Page 52 of Sapphire Storm

It wasn’tyou owe me,but it was close. Ethanwinced and cleared his throat. “We’ll have drinks. Tonight. I’ll text you thename of the place. It’ll have to be late.”

“Diana gets back tonight. She might want to talk to—”

“Well, it’ll have to be tonight because I leave tomorrow forSan Diego. Are you willing to put Diana off until I get back?”

Roman sighed. “What should I wear?”

“A comprehensive outfit. This is going to be a discussionsession. That’s all.”

Roman nodded.

Ethan nodded.

And then they found themselves staring at each other.

“Roman?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s Gertrude?”

“Shit,” Roman hissed and then took off.

15

All it took was one visit to Long Beach for Ethan todiscover it was a rare and special place where the aesthetics and values of aMidwestern industrial city bled into California’s glittering coast, making foran oceanfront sprawl more down to earth than its neighbors. Its gay bars were apleasant reflection of this humble irony.

In Los Angeles, an hour north, the clubs were packed with aheady mix of celebrities and porn stars, a too-pretty-to-be-real crowd thatconsidered age and experience to be handicaps and not valuable acquisitions.When it came to Orange County, its most popular gay bars were memories. Likemany queer men of his generation, he still mourned the loss of the Boom BoomRoom in Laguna Beach, a club so well-known its name had been the title of apopular dance floor tune in the mid-nineties. Today it was a seafood restaurantcatering to tourists of all orientations.

In Long Beach, the real estate was more affordable, themassive port complex provided scores of working-class jobs, and the gay barswere intimate, neighborhood watering holes where everybody knew your name orseemed eager to learn it. They reminded Ethan of those first few roadside divesin South Carolina he’d worked up the nerve to visit when he was still closeted,places where the rainbow-colored Budweiser signs above the bar and thejukeboxes that played a constant stream of Whitney and Madonna made him feellike he’d finally found home. A real home, far from the Greek Revival mansionin Charleston where he’d been raised by two parents who’d shown him as muchtenderness as he’d gotten from the Civil War-era portraits of their ancestorshanging on the walls of the house’s antique-stuffed double parlor.

Despite The Queen Mary’s name and nautical décor, it wasseveral blocks inland from Long Beach Harbor where the real Queen Mary, aretired ocean liner from the early twentieth century, held court. The boothsalong the back wall offered relative privacy, even if they were a stone’s throwfrom an always popular pool table. It was Ethan’s special spot, somewhere hefled to when he was feeling uncomfortable in his skin, one of the few placeswhere he felt like he could relax and be himself in the presence of other gaymen. That’s why when he’d texted Roman the address and the guy had respondedwithUggggggh, he’d been tempted to drive down to the Castle by the Seaand bop him upside his head.

Maybe Roman had just been complaining about the lengthydrive—about forty minutes without traffic. But if he decided to get snottyabout the décor and clientele, they were sure to have words.

He reminded himself of his real goal for the evening, whichwas not, in fact, to teach Roman how to have emotionless sex.

It was to find out what the hell Rachel Peyton had said inthat hotel room that convinced the young man he was somehow cut out for thisridiculous job.

He was silently running through his lesson plan again whenthe bar’s front door opened with a creak of old hinges, and every head in theplace turned to watch Roman Walker saunter toward Ethan’s booth.

As if Ethan had called him out for his preposterouslyrevealing outfit, the young man placed a hand to his chest, feigning indignantsurprise. “What? You said acomprehensiveoutfit. This is SaintLaurent, Dolce, and Versace. Seems pretty comprehensive to me.” He’d pointed tohis skintight tank top as he’d said Saint Laurent, and then his super-shortshorts when he’d said Dolce and Versace.

“Versace makes shorts?”

“The shorts are Dolce.” He smiled and slid into the booth.“Theunderwear’sVersace.”

“Those are swim trunks.”

“Pays to advertise.” Roman smiled.

“To who?”

Roman winked at him.

Ethan sipped his club soda and sighed. “Scott Bryant’s thecustomer here. Is he a fan of Victorian swimming outfits reimagined by gay pornstudios?”

“Someone’s testy tonight.” Roman looked over one shoulderand scanned the crowd, giving seductive smiles and a few winks to the variousmen ogling him from their frozen, slack-jawed positions around the bar. “Andsomeone’s choice in bars istraaagic,” Roman whispered.

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