Beautiful Disasters (Print)

Beautiful Disasters
Willa Okati
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2019 Willa Okati
Excerpt from A Beautiful Disaster

"Do you know what you want?”

No. “Just a beer. Whatever’s on tap.”

A cardboard square of a coaster, a tall glass of dark Irish beer with a thick head of foam. Sean ran his forefinger around the rim of the beer stein, translucent with frost. “Tequila chaser too.”

Sean didn’t touch the liquor. Not yet. Or the beer. Leo had liked stout, the darker the better. He wished he’d ordered something lighter. Maybe a pale ale. Out of arm’s reach, the founder of his feast prowled to a pool table and picked up a cue. Sean held himself still.

No need. He couldn’t read lips, but he could guess at the teasing and playfulness. They let him break queue, whoever he was. One man in a dark green polo, rumpled from a long day’s work, took him by the nape and stole a kiss in trade. Only a light one, and quick. They were friends, then.

Sean remembered when he used to do that, a long, long time ago. How he’d taken touch for granted, too busy enjoying the dance. The game. Those two would leave together, probably. Neither had thought of it before, but it was a good idea for them now. And they’d be fine.

He lifted the shot glass to his lips and flicked his tongue into the tequila to taste. Sharp, bitter, stinging.

The man with the tattoos lurked behind Sean’s eyes. Sean could see him every time he shut them, and he could feel an itch between his shoulder blades that made him want to roll them to shake off the discomfort.

A mirror hung behind the bar. Oh. Well, they did, in bars. Sean had forgotten. He could see himself through the gaps between bottles of liquor. His hair clung to his cheeks in fine wisps and drifted over his eyes like fallen angel’s wings. His scars weren’t hidden at all.

If he could stop thinking about the scars, that would help. If he could stop thinking, stop caring what others thought of them, he might be able to breathe again. But he couldn’t stop.

Sean needed -- he wanted --

God, he missed sex. He’d never been easy, but he wasn’t a tough sell. Maybe he should have been.

Some of the men had taken off their shirts. Not many. Some. They kept it warm down here, too warm. Sean’s sweater itched. Sweat made his skin rub raw against the boiled wool.

He’d lived. He was surviving his life. But that wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

Would anyone take him for what he was, if they knew? If they didn’t?

Stop it.

Sean lifted his shot glass to drink properly, but he didn’t get quite so far as taking a sip before, over the rim, he saw the door open, and a man stepped through. A blond man with tattoos curling up his neck and down his wrists.

A man who looked back and saw him.

* * *

Well, look at you. Riordan really hadn’t expected he’d see the man from this morning again. He’d come to the Blind Tiger because that was where you went when you were in the mood for something new or something comfortable. At last count the city boasted almost three dozen bars, pubs, and holes-in-the-wall, or it had that year he and Jae planned out a holiday crawl through as many of them as possible before they fell down.

They’d made it as far as the Blind Tiger and stopped while the stopping was good.

The dark man had been here long enough to get served. He recognized Riordan, or Riordan thought he had. His small mouth with the scar denting one corner opened a half inch in surprise and stopped Riordan in his tracks.

He hadn’t done the guy justice when drawn from memory. He looked younger than Riordan remembered. Scared.

Riordan lifted his hand in a wave. The dark man’s mouth snapped shut, and he looked away. Scared, yeah. Vulnerable. He’d never been at the Blind Tiger before, or at least he’d never visited back in the days when Riordan used to hang around. He looked so uneasy Riordan had to wonder if maybe it was his first time.

First times should be special. You were allowed to be scared or edgy or even hostile the first time doing anything. It was an unwritten rule in a big book kept somewhere. No one ever saw the book, but pretty much everyone in the Blind Tiger knew most of the bylaws by heart. Live, let live, and seize the moment when it came, because no one knew what’d happen next.

The dark man curled in a comma shape, crouched over his shot and beer, shoulders tilted and rounded. Go away.

Riordan didn’t think he would. Second chances weren’t that common or easily come by. He started for the far end of the bar --

“Rio,” Gale called from the pool table, close enough by the door for Riordan to hear without straining his ears, surprising Riordan into a ninety-degree pivot.

“Who let you out to play?” He took the cue from Gale and pretended to tap him on the shoulder. “I thought you had a keeper these days.”

“That I did, and now I don’t.” Gale tilted his head at a redheaded kid Riordan hadn’t seen before. “On the bright side, the night’s looking up. Want to play?”

He meant more than a game of pool, and they both knew it. Riordan elbowed him indulgently. “Pass. I never got the hang of threesomes. Too many arms and legs. I’d end up fucking myself if I wasn’t careful.”

Perfect timing. Gale choked on his sip of bourbon and, laughing, slapped the back of Riordan’s head. “Asshole.”

“The finest kind.” Riordan spun the cue in a vertical spiral and passed it back. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“So, free license for whatever I want?”

The redhead didn’t look displeased. Riordan winked at him. “Watch out. He bites.”

“You’re not staying?” Gale already had his shot lined up.

Riordan checked the corner of the bar. The dark man still sat there. His drinks looked as if he’d barely sipped at either. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Huh.” Gale followed his line of sight. “Pretty but touchy. Talk about biting. Do you know him?”

“Not yet, and I’m not surprised you tried your luck.”

“I am what I am.” Gale took the shot. “You’re looking better, by the way.” He wanted to stare at Riordan’s chest but didn’t, which was more than most people who knew managed. “Good luck.”

“I’ll take it where I can get it.”

“Don’t we all?” Gale called after him. Riordan snorted, amused, and tossed him a backward wave.

The crowds didn’t part easily for Riordan. He’d been gone for far too long from a place he used to know well, and some wanted to talk, some wanted to stare, and some whispered behind their hands or in one another’s ears as he passed them by. Riordan let it all slide off his back. Either they knew and they were cool, or they didn’t and they would or wouldn’t be. As long as he didn’t lose track of the man in black, it worked for him.

“Rio.” Mare leaned over the bar for a kiss on the cheek. He knew better than to try anything like tousling her hair, or he’d draw back a bloody stump. “Everything good?”

Riordan was close enough to the slight dark man to get a sense of his aura and to see him sneaking -- in the mirror when he thought Riordan wasn’t looking -- glimpses and glances here and there, like an edgy cat creeping close to the demarcation of shadow between his hiding place and the rest of the world. One wrong word, and he’d bolt for sure.

Mare showed Riordan her wrist. “What do you think?” She’d had a watch tattooed on, the long and short hands set to five minutes past last call. “Yeah, it’s as subtle as a brick to the face. Whatever. Got it done when I was in Miami. What do you think? Decent work?”

He took Mare’s hand and turned it to and fro. “More than.” Her artist had used light and shadow to give the watch an almost three-dimensional look, and when she turned her wrist, it cast the illusion of moving time. “Give me the artist’s name later, would you?”

The man in black hunched his shoulders tighter, almost at his ears now. Riordan nodded once at the guy and raised an eyebrow at Mare. She met and matched him and held up both hands, palms out. “You want your usual?”

“Thanks.” Riordan could sense the tension gathering. Never mind a wrong word. If he didn’t take care, this one might break and run, hurrying out and away, and Riordan couldn’t let that happen again.

Riordan tapped his glass against the dark man’s. The dark man flinched, an exaggerated startle response. The corners of Riordan’s mouth crimped in an empathetic frown. Whoever this was, he didn’t need scars to tell his story. Life hadn’t treated him well, and this one needed handling with care.

That was the interesting part. People who came to the Blind Tiger knew what they wanted. Riordan didn’t think this man did.

Riordan had the man’s attention, though. That was something at least. He liked having that intense blue focus fixed on him, shining through the sweep of black hair. “I’m Riordan,” he said, leaving his glass kissing rims with its mate. “I’d ask if we’ve met before, but I already know the answer.” He held out his hand and waited to see if the man would take it, and if he’d hear the stranger’s name.

The dark man’s hand was dry and rough with scar tissue. “Sean,” he said, barely moving his lips. Still, it was a start, and Riordan had done more with less. “I’m Sean.”