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“Hmm. The curse of a deadbeat lover.”
“My mom has a low-paying job, and my dad has been home on disability for the last few years, but for a proud man like him, that’s basically Hell, because he can’t stand for his wife to be working while he can’t. He’s a bit old-fashioned in that dated only-men-should-bring-home-the-bacon way.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t really speak to them much, but I send some money their way, too, when I can.”
Richie hasn’t touched his drink. His full focus is on me. “You aren’t close with your parents?”
“Not since someone found out what I do, then sent a message through the grapevine—along with a fucking photo for proof, if you can believe it—and while my mother wasn’t much fazed by it, my dad pretty much wants nothing to do with me now. He also forbids any contact with my ‘impressionable younger sisters’ … but, yeah, that shit isn’t gonna fly with me. My mother and sisters—those strong women—are my heart and my soul.”
Richie looks down at his drink, pained. “I’m … I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. It’s my dad’s loss.” I nudge him. His eyes flicker back up at me. “What are you thinking about? You think I got daddy issues now? Don’t lie, Rich. That’s exactly what you’re thinking.”
My teasing doesn’t have the intended effect of making him laugh. Instead, he tilts his head to the side and studies me seriously. “You use humor a lot to deflect your feelings. Especially when diving into the deep end of things.”
I squint at him. “Are you psychologing me?”
Now he cracks a smile. “That isn’t a word.”
“I didn’t know you’re a therapist,” I tease him, shifting in my seat to face him better. “Is your trade business a cover-up? Are you actually a shrink? Is that how you make the big bucks?”
“Therapists don’t make big bucks. Unless you live in Cali and all your clients are celebrities with purse puppies.” He leans forward. “And you did it again just now. Twice.”
“Did what again?”
“Used humor. To deflect my deeper questions. I’m not ‘psychologing’ you, Isaac. I’m just curious about you. How you work. Who you really are.”
I’m idly sucking the taste of the vodka out of my teeth … if “taste” is even the right word for something so tasteless.
“Something tells me you still feel like you’re on a camera of some sort,” Richie observes. “As if you need to still be ‘Zak’ for me. You don’t.”
I set down my drink, then push it away half an inch. I don’t think it goes unnoticed. Something inside of me is unraveling. “I’m not—”
“I’m sorry,” he cuts me off, worried suddenly. “Did I upset you?”
“No,” I answer while still staring at my drink. “But you gotta admit, you’re sending mixed signals when you tell me to show up wearing an outfit … then say you don’t want me to be Zak.”
“The outfit was supposed to be a shirt and tie to compliment my jacket, and I meant it as a hint of the attire here. Can I say something, Isaac?”
He puts a hand on my arm.
I can’t explain my reaction, but it’s instant.
I’m off the barstool. Before I know it, I’ve put five full feet between us.
He is visibly alarmed. Spooked. Panicked.
“It’s too much,” Richie reads from my eyes at once, understanding too well. “Too much, too fast. I get it. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you. Calling you by your real name was also too … intimate. I’ll stick with Zak, if it’s better. I didn’t mean to dig and be so invasive about your life.”
I can read his eyes just as well. It’s a skillset fine-tuned by my particular line of work. Reading people. Sussing out what they want. Sifting out the truth between the lies and the fantasies.
Richie fears that in just a few sentences, he has ruined a relationship that’s been building online for years. This isn’t a fantasy to him. Not one bit of it. It’s as real as the young man standing before him in a sleeveless captain’s uniform. It’s as real as that glass of whatever he hasn’t sipped yet.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Please, don’t go. I’ll give you more space. Harmless and normal, remember? I don’t want anything from you except … a nice, easy conversation. Okay? That’s all. Please, come and sit back down.”
I don’t move from where I am.
Maybe I’m thinking about the stalker I dealt with back at Aubergines. Or the customers I’ve let get too close to me, whether at the club or online. People who’ve skirted the line of appropriateness and made me feel unsafe.
Is Richard one of them?
Or is he something else?
“If you feel you need to go …” This is not easy for Richie to say. “… then I perfectly understand. It was maybe too soon … even after all these years. I will understand. If you must go, I’ll … I’ll even still visit your chat room later and say hi, from my safe space behind the computer screen, and—” He seems to regret adding that last part for a moment, squinting with embarrassment. “I sound incredibly desperate, I realize.”
