Chapter 2

The man repeated, “What do you want, kid? I’m buying.”

And now Wren found himself perched precariously upon the horns of a dilemma. Should he let the man buy him a drink and further encourage him, knowing fully that all he wanted, in spite of being placed squarely within arm’s reach of one hundred or more gay men, was simply to be left alone? Or should he gently but politely decline the man’s offer and make it clear he wasn’t interested?

His wink had led the man to believe otherwise. The simple yet eloquent signal had been used as a flirtatious device by gay and straight men alike for centuries. And it wouldn’t do to inform him that the wink had not been for purposes of sexual solicitation but to procure a measly stool. How craven was that? Wren now regretted taking the stool, wishing he had just let the man have it. The cost was too high. He contemplated getting down from it and walking right through the exit, heading toward the Lake Michigan waterfront, and licking his wounds there.

But Lake Michigan did not have Absolut vodka, nor did it have the seeming bliss of these dancers before him.

And he would be too alone at Lake Michigan. The old saw was true—one was never more alone than when in a crowd. He liked how alone being around all these other seemingly happy human beings made him feel.

“Kid? I’m talking to you.”

The guy was getting insistent and, Wren presumed, tired of being ignored. Wren could almost hear the older guy’s hopes being dashed. The hopes hitting the floor sounded like glass breaking.

“Sorry,” Wren said, looking up at the man. “I’m waiting for someone.” He turned away so the man couldn’t see the heat rising to his face, red as his hair, or the shame he knew must somehow be displayed in his eyes.

“Well, what the fuck were you winking at me for, then?”

Thankfully, the guy didn’t wait for Wren to answer. Wren wasn’t the kind of person who could be so cruel as to inform the guy he winked at him for a selfish reason—so he could sit down. And he was also not the kind of person who thought he deserved the stool because he was younger and prettier—even though he was. If pressed, Wren decided he would have smiled at the man, told him he found him irresistible, and that the wink was just an uncontrolled, unbidden response to his desire, even though he knew his boyfriend was on his way. He thought it might at least make the guy smile, and in that Wren could find a measure of forgiveness for his behavior.

But the man had wandered off into the crowd. Wren hoped he wasn’t hurt by Wren’s unwitting tease of a wink.

The bartender, a pale, skinny guy who had never learned the phrase “enough is enough” when it came to tattoos, sauntered up to him, dressed in a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and jeans that hung too loosely on his way-too-slender hips. He smiled and revealed a mouthful of brown and decaying teeth. Wren wondered if he was a tweaker.

“What are you having?” he asked, fatigue apparent in voice, expression, and demeanor.

He barely met Wren’s eyes, and when he did, for only a moment, Wren noticed the bartender’s pupils nearly ate up his irises. Wren frowned, shaken.

“Uh, how about a vodka and tonic?”

The bartender, tweaker or no, squinted at him, cocking his head. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” Wren rolled his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked this question—nor did he think it would be the last. With his boyish face and slight frame, he had the appearance of a high school student. He wondered if he should grow a beard.

He was already reaching for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans when the bartender asked him to prove it.

But his wallet wasn’t there. He tried the left pocket, just in case, then both front pockets, but all he came up with were his house keys, lint, and a few pieces of spare change. He leaned over to peer down at the floor, thinking maybe the wallet had inched its way out when he climbed aboard the stool he had waylaid.

The floor was empty—far from clean, but empty.

Wren felt heat rise to his face and his heart going rat-tat-tat in his chest, machine-gun style. Bad enough to be caught without ID in a bar, especially when he appeared all of sweet sixteen, but much worse to think of losing not only all his money, but also credit cards and forms of identification.

He threw the bartender what he knew had to be a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my wallet.” Wren swiveled the stool to examine the floor once more.