own. Two people in leather harnesses laugh with their heads together, close enough to share a breath. All ages, all sizes, all moving like one enormous animal to the beat. They came to dance.

Caleb’s in the middle of it, hands over his head, laughing, every move a full commitment. I see him dancing with the young mohawk’d man from the fish fry. His now bare torso displays a gorgeous collection of ink. Color strobes across his skin, catching a phoenix on his torso, a rose on his collarbone, a skull on his biceps. When he spins, a winged angel wielding a flaming sword covers his entire back, wings spread from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Stunning work. Makes my Marine tats look ordinary. He’s not tall, maybe five-nine, compact and solid, his mohawk shaved close on the sides, fierce and spiky in the middle, small plugs in his ears. Fine bones, a small nose, a delicate chin, and a stillness under all that ink, like he’s dancing with one eye on the door. In spite of all the hardware, he looks… fragile.

A third dancer, shirtless and grinning, hands in the air, is mouthing every word of the song, and Caleb pulls him in by the shoulders, laughing in his ear. All three are moving together to the EDM while the disco ball sprinkles them with color.

I retreat to the bar and slide onto a stool, the wood tacky under my forearms. The bartender meets my eyes.

“Hey Freddie, gimme a beer?”

He nods, his handlebar mustache lifting in a smile. Tonight’s shirt is vibrant lime green and open to his waist, thick graying fur on his chest on full display.

“Stephen!” He reaches across the bar to shake my hand. His grip is firm, his forearms telling a tale of hard labor before he ever stepped behind a bar. I’ve never heard his story. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight!”

“Caleb,” I say by way of explanation.

“Ha!” he says, passing me a bottle of beer. “That boy is good for the soul. I miss having him around.”

I turn back to the dance floor. The trio has reshuffled, the third dancer spinning in a slow circle while Caleb grips the hips of the tattooed man. Then Caleb spots me watching and breaks out of the group.

Uh oh.

“Dance, Stevie!” he calls, tugging on my hand. I let him pull me. Caleb is an irresistible little tempest at times. I leave my beer behind and let him lead me into the middle of his trio, where he grabs my hips and swivels them to the beat. The tattooed man hesitates. His shoulders creep toward his ears, and his gaze flicks toward the door, the same way mine did.

Fragile, I’d called him. Wrong word. That is a man counting exits, and I know what it looks like from the inside.

“Come on, Adrian!” Caleb calls over my shoulder. “This is Stephen! He’s an old friend, and he doesn’t bite.”

“Old friend?” I question. I’ve known Caleb for almost exactly one year. I suppose when you are twenty-something, a year counts.

“Pfft,” he says, spinning me around and planting my hands on his hips. Then hands settle at my waist, light and careful, and I assume Adrian has given in to Caleb, just like I did.

I lean back a little and grin at the guy behind me, laughing into his pretty hazel eyes. “Sorry if I step on you,” I laugh. “Caleb dragged me out here.”