Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Wes’s smile, slow and genuine, was all the reward Dustin needed for being bold enough to ask. A man could get drunk in those lake-blue eyes rather easily, especially when they sparkled like a summer rain had recently lifted.
“I know a great joint over in Dupont. Best fries I’ve ever had. But...” Wes’s perfectly white teeth worried his bottom lip.
“But?” Dustin prompted.
“It’s a pretty mixed crowd and has a sports bar vibe, but it’s in the heart of Seventeenth. You might not want something over there. Reckon it might be too...complicated for you.”
“I’ve been in gay bars before.” He wasn’t lying. He hadn’t been Apollo’s best friend for going on fifteen years without occasionally socializing at Apollo’s usual haunts, although he’d often had a date along or been in a group of friends. “And my best friend is marrying my brother. It doesn’t get any more complicated than that. I can handle your favorite place.”
“Really?” Wes offered him another stunner of a smile, one that made Dustin want to push past whatever discomfort he was dealing with. He could do this.
“Lead me to the great fries.” For the first time all day, he used his commanding tone, the one that always got results from his men. Wes’s eyes went wide, then he nodded. Good. Dustin kinda liked surprising him, keeping him guessing. Maybe if he felt as off-kilter as Dustin did, then things would be more equal.
* * *
Wes loved the neighborhood bar in the heart of DC’s gay district, loved how it wasn’t a dance club—he was never quite sure what to do with himself at those. But the sports bar felt familiar, like the places his buddies went to back home or near base. He remembered the first time he’d come here, several years ago, and everything had just felt right, like he was right where he was supposed to be. He hoped that Dustin felt similarly welcome. The joint had a generous covered patio, but they’d opted to come indoors, where the narrow wood-paneled room was highlighted by a massive bar with tables and chairs in front of it. A cheerful sign told them to sit anywhere.
“Hey, they’ve got the college game on.” Dustin gestured at one of the many TVs scattered throughout the small space. “You follow football at all? Oregon’s predicted to have a terrible season this year, but I’ve got hopes.”
“Eh. I follow UNC because my family might disown me if I didn’t, but other than that I don’t usually watch college ball until the Bowl season rolls around. But basketball, now that’s religion.” Out of training, Wes’s eyes swept the space, taking in the exits, and finding a table with a good view of the whole room. Funny, to find Dustin doing the exact same thing, his darker eyes seeming to catalog every detail. And a relief too, if he was being honest—Dustin walked with the same impeccable room-owning posture of every marine Wes had ever met and his behavior backed up that he was who he appeared to be. Which, considering how many of the dudes on Joe4Joe were clearly posers, was right nice.
And sure enough, they both went for the seat against the wall rather than put their back to the room.
“Sorry. Habit.” Wes let Dustin have the seat, figuring that anything that made him more comfortable was a good thing. It had been good to see him relax more and more while they’d been at the museum, although he’d tensed up again on the drive over here.
Having known better than to try to park close to the Natural History Museum, Wes had taken the metro, so he’d ridden back with Dustin in his small rental car. Dustin had bitched about the rental being an automatic, and Wes had commiserated because he’d be pissed about that same thing. Trying to find parking in Dupont was a hassle and a half, and he’d noticed Dustin’s tension rising with every block they circled.
Even now, his large frame dwarfing the dark wood chair and their small table, Dustin looked distinctly ill-at-ease, glancing around, and turning the menu over like it might have a recipe for crawdads on the back.
“Do y’all know what you’re drinking?” the waitress—a slim woman around his age with a curvy chest stretching a tight black top—asked with the sort of deep Southern accent Wes associated with Alabama and Mississippi.
“What’s on tap that’s a lager?” Dustin gave her the easiest smile Wes had seen all day, and she smiled right back. An ugly green monster bristled inside Wes’s chest, and he suppressed a growl.
“Well, sugar, I think the Yuengling Lager might be just the thing for you, but I’ve got Brooklyn in a bottle too.”
“Tap is fine.” Another free and easy smile.
“And for you?” She turned to Wes with decidedly less friendliness.