Page 3 of Unbound
I quickly washed my hands, splashing cold water on my face to clear my head. In the mirror, my reflection stared back with wide, anxious eyes. My church lanyard hung around my neck like a branded mark. I should have removed it before entering. Why hadn't I thought of that?
I glanced at my sign leaning against the bathroom counter. "LOVE THE SINNER, HATE THE SIN."
"You can do this," I told my reflection. "Just walk straight out. Don't look at anyone. Don't speak to anyone."
I dried my hands and turned toward the exit, mentally plotting the quickest path back to the protest. Three steps to the door, left down the hallway, straight through the crowd, out into the clean night air. I could be back with the others in less than two minutes. No one would ever know where I'd been.
I turned to reach for the door handle, but before I could pull it open, it swung inward. A man stood in the doorway, deliberately blocking the exit, one shoulder leaned against the frame with casual confidence. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and his eyes—deep brown and somehow amused—captured mine before I could look away. His white shirt clungto broad shoulders, and the sleeves were rolled up to reveal tanned forearms.
My breath caught in my throat.
His eyes narrowed, then widened with recognition. His gaze traveled downward to my lanyard, then back to my face, a slow, deliberate assessment that made my skin heat.
"Well," he said, his voice somehow cutting through the music with surprising clarity. "Isn't this interesting."
I realized with horror that I was effectively trapped. He wasn't moving from the doorway.
"Bathroom's all yours," I managed to say, my voice embarrassingly tight.
His lips curved into something between a smile and a challenge. He didn't budge.
"I'm not here for the bathroom, Jesse from Topeka Covenant." The way he said my name sent an inexplicable shiver down my spine. "I'm more interested in what you're doing here."
ADRIAN
I'd gotten used to the protesters. They were like pigeons outside the window—annoying, occasionally shitting on things, but ultimately just background noise. We all had.
"Another round?" I asked, signalling the bartender before anyone could answer. Friday night at The Harbour was our tradition, sacred ground for the members of Delta Lambda Phi—or as we called it, the queer frat comprised of any and every gender that actually partied.
"You trying to get us drunk, Costas?" Thompson leaned against the bar beside me, his dark eyes scanning the crowdwith the measured assessment of a leader always checking on his people. Andrew Thompson—our president, future Supreme Court Justice, and the only person I knew who ironed his jeans—never fully relaxed, even here.
"Fuck yes, I am." I grinned at him. "Constitutional Law brief is due Monday, and I plan to forget about it entirely until Sunday night."
Phoenix appeared at my shoulder, their blue hair catching the pulsing lights as they draped themselves dramatically across the bar. Tonight they'd gone full femme—winged eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man and a crop top that read "Gender is a Prison."
"Some of us," they announced, "don't have the luxury of procrastination. Some of us have a performance piece on the commodification of queer identity due—"
"On Tuesday," Diana finished, sliding a fresh drink into Phoenix's hand. "Which gives you plenty of time to get magnificently drunk tonight and bake cookies with me tomorrow." She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and adjusted her glasses. "Self-care is not optional, honey."
"Diana's right," Jamie agreed, already filming the interaction for what would undoubtedly become part of her documentary on "found family dynamics in marginalized communities." She never went anywhere without her camera. "Besides, I need footage of Phoenix drunk-dancing for the montage."
"You're all enablers," Phoenix sighed, taking the drink. "I love it."
The bartender slid our drinks across the bar. I distributed them with practiced efficiency—whiskey neat for Thompson, some fruity monstrosity for Phoenix, beer for Elijah and myself, wine for Diana, something with too many umbrellas for Jamie, and straight tequila for Sam, who was lurking atthe edge of our circle looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.
I nudged the shot glass toward them. "Drink up, Reeves. Your scowl is scaring the baby gays."
Sam rolled their eyes but took the shot. "Someone has to maintain awareness of our surroundings." Their gaze flicked meaningfully toward the windows, where the protesters were still visible, signs raised.
"They're just the usual suspects," Elijah said quietly. My best friend had the uncanny ability to appear suddenly in conversations, like some kind of social ghost. He adjusted his glasses and gave Sam a pointed look. "Ignoring them is the best policy."
"Easy for you to say," Sam muttered, but there was no real heat in it. We all knew both Sam and Elijah had their own complicated histories with religious assholes.
I glanced over at the window. The protesters were still there, clutching their signs and looking miserable in the light drizzle. One particular sign caught my eye: "GOD HATES F*GS" in screaming red letters. Original.
"You know, I almost feel bad for them," I said, taking a swig of my beer. "Standing out there getting soaked while we're in here having the time of our lives. Must be exhausting to hate so much."
"Don't waste your empathy," Thompson advised, straightening his already perfect collar. "They'd drag us all to conversion therapy given half a chance."
