Free Restoration 01 - Getting It Right by A.M. Arthur

of clubbing clothes. Most of them he’d tossed after he passed thirty and realized he’d rather spend a rare night off staring at the television than bouncing around a dance floor. He didn’t know how James still had the energy.
    Nope. He was not thinking about James tonight. He wasn’t letting himself wonder if James was alone, or if he’d gone out. He definitely wasn’t thinking about that damned kiss.
    Except he was, damn it.
    A few things were still tucked in the back of his closet. Nate rummaged around until he found a pair of holey, too-tight jeans and a white T-shirt he’d accidentally shrunk in the wash and planned to cut up into dust rags.
    The outfit wasn’t bad, especially with his hair combed out and slicked back. His tiny bit of Nanticoke blood meant his beard grew incredibly slowly, and the four days’ worth of stubble lingering on his cheeks and chin was barely visible. The combination worked, though. He looked more like an aging rent boy than a cop.
    Time to head down to the working boys’ side of the city and see if anyone remembered a dead guy named Mitchell Spokes.

    Pot O Gold wasn’t the place James most wanted to go after lying to his best friend’s face, but it was there or sit home and stew. He wasn’t much for stewing. An overabundance of bad emotions had sent him out in search of some kind of physical release. Dancing would do for now, but he wouldn’t turn down a good offer for more. The problem, he realized the instant he walked into the thrumming bass of the club, was no one in that bar fit the bill.
    The person he most wanted to be with thought he wasn’t attracted to him.
    For the umpteenth time tonight, he cursed himself for a fucking fool.
    He slipped through the crowds, watching, sometimes dancing, sipping at one peach mojito. A few times, he swore that one of the bartenders was giving him dirty looks. He didn’t know Donner well—great ass, nice cock, more alpha than the black eyeliner he wore at the Pot let on—so he wasn’t sure why the guy had him on his shit list. They’d fucked once, ages ago, and James remembered them both having a pretty good time, so he chalked it up to indigestion and ignored him.
    He finished his beer and considered giving up for the night—until a flash of white-blond captured his attention. Ezra Kelley was bobbing through the crowd toward a booth, three drinks in his hands. He sat down with a pair of guys James had seen burning up the dance floor a few times, and whose names he’d never caught.
    Maybe he was too much of a chickenshit to tell his best friend the truth, but he could man up and apologize to Ezra.
    He waited until Ezra’s friends had cleared out of the booth, then eased his way over. Ezra looked up, surprise widening eyes that were currently a vividly fake green. He did seem to love his contact lenses.
    “Hey, sorry about the other night.” James had to lean in to be heard without shouting.
    “Forget it,” Ezra replied. The tension in his jaw betrayed his lack of sincerity.
    James didn’t deserve forgiveness, but he had to get this out. “No, seriously, Ezra. I drank too much and I should have asked before anything happened. I don’t usually do that kind of shit.”
    “You mean shove people up against walls?”
    His face got hot. I am a certified douche bag. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
    Ezra shrugged. “My fault too. I knew better.”
    Nothing about that night had been Ezra’s fault. “So we’re cool?”
    He hesitated. Nodded. “Yeah, we’re cool.”
    “Great.” James didn’t really feel his smile, and politeness required him to ask, “Buy you a drink?”
    “No thanks. I buy my own drinks.”
    “Right. See you around, then.”
    “Yeah.”
    He didn’t breathe normally again until he was on the other side of the room. His skin prickled with awareness, and damn it all, Donner had been glaring at him. He watched Donner’s attention shift toward Ezra’s booth. The expression changed. Became hotter.