Free No Place That Far by L.A. Witt Page A

Anyway…” He nodded toward the door. “I should get started prepping. Liam’s probably out there tapping his foot already.”
    â€œProbably. I’ll be out in a minute.”
    â€œTake your time. We still don’t open for a while yet, and it’ll probably be a light crowd tonight.”
    Kieran left, and Marcus’s fingers eventually remembered how to work buttons. He dressed, all the while trying not to think about that gorgeous Ukrainian legionnaire who’d fucked his mind, as well as, well, him. It was probably a good thing he was still clumsy with the damned bow tie—it gave him something else to concentrate on besides the memory of calloused hands, tanned arms and tattooed skin.
    The memory of Timur’s naked body sprawled on the bed in the early morning light sent a shiver through him, and his fingers once again forgot what they were supposed to be doing. Swearing under his breath, he pulled off the bow tie and started over. Again.
    When he was properly dressed and at his own station, all the pieces fell back into place. Prepping and mixing was like riding a bicycle in some ways. All he had to do was fall into Wilde’s specific rhythm. Kieran worked at the station nearest to his own—pair up a “newbie” with one of the oldest-serving (hah) bartenders to handle overflow if it happened. Marcus had worked his first few shifts with Chris, and part of him still kept an eye open for him. It only drove home deeper that Chris was gone because he was off on his honeymoon with his new husband.
    Actually, the sheer number of married men in this place was astonishing. Kieran, Chris, Liam—they had all settled down permanently, and all Marcus could do was not tell them that a marriage wasn’t necessarily permanent just because now it was legal. All gays had achieved was the right to be just as fucking miserable and tangled up as straight people, with all the custody and financial issues that entailed. Hooray for equality.
    He was glad when the doors opened and a large group practically stormed Wilde’s. The sense of relief was short-lived, though. It was a bachelor party with two grooms. Jesus Christ.
    But the bartenders had the situation very much under control, and it was turning into one of those evenings that didn’t leave him feeling broken and unable to spell his name or stand on his feet for just a moment longer. It was approaching midnight when a familiar shape entered the bar—Marcus recognized him even from the corner of his eye, but maybe that was either due to the fresh memory or wishful thinking.
    Timur entered, and compared to some of the other guests, he wasn’t spectacularly dressed or groomed, by any means. But he filled out that simple black T-shirt and blue jeans like very few other men in the room, with the possible exception of Jack, who immediately perked up the way he did when he noticed a man who could be trouble.
    By the grace of God, Marcus didn’t drop the drink he was preparing right then, and through sheer muscle memory—and, well, probably more grace of God—he was able to finish mixing it without fucking it up. All the while, he was aware of that conspicuous shape moving through the crowd. Moving toward him. Homing in on him like a wolf to a deer.
    Marcus shook his head. Melodramatic much? So the guy had come into a bar. He was a soldier. Soldiers drank. And Julien had probably told him this was the best place in town to pick up the finest pieces of ass. Any single gay man with a hard-on and decent standards came here, so—
    â€œMarcus.” Timur was suddenly there . Right in front of his station, looking him right in the eye, not even checking out his surroundings.
    â€œTimur.” Marcus swallowed hard. “I…I didn’t realize you were still in town.”
    Of course he was still in town. Surely the poor man wasn’t flying out the day after a wedding, when anyone would expect to