Page 69 of On Ice

I enter the noisy restaurant and my opinion of the place doesn’t improve. The walls are plastered with dusty local sports memorabilia. Signed jerseys in cheap frames, newspaper clippings yellowed with age, photos of grinning high school teams from the past twenty years. The tables are scarred wood, probably gummy with years of spilled beer and wing sauce. A dozen different games play on TVs mounted in every corner,their commentary mixing with classic rock from the jukebox and the steady hum of conversation.

I shudder and once more affirm that this isn’t the sort of place I’d usually be caught dead in. The fact that Evan came herewillinglyjust baffles me. Still, I don’t retreat. I’m hellbent on meeting up with my little rebellious lover. He needs to understand that he can’t just run off without telling me where he is. And most importantly, he can’t ditch his security on a whim. That could be deadly this early in the game.

Franko sits on alert at a small table near the window. He looks uncomfortable perched atop a tall chair. His bulky frame hardly fits in the narrow wooden seat, and his arms are crossed, straining the fabric of his jacket. I meet Franko’s uneasy gaze and nod. I’m happy to see he understood the assignment, which was to watch Evan’s back, and hasn’t been indulging in wings and booze.

I scan the crowded room and spot the team crammed around pushed-together tables. My Italian leather shoes stick slightly to the floor with each step, and I cringe inwardly at the air thick with fryer grease and stale beer. Several heads turn as I enter the eatery. I’m conscious of the fact that I stick out like a sore thumb in my suit. Most people are in t-shirts and jeans.

My gaze lands on Evan’s broad shoulders. He has his back to the door, and he’s wedged between Noah and the rookie, Torres, with plates of wings and pitchers of beer in front of them. Noah’s arm is draped casually across Evan’s shoulders as he leans in to say something that makes the whole table laugh. The casual touch shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I don’t like it when other people touch my toys.

Mills notices me first, his eyes widening slightly. He elbows Jackson, who nearly chokes on his beer. The reaction ripplesaround the table until it reaches Evan. He turns his head to see what has his friends flustered, and his smile fades. Resentment glitters in his eyes as I slowly approach. I don’t like that Noah’s arm stays where it is, even when he spots me.

“Mr. Barone.” Mills straightens in his chair. “What a… wonderful surprise.”

I appreciate that he tries to be polite, but his puzzled expression doesn’t match his words. I get it. Nobody wants their boss around when they’re trying to let loose. But I’m not here for them. I’m here to claim my door prize: Evan.

When my gaze meet’s Evan’s resentful one, I almost laugh. Mostly because the jukebox is blaringIf Looks Could Killby Heart. It’s too perfect.

If looks could kill

You’d be lying on the floor

You’d be begging me please, please

Baby don’t hurt me no more

“Hey, guys, move down and make room,” Torres shouts, jumping up from his seat beside Evan. There’s a shuffle as they make room. A spot opens up at the farthest end from Evan, but I ignore it and instead gesture to the seat next to him recently vacated by Torres.

“How about I sit next to Captain?” I flash a charming smile. “I have a few things to discuss with him.”

“Oh, sure.” Torres nods. “I’ll just sit down here instead.”

With a smug smile, I gingerly sit down beside my seething boy toy. Evan is now sandwiched between Noah and me, and Noah’s arm finally drops from Evan’s shoulders. It’s cramped,so I fold my arms instead of resting my elbows on what is most certainly a sticky tabletop. When my leg brushes against Evan’s beneath the table, he stiffens.

“Beer?” Torres offers. The kid’s eager to please, which I like.

“Sure. I’ll have a glass.” Beer isn’t my drink of choice, but it will have to do. Something tells me Becky’s doesn’t stock The Macallan 25-Year-Old Sherry Oak.

When in Rome.

Torres runs off to get me a clean glass and returns a moment later. He fills the glass for me, taking care not to give me too much foam. “There you go,” he says.

“Thanks.” I smile and take the frosty glass.

“My pleasure,” Torres says magnanimously.

“Want some chicken?” Mills pushes a bucket of wings toward me. “Becky makes the best wings in Seabrooke.”

“Uh, no thanks. I already ate,” I lie, doing my best not to recoil as I eye the sticky looking pile of wings. The sauce is carrot orange and I can already see that several of the player’s fingertips are stained bright tangerine.

Mills shrugs at my rejection of the wings. “More for us.”

Noah leans forward so that he can see me around Evan. “How did you know we were here?” I don’t think it’s my imagination his tone is vaguely accusing.

Obviously, I can’t answer him honestly. I don’t want everyone knowing that I have people watching Evan at all times. They’d wonder why that’s necessary, and that’s not a conversation I’m going to have. So, instead of telling the truth, I lie.

“Evan told me,” I say, and Evan stiffens beside me. I’m confident he won’t call me out for lying. It’s in his best interest for everyone to accept that we’re a thing. The sooner the better.

Noah’s eyes flicker oddly. “Did he?”

---