Page 13 of Sweet T

“Whatever,” said Shelly, rolling her eyes. “Far be it from me to get in between gay men and their pool time. You guys have a good night.”

She grabbed her purse and headed toward the back door. Ben followed her, waving to the guys.

After the door slammed shut behind them, Chuck spoke. “Speaking of your old man. He called us today. I assume you know why.”

“I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Titus–Big Britches–Shepherd is getting hitched.”

Tucker smiled, nodding. “Pedro told me earlier today. You guys catering?”

“Yeah,” Brody said. “And I’m doing the cake—all three of them. They didn’t waste any time, did they?”

“Nope. Supreme Court announced–” Tucker glanced at his watch. “–less than twelve hours ago and Daddy’s probably already got their marriage license. I mean, he is the mayor. He works in the same building.”

“I think it’s great,” Chuck said, smiling. “Everything. It’s been a wonderful day. I see you have a flag up. I like it. I guess Brody and I should follow suit.”

“I’d feel better if you did. We’re still in rural Georgia.”

“Amen, brother.”

“Speaking of following suit. What about you two? When are you tying the knot... now that you can?”

Brody’s eyes grew large. Chuck laughed. “Brody’s a little–”

The back door burst open.

“Quick!” Shelly shouted. “Call an ambulance!”

Ben was behind her, carrying what looked at first like a child in his arms. Brody grabbed his phone off the bar, dialing 911.

Chuck went to help. Tucker cleared the bar top. “Up here. Get him up here. What happened?”

“We almost missed him,” Shelly said. “He was lying in the shadows by the dumpster. Ben thought he heard something in the rain.”

Chuck and Ben laid the petite shape on the bar. It was a man, and when they set him down, he moaned in pain.

“That’s what I heard,” said Ben. “Someone hurt this guy.”

“Ambulance is coming,” said Brody. “Ten minutes.”

“Who?” Tucker asked. “Someone here tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” Shelly said, returning with a clean towel. She handed it to Tucker. “Put some ice in that. He could have a concussion.”

Tucker did as told, twisting the towel into an ice pack, and handing it back to her.

Shelly brushed the stranger’s brown hair from his eyes, pressing the compress to his forehead. The man sighed.

“I don’t recognize him,” she said. “Do you, T?”

Tucker looked at the boy, only it wasn’t a boy. He was just small, surprisingly hirsute, probably in his early twenties. He had tattoos on both shoulders–nothing tribal or continuous like a sleeve, just sporadic pictures and quotes that Tucker didn’t take time to focus on. Instead, he lifted the man’s tank top to check for wounds.

“Holy Christ.”

There were more tattoos on the man’s chest and stomach and scattered among them shallow lacerations and black and purple bruises.

“Looks like someone kicked the shit out of him,” Chuck said. “Did you see anyone else out there?”

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