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“I’ll make a reservation, then. Canlis?”
“Oh my. Fancy.” The gourmet restaurant, just up the hill from him, was one of Seattle’s oldest, finest, and priciest. He and Steve celebrated their anniversary there every year.
“Yeah. We were casual last time. Let’s do it up nice. To make amends.”
“You don’t need to do that. Let’s see how things pan out, okay? And then, if things go well, we can do Canlis to celebrate sometime in the future.”
“A practical man. I like that, actually.” Trey was quiet for a few moments. Then he said, “How about Monsoon, then? You ever been?”
“The Vietnamese place on Capitol Hill?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Connor smiled. “I love that place. I go often, actually. Their lemongrass chicken is to die for.” Miranda wouldn’t like hearing him extol the virtues of a meat dish, but what Miranda didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
“Let’s meet there, then. Seven?”
“Okay. See you then.”
“I’ll call you if I have any trouble getting a table or we need to change the time.”
“Sounds good.”
“Thank you so much, Connor. You’ve been on my mind since our last time together and, honestly, I was afraid to approach you again. But you’ve set up residence in my head and I figured I needed to at least try. I’m grateful to you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I do worry about it. And I’m going to show you I can be a perfect gentleman.”
“No such thing,” Connor said and laughed.
“Well, gimme a chance to see how close I can come.”
Connor allowed it. They hung up and Connor was filled with a giddy kind of joy.
Yet, he’d wait to tell Miranda about it until Saturday—if it was worth even telling her.
Chapter Seven
SOMEONE BANGED—HARD—on his motel room door. Trey looked over, almost expecting to see the door crack under the force of the blows. The room was dark, the curtains pulled tight against the feeble Seattle light. The room reeked of smoke, and a layer of it hung near the ceiling.
All around him was chaos. Clothes on every available surface, crumpled on the floor. Trey couldn’t care less. He’d stolen most of the stuff from various tricks over the past few weeks—Diesel jeans, Valentino sneakers, Dolce & Gabbana briefs and shirts. Trey felt like the guys he’d swiped this stuff from were no worse off. They could afford to buy replacements, no problem.
Why shouldn’t I have nice things too? Fair is fair.
Anyway, Trey looked better in any of them than those guys, so, in a perfect world, they did indeed belong to him.
Among the junk in the room, there were lots of other things, like watches, phones, portable hard drives, earbuds, cuff links, framed family pictures, books, CDs, and DVDs (mostly porn). Trey didn’t even want all of this stuff, but it was always a kick to take it, to walk out with a hundred or a thousand dollars’ worth of stuff secreted on his person. He’d smile at the trick and kiss him, knowing he’d never be back and what he was taking, imagining them searching for the missing stuff long after he was gone.
And who knew? A stolen portable hard drive could yield all sorts of useful information.
There was one loud bam against the door, and then it was quiet for a second. Then a woman’s voice.
“Open this damn door now.”
Trey pulled the covers up to his shoulders. He had to get out of here. The bedclothes smelled like body odor and beer.
“You can either open the door, man, or I’ll use my key and come on in. As a reminder, drugs on the premises aren’t tolerated.”
