He turned and faced me, bumping his knees with mine. “I can’t believe I’m here. This place is total competition for my bar.” He sipped his beer, looking around, studying its ins and outs.
“Your bar’s nicer,” I told him, taking in the faux black leather barstools, wall of colored bottles of alcohol behind the Taylor Lautner look-alike bartender who went by the name of Gevins.
To our left sat a few tables for patrons, an unused jukebox, and two pool tables. Beyond the pool tables was a door marked Private. Two men, hand in hand, walked through the door, which clearly led to a back room used for s****l activity.
“It’s a bit tasteless,” he said.
“More than just a bit.”
“We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”
“I can stick it out. Besides, I’m with you. Something tells me you can mak
