Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Look,” Randy said, lowering his arms. “I get it. Daryl’s a stupid fucker. He shouldn’t antagonize the clients, but you gotta understand how this one is different.”
“And how exactly is that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“It’s fucking uncomfortable, man. Working here knowing how he is and what he likes.” He gestured toward the locker room exit, where Liam sat at his desk in the lobby.
Tate prayed he couldn’t hear a word of their conversation.
He wanted to throw up. All he could think of was Randy screaming at him someday, “Knowing how you are and what you like.”
“He fucking looks at me when I walk in the door,” Randy said, kicking a loose tile.
“What do you want him to do, stare at the floor?” Tate was proud of himself for his voice’s leveled control.
“Yes!” Randy shouted. “That’s exactly what I want him to do.”
He’d known his brother was a small-minded bigot. It’d be impossible not to, and there’d been plenty of times over the years when he’d wanted to smack the shit out of Randy for the stupid shit he said, but he’d never hated him. Part of him had always held hope that Randy would eventually come around if he learned of Tate’s sexual orientation.
This conversation was quickly killing that faith.
And in that moment, he hated Randy.
“Times are changing, Randy,” he said as he grabbed his chisel. “You can’t say shit like that and expect people to agree with you.”
“Times are changing.” Randy snorted. “Maybe, but that don’t make it right.” He stared Tate in the eye. “There’s gonna come a time when you gotta make a choice, man. Stand by your people or his. I hope you make the right choice.” He pulled his mask down, lowered his safety glasses, and gave Tate his back as he went to work.
Were the words a threat, or was it just Randy running his mouth? Either way, they cut deep and emphasized the problem. Tate couldn't have it both ways. He couldn’t be himself and remain part of his family.
Whatever morsel of hope he’d clung to died a painful death right there in Liam’s studio.
Twice now, he’d connected with Liam in a way he’d never connected with another man. It’d been fun, freeing, and addictive. They’d talked about a next time, and Tate didn’t want to let that pass him by. Being with Liam felt life-changing in a way his soul craved.
Randy would kick him in the nuts if he could hear his thoughts.
The inevitable barreled down on him with the speed of a runaway train.
There’s gonna come a time when you gotta make a choice, man.
Randy was right.
Tate hoped he was strong enough to make the right choice when the time came.
The choice that would change his life forever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT WEEK followed much of the same pattern. Liam woke at six thirty, chugged a cup of coffee and a protein bar, then made his way downstairs to the studio. After a solid half hour of stretching and warm-up, he worked on choreographing routines. Once he had the studio up and running, he hoped to start a competition team. To do that, he’d need to attract skilled dancers, and the best way to reel them in was with stellar choreography. Just because he lived in a small rural town didn’t mean there wasn’t incredible talent to be discovered.
Tate and Randy showed up around eight each morning. The last three days, Tate had brought him an iced caramel macchiato. It’d been a welcome surprise, and he’d had a hard time not gushing in excitement. Randy gave him dirty looks but didn’t ask how Tate knew Liam’s coffee order. At least he didn’t ask in Liam’s earshot.
Thankfully, there hadn’t been any more issues with Daryl. He tended to show up late and with a scowl, but he’d kept his mouth shut and worked. As soon as Liam saw him pull into the parking lot, he made himself scarce until Daryl disappeared into the locker room. The situation wasn’t ideal, but he'd take it if it kept the peace and made things easier for Tate.
What he hated was the professional way Tate spoke to him and how they hadn’t had so much as spent thirty seconds alone together. After the epic frotting session in the locker room, Liam had hoped for more. That night, he’d gone to bed imagining stolen moments, sneaking kisses, and maybe a scandalous lunch break in his apartment.
But, no. It’d been crickets from Tate, and while Liam practically had to tie himself to his desk chair, he didn’t make a move either. If it were up to Liam, they’d get each other off daily, but the ball was in Tate’s court. He was the one with something to lose. So, Liam had behaved himself and had spent more time jerking off over the past few days than he had in high school.