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‘Agreed,’ says Troy before Mark can reprimand me for my backchat. ‘This’d be a great nightclub. Hidden down in the basement, just off Chapel Street. A rebranding, good PR campaign and some models on opening night and you’d be laughing.’
I dread to think about droves of people scuffing up the beautiful hardwood floors. I love clubs as much as the next young gay kid, but there’s something special about this place.
‘The bar could be heritage-listed,’ I say to Troy. ‘I looked into it before—’
I stop myself from finishing my sentence:Before Mark bought it.
Graham had wanted the place to go to someone who would respect it. I’d investigated getting it heritage-listed to ensure it wouldn’t become just another grotty nightclub—not that I have anything againstthem. But Peacock Lounge wasspecial. It deserved a buyer who respects it. I have no idea if Mark was just a good bullshitter or if he was the best egg in a rotten carton.
Troy rolls his eyes. ‘Most people don’t care about heritage unless it’s in a museum. They want new and fresh, not old and decrepit.’
‘It used to be a jazz bar,’ Mark says as he swipes a bottle of bourbon from behind the counter. ‘No one gives a fuck about jazz, except for fags and old birds.’
I bite back my retort as Troy and George laugh. Mark pours them each a bourbon neat and then grabs the pack of cards from behind the counter.
‘You’re good to clock off, Noah. I’ll close up,’ Mark says. Troy settles in their usual booth and George goes into the back office to put on loud house music. It’s too much for the speaker system, which buzzes on every hit of the bass.
I take my leave, still seething at the fag comment. It angers me that people still think and speak the way he does—he and his mates are the epitome of the average upper-class dickhead, rooted in old money, racism and homophobia. As I climb the stairs, I take a breath and will myself to let it go.
Stepping out onto the street, I squint as my eyes adjust to the brightness. The evening sun still holds a warm bite. A tram passes me, its bell dinging as it approaches the stop at the end of the block. I’m too late to catch it but the track runs all the way up the street and into the city, so I begin walking, weaving through the crowds of people, with a loose plan to catch the next tram that comes along.
‘Noah!’ Someone shouts my name from across the street.
I turn, scanning the crowd. Very few people know me here. Immediately, my pulse quickens. What if—
‘Noah!’
Fear makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I begin to walk faster.
‘Noah, over here!’
This time I hear the hint of an accent. Whirling around, I see a figure waving on the other side the road.Gabriel. For a moment, my brain freezes at the sight of him and it takes me a second to believe he’s actually there, but suddenly he’s jogging towards me, the wind tousling his loose curly hair. He’s wearing a white tank top and a pair of fluoro-orange shorts, and the muscles in his thighs flex as he runs. Gabriel’s fuckingripped.How hadn’t I noticed that yesterday?
Probably because you were too busy making googly eyes at him, I think.
‘I forgot my cap,’ Gabriel calls as he jogs across the road. ‘I hoped you were working. Is the bar closed?’
Just that he’dhopedI’d be working makes my cheeks warm. Or maybe it’s this damn sun, still relentless even in the dying hours of the day.
‘Mark’s got a private function on,’ I say. ‘But I can go back and get your cap if you’d like. It’s really no trouble.’
He hesitates, eyes darting down the road. ‘No, don’t,’ he says, no doubt remembering how much of an ogre Mark was yesterday. ‘I have a lot of caps, Noah.’ The way he says my name; the way his tongue curls around the vowels, makes my stomach flip. ‘But while I am here, would you like to have a drink with me?’
The words come out of Gabriel’s mouth so quickly, a string of heavily accented French, that it takes me a moment to work out that he’s maybe, kinda, sorta asked me out.
‘A drink?’ I repeat, like a fool.
Gabriel shoves his hands into his pockets and looks almost bashful. Flustered, even. ‘If you would like.’
My heart, my traitorous little gay heart, does a half-skip at his words because yes, I would like it very much. Even as I remind myself that there’s no indication whatsoever that Gabriel’s queer—and that developing romantic feelings for straight guys is a recipe for disaster—I feel giddy.
‘Yeah, why not. I know a place.’ I’m astonished at how calm my voice sounds even though, on the inside, my intestines are twisting themselves into knots. ‘Follow me.’
7
Gabriel
It’s not every day your best friend gets injured, tells you she’s pregnant and then retires from the sport you grew up playing together. With my papa’s ruthless training schedule and the first round of the tournament starting tomorrow, to say I’m a little on edge is an understatement.
