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AFTER CONNOR LEFT, Trey leapt up and moved to the edge of the balcony, where he had a view on to Dexter Avenue. He watched for Connor’s familiar figure, ambling downhill, toward the Fremont neighborhood. There he was. Trey waited until he was out of sight, assuring himself Connor wouldn’t turn back.
He didn’t like this. Connor rarely left the house. He was the original homebody. And lying? That was something else he’d never seen Connor do. That was why it was so easy to recognize. His jitteriness and failure to meet Trey’s eyes told Trey all he needed to know about the veracity of his story.
What the fuck was going on?
Once he was sure Connor was gone and Trey was reasonably certain he wouldn’t return, he went inside and changed. He’d head down to the Cut and see what the hell was going on. But he needed to be careful. Connor couldn’t know he was following him, spying on him. That would ruin everything—especially if Connor was attempting to hide something from him.
So he went into the closet and pulled out stuff to disguise himself—a black baseball cap, a pair of nonprescription glasses in a plain black frame, rectangular in shape, and nerdy in appearance. He found an old navy turtleneck and a pair of dark denims. Chuck Taylor black high-tops.
After he was dressed, he applied some bronzer to darken his skin.
He looked at himself in the sliding mirrored doors of the closet. A middle-aged hipster, a common creature for Seattle, stared back. To say he didn’t recognize himself would be taking things too far. Even with the glasses, darker skin, and the baseball cap pulled low over his brow, one close look would give him away.
He shrugged. He had to hope this would be good enough. He couldn’t just sit at home if his business was being affected. He’d simply have to rely on the fact that he looked differentenoughto pass muster. He prayed the Cut wasn’t some tiny, brightly lit joint with communal tables.
If it was, he’d have to turn around and come back. He couldn’t risk being recognized. It was too weird and would make Connor too suspicious. And if he was suspicious, he’d cover his tracks even more carefully.
Trey knew all about such maneuvers.
Odds were, given the location, the neighborhood, and the Cut’s proximity to Seattle Pacific University, the place would be noisy, dim, and crowded.
Fingers crossed.
Trey pulled an old army-green trench coat out of the depths of his closet and set off.
HE COULD BE, thank God, inconspicuous at the Cut. The place harkened back to when Seattle was more of a seafaring, fishermen town, rather than the tech capital it had become over the last decade.
Perhaps the Cut had been here that long. Fishermen’s Terminal, after all, was within a couple miles’ distance in Ballard.
The place was almost a cliché, Trey noted as he waited for the hostess, a young woman with a fuchsia pixie cut and tattoo sleeves, to seat him. The floor was dark, scuffed wood that looked none too clean. Tables were round spools, also stained dark. One wall was a massive bar that looked ancient, as if it had not been brought in, but as though it had grown up organically from the ground beneath it. Decorations? Fishnets, shells, a harpoon over the bar.
The lighting was soft, mostly from fake candles flickering on top of the tables and the bar.
The music here was even a throwback to Seattle’s grunge days. Right now, Trey recognized the trailblazer of that particular musical genre, Green River, singing what was for them a big hit, “Ain’t Nothing to Do.”
The place reeked of craft beer and ennui.
He didn’t see Connor right away. The place was too busy, the pace too manic with people shifting around, moving from the tables to the bar and back again.
At last, he spied him across the crowded room at a table in the corner. He was not surprised to see Connor wasn’t sitting with a bespectacled and female editor from New York City, but with a tall, mustachioed guy whom he recognized as the man Connor had been kneeling in front of earlier.
Steve, who’d been a part of Connor’s life for so long. Steve, who had been a father to Miranda as she grew up. Steve, the de facto husband who had preceded Trey. Steve, with a history both good and bad.
Connor had told him Steve had more than broken his heart—he’d ripped it to shreds.
So what was he doing with him here now, looking so cozy and covert? Why did he need to lie to Trey about where he was going?
Trey pushed down the rage inside.A player hates nothing more than being played.
They were only a couple feet away from the bar, and both had tall glasses of beer in front of them. There was a plate of french fries between them, drizzled with ketchup. Their heads were bowed and close together, as though they were plotting—or on a date. The fact that they were deep in conversation could work to Trey’s advantage.
When the hostess returned, smiling and menu in hand, Trey told her he’d rather sit at the bar, if that was okay. “I see a stool open down there at the end.”
The placement couldn’t have been more perfect. Although a post separated the bar from Connor and Steve’s table, the proximity would allow Trey to listen in to their talk. He knew he could glean enough to either reassure himself he had nothing to worry about—or cause his hackles to rise if he did. Either way, he’d be inconspicuous, even if he was close.
A little awkwardly, he kept his back to Connor as he made his way to his seat at the bar. One hand on the brim of his baseball cap further shielded his face.
When the bartender approached, Trey, instead of answering his cheery “What’ll you have?” simply pointed to the tap for an Interurban IPA. The bartender, bearded and flannel-shirted—of course—expertly filled a tall glass from the spout, ensuring there was a healthy head, but not one that was wastefully big. “Thanks,” Trey said in the softest voice he could muster. He added, a little louder, “Run a tab.”
