Page 31 of Making It Burn
Before I could talk myself out of it, I headed to my bedroom—one of the few rooms that was actually functional—and changed into dark jeans and a black henley.Nothing too fancy, but enough to show I'd made an effort.I checked myself in the mirror, ran a hand through my hair, and grabbed my wallet and keys.
The night air was cold against my face as I stepped out onto the street.Downtown Richmond on a Saturday night was alive—couples heading to dinner, groups of friends bar-hopping, the distant sound of live music drifting from somewhere nearby.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and started walking.Maybe I'd meet someone.Most likely, I'd have a drink and come home alone.Either way, it had to be better than sitting in my empty condo thinking about Mason.
ChapterSix
Mason
I’d been staring at the same paragraph of the MediCorp financial report for twenty minutes, and I still couldn’t tell you what it said.
The office was silent except for the hum of the heating system and the distant sound of traffic on Franklin Street.Nine o’clock on a Saturday night, and I was the only idiot still here, pretending to work while my brain replayed every moment of today on an endless loop.
Beau’s laugh when I’d organized his spice rack.The vulnerability in his voice when he’d talked about his family, about coming out, about living authentically instead of for someone else’s narrative.The way he’d looked at me right before my father called.
I closed my laptop with more force than necessary and scrubbed my hands over my face.
“This is insane,” I muttered to the empty office.Beau Thatcher was completely, entirely, categorically off-limits.
We worked together.We were on the biggest case of my career, and just because we’d managed two days of semi-functional collaboration didn’t erase years of competition and resentment.
And even if none of that mattered—even if we worked at different firms and had no history and the stars aligned perfectly—getting involved with someone like Beau would be a disaster.He was chaos and instinct and reckless energy, everything I’d spent my adult life trying not to be.We’d burn each other out in less than a week.
So why couldn’t I stop thinking about him?
Why did my apartment feel emptier than usual tonight?Why had I come back to the office instead of going home, as if putting physical distance between myself and that empty space would somehow quiet the restlessness gnawing at my chest?
I stood abruptly, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair.I needed to get out of here.Needed to do something, anything, that would reset my brain and remind me that Beau wasn’t the only person in Richmond.
The idea hit me as I was locking my office door.
Therapy.
The gay bar on Grace Street, the one I’d been to a handful of times over the past few years when the loneliness got too heavy and I needed to feel like a normal person instead of a corporate robot.The last time I’d gone—months ago, maybe longer—I’d met someone.A grad student with dark eyes and an amiable smile, and we’d spent a night together that had been exactly what I needed: uncomplicated, satisfying, and mostly forgotten by morning.
Maybe that’s what I needed now.One night to get Beau out of my system.Meet someone, have a drink, remember that physical attraction was just chemistry and proximity.And damn it, there was nothing special about the way Beau looked at me or the sound of his laugh or the fact that working with him felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Twenty minutes later, I was pulling up to a metered spot two blocks from Therapy, my heart pounding like I was about to argue a case instead of have a drink.
This is ridiculous.You’re being ridiculous.
But I got out of the car anyway, fed the meter, and walked toward the bar with my hands shoved deep in my pockets.
The street was busy—groups of people moving between bars and restaurants, the energy of downtown Richmond on a Saturday night.I’d changed before leaving the office, swapping my button-down for a navy sweater and trading my work anxiety for a different kind entirely.
A simple neon sign and a bouncer checking IDs marked Therapy’s entrance.I showed mine, paid the cover, and stepped inside.
The bar was packed.Bodies pressed together on the small dance floor, groups clustered around high-tops, the bar itself three-deep with people trying to get the bartender’s attention.The music was loud but not deafening, the lighting dim enough to feel intimate.
I made my way to the bar and flagged down a bartender—a woman with purple hair and impressive arm tattoos.
“Whiskey neat,” I said.
“You got it, handsome.”
While I waited, I scanned the crowd.A mix of ages and types—college students, professionals, couples, groups of friends.The usual Saturday night crowd.No one I recognized, which was a relief.The last thing I needed was for someone from the firm to see me here.
The bartender slid my drink across the bar, and I paid, leaving a generous tip.I took a sip, letting the burn ground me, and turned to survey the room more carefully.
