Page 33 of No Rhyme or Riesling

ADAM EYED the whiskey bottle in front of him.

Throw it out. Throw it out. Throw it out. He started to reach for it, then slammed both hands back down on the edge of the kitchen counter, unable to make himself open the bottle, knowing he'd take a healthy swig—or three—before the alcohol made its way down the drain.

He'd had to pass by that damned liquor store every night on his way home from work. Each night, he'd managed to resist stopping. Barely.

Until tonight. Adam found himself at the checkout counter before consciously registering that he'd even gone into the store. Then he was showing his ID and handing over money before his long-standing resolve could make him walk away.

Now the bottle sat, silent and still on his kitchen counter. Adam could almost feel it staring back at him.

Tempting him.

He knew he should call John, but he didn't want to disturb the man at work. Because he knew John would drop everything and race right over. Just his luck, someone would cause an accident and John would be dead and it would be all his fault.

“Fuck!” Adam screamed, bringing both fists down on the counter. He tried again to pick up the bottle and dump it out, but his hands wouldn't cooperate. His entire body clamored for that drink. For that blissful escape from reality.

And it was only going to get worse. Every morning, he looked at the calendar as he got ready for work, needing to see what hours he was scheduled for that day. All thanks to Haven, of course, who wrote down his schedule for him every week, since Adam would always forget to do it himself. But with each passing day, he realized how much closer the anniversary was coming. Like a slow, inexorable crawl toward doom. Adam felt powerless either to stop it or to simply skip past it.

Making him crave that drink even more.

It didn't help that he hadn't been able to talk with Trevor yet about the wedding. As soon as he'd gotten a break on Monday—after Morgan had assured him that he still wanted him to sing—Adam had immediately sent Trevor a text, saying they needed to talk about a potential gig.

They'd been playing phone tag ever since. The band were somewhere on the east coast, busy with a whole string of shows. Every time Trevor had a free moment and was able to text back, Adam was at work and couldn't reply right away.

The drawn-out, halting conversation was making him crazy. He wanted a definitive answer. Maybe, if he knew for sure that they'd be performing at Everett and Morgan's wedding, he could weather the next few weeks.

Adam sucked in a breath and reached for the bottle.

His phone beeped right before his fingertips could touch the glass. Adam gasped in a breath and worked his phone out of his pocket, heart racing in anticipation. He blinked at the screen, then quickly opened the message. It wasn't from Trevor, but it was the next best distraction.

Skylar: Tag. You're it.

Adam laughed and immediately punched the button to call Skylar back. The two of them had been playing phone tag all week as well. After John had dragged Adam out of the party on Sunday, Skylar had texted him, asking if he was okay, but the conversation had been just as delayed as the one with Trevor. Skylar had gone back home and returned to work, putting their schedules at complete odds with one another.

“Whoa,” Skylar answered. “I was totally not expecting you to respond so quickly.”

Adam laughed, then scowled at the bottle and turned his back on it. “I had an early shift today, so I'm home from work already.”

Skylar chuckled. “And here I am, getting ready to head out for a job.”

Adam eyed the clock. “This early?”

“Yeah. Repeat client. He uses me as distracting arm candy for his swanky cocktail parties, so I'm having to go full femme tonight. Shaving my legs and everything. I always forget how tedious this shit is.”

Adam winced as he stepped away from the kitchen. “Shit. Sky–”

“It's okay,” Skylar said, though he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than anything else. “He's paying a grand for the night, so I'm sucking it up and dealing with it. A couple hours in a dress, heels, and makeup, pretending to be a girl, and then an hour sucking him off and letting him call me his'good little slut boy,'and I'm a thousand dollars closer to getting myself out of here. Well, five hundred, anyway, after the boss takes his cut.”

Adam sank heavily onto the couch.Holy fucking shit. He stared blankly across the room, not even seeing it because he was too busy picturing what Skylar had to go through. “Sky–”

“I'm okay, Adam. Really,” Skylar insisted. “Any kind of normal job would mean at least four or five more years before I could afford to get my surgery and get out of this city. Not that I'm remotely qualified for a normal job. It's not like I have experience with anything but this. Besides, I don't wanna wait that long. I literally feel like my skin is crawling, knowing I've got all these parts inside me that shouldn't be there. I want themgone. And this job will get me there faster than anything. Trust me, I've put up with way worse than this guy just for the sake of making the kind of money I do.”

Adam curled an arm around himself, feeling nauseated. He slowly shook his head even though Skylar couldn't see it. For one thing, he knew exactly how Skylar felt. The reproductive organs didn't bother him so much—though goodness knew he'dloveto go without condoms with John—but having the breasts on his torso made him feel like he lived under a constant, glaring spotlight. Adam shivered, idly scratching himself all over.

But there was also no way Adam could do what Skylar did. He would have killed himself a long time ago rather than endure anything close to that kind of humiliation.

It was bad enough knowing what was under his t-shirt without anyone else having to see it. Let alone touch him there.

Adam shuddered at the thought.

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