To Live Again
By: L. A. WittThey both smirked.
“Goddammit, you guys. That is not what I meant.” Rolling my eyes, I added, “I bumped into someone—literally—and helped him carry some boxes out to his van.”
Rhett’s eyebrow climbed. “Is that…all you did?”
“Yes.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I call bullshit.” Ethan gestured at the bar. “I’m going to get another round.” He pointed at the glass in front of me. “Should I grab you another since the ice is almost melted in that one?”
“No, this will do me.” I picked up the sweaty glass. “Watered down is probably just as well right now.”
“Suit yourself.” He kissed Rhett’s cheek. “Refill?”
“Please.”
Ethan kissed him once more—a quick peck on the lips this time—and left the booth.
Rhett faced me. “So, you just carried a box.”
“Yes. Why the third degree?”
“Because I’ve known you for a long time, and I have never seen you grin like that.”
As soon as he pointed it out, I realized he’d busted me. I sipped the Kamikaze. Wow, even watered down it was good. Wrapping my hands around it to cool myself off, I shrugged. “Well, he was… I mean—”
“All right, gentlemen,” the deejay’s voice boomed over the speakers, making both of us jump. “That’s it for me tonight, but keep on dancing, and give it up for Sailooooo!”
My head snapped toward the stage and my jaw dropped.
The blond deejay stepped away from the console, and yes, it was him. Sailo. Under the magic Wilde’s lighting that made everyone look good was the beautiful Samoan man who was meeting me for a drink at midnight.
And whoa, that lighting was kind to him as well. He’d changed out of the T-shirt and wore a black tank top now, which revealed more of his tanned, toned body, and also the intricate tribal tattoo covering his left arm all the way to the shoulder and disappearing under the front of his shirt.
The music switched to something way more upbeat than before, as if to keep time with my racing pulse, and I just…stared. He was on his feet, smiling broadly and encouraging the guys in front of him to dance.
And he was dancing too. Mostly from his hips. Jesus Christ.
“Earth to Greg?” Rhett shouted over the music, snapping me out of it.
I shook myself and turned back to him. “Sorry, what?”
His eyes flicked toward the stage, and he chuckled, raising his mostly empty glass. “Enjoying the scenery, are we?”
“What’s not to enjoy?” I took a drink, wondering if I should get a stronger one, or maybe hold off until Sailo joined me. No point in being drunk when he did. I’d probably say plenty of stupid shit without the alcohol’s help.
As I poked at the remaining ice cubes with my straw, I said, “I’m surprised you and Ethan come here. Doesn’t really seem like your scene.”
Rhett shrugged. “We usually come during the week to harass Kieran. When it’s not quite so”—he gestured at the crowd—“busy.”
I couldn’t imagine this place when it wasn’t packed, but it made sense that the weekdays wouldn’t be so crazy. Presumably most of these guys had jobs besides looking hot and groping on a dance floor. Unless, of course, they were models and porn stars.
I let my gaze slide back toward the stage. I wondered if he was only here on the weekends. It probably wasn’t in the best interest of the club’s budget to have a deejay here all the time, and the stage looked it could readily accommodate a live band. So was this his full-time job? Maybe he was one of those deejays who worked weddings and parties too. Or maybe he did something else. I couldn’t picture him putting on a shirt and tie and sitting behind a desk in a cubicle, but stranger things had happened. One of my coworkers was the drummer in a heavy metal band during his off time. A thin enough dress shirt would hint at the tattoos he kept hidden—not that I’d ever quietly ogled him—but otherwise, no one would ever guess.
Did Sailo have coworkers who’d be stunned to learn he was a deejay in a gay bar?
And why was I so interested?
I took another drink right as Ethan rejoined us and put a couple of glasses in front of him and Rhett.
