Off Duty Volume 2 - Gregory Ashe Page 0,2
to.”
“Oh,” Somers managed to say in a strangled voice.
“Gentlemen, take your places,” Will announced over the speakers again.
“You’re really going to do this?” Hazard said.
“It’s for a trans kid,” Somers said, shrugging, although the blush still hadn’t left his cheeks. “She’s homeless.”
“So we’re doing this for charity,” Hazard said.
“I think it’s the least we can do.”
“Right,” Hazard said. “We are only, exclusively, purely doing this for altruistic reasons.”
“Of course,” Somers said, but he was right back to biting his lip again and looking like he was thinking about anything but selfless human kindness.
“Then you’d better get on the fucking stage,” Hazard said, spinning Somers around and giving him a shove toward the steps.
“But I—”
“I know,” Hazard said, the heat coiling even more tightly in his gut. “I’ll get you the damn outfits.”
III
OCTOBER 20
SATURDAY
7:36 PM
HAZARD DIDN’T HAVE TIME to drive home and pick up clothes for Somers. He had to figure out something here.
He made his way back to the bar.
The bartender, barely more than kid, was wearing a leather vest, dark blue jeans, and a rapt expression as he stared at the men on stage. Hazard guessed the kid hadn’t been out long, judging by the fact that the kid looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. He was supposed to be cutting limes, but the knife and cutting board sat in front of him forgotten.
“Hey,” Hazard said.
The kid actually, honest-to-God licked his lips.
“Hey!”
“Oh. What. I mean, hey.” The kid sidled down the bar, his gaze sliding back to the men on stage. “Yeah, um. What can I get you?”
“Lost and found.”
“Mmm.”
“Hey, kid, before you get your pants all dirty: lost and found.”
“Oh, yeah. Um, can it wait? They’re about to—”
Hazard caught a handful of vest and pulled the kid halfway over the bar. When they were nose to nose, Hazard said, “Sure. I’ll wait.”
“Um. Never mind. We can go look right now.”
The kid took him to the end of the bar, bending to retrieve a box stashed out of sight. When he did, the bright orange elastic of his briefs slid into view. Hazard suppressed a snort.
“What did you say you were looking—”
“I didn’t,” Hazard said, pulling open the box and taking out items: a box of expired condoms, two joints, a lone Chuck with ratty canvas, a moth-eaten fur coat—maybe, Hazard thought, setting it to one side—a keyring with an Elmo figurine attached, a roll of duct tape, a box of mints, two bottles of what Hazard guessed were poppers, and fourteen white t-shirts with Pretty Pretty printed on the front in a Technicolor rainbow font.
He flipped through the t-shirts, took one, and shoved everything else back into the box.
“Bar gun,” Hazard said.
“What? Oh no, man. We don’t have—”
“The fucking soda gun, right there. Hand it to me.”
The kid complied. Hazard bent over the bar, hanging the shirt over the sink, and sprayed it with water until it was soaking wet.
“Our first contestant,” Will’s husky voice crackled on the speakers, “comes all the way from Buenos Aires, Argentina.”
“Oh fuck,” Hazard muttered.
“Oh fuck,” the kid whispered. “Nico. It’s going to be Nico.”
Hazard rolled his eyes. He tugged on the kid’s vest again until the kid glanced at him.
“Pants.”
“What?”
“Give me your pants.”
“My—no way, man.”
“How tall are you?”
“Five-ten, but I’m not—”
“Perfect. Take them off and give them to me.”
“I—they’re my pants.”
Hazard leaned back from the bar, studying the kid. “Stand up straight.”
The kid did.
“Push your hair to the side.”
The kid did.”
“Are you twenty-one?”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’m going to break something down for you. Are you ready?”
Will’s voice blared: “Nico Flores.” An Argentine tango played over the speakers.
Hazard tried to keep from throwing up.
“Eyes here, kid. Thirty seconds and you can stare at him all you want.”
The kid dragged his attention back to Hazard, but it looked like it cost him.
“How many guys in here?”
“I don’t—”
“Fire code is five hundred. Let’s say we’re close. Let’s say it’s four-fifty. Does it look like four-fifty to you?”
“Sure. Yeah. What are you—”
“How many bachelors?”
“I don’t—”
“On the stage. How many bachelors in the auction?”
“Ten.”
“Nine,” Hazard said. “My boyfriend doesn’t count. Are you rich?”
“I work at a bar, dude.”
“So odds that you’re going to win an auction and take one of those guys home, small. Right?”
“Yeah.”
Behind him, Hazard heard shouts go up, catcalls, whoops of delight. He fought with himself and lost, glancing back to catch a glimpse of Nico strutting around the stage in the tank and shorts. His first outfit showed off coltish legs and the slender musculature of his arms and shoulders. Hazard would put