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.Danny sipped his Scotch sulkily and sprayed a reply. I don tknow about that.I could maybe do it with her.I mean she s a womanand all, but those legs. She has the best legs in show business, Marco addedemphatically. Except for maybe Ricky Martin. I rolled my eyes.This would probably go on for a while.I tunedthem out as they began to explore their Live the Music fantasies." 43 " RUSS GREGORYAcross the bar, Gene, the afternoon bartender, set a bottleof Drambuie beside the cash register, climbed onto the top of thecounter, and tugged off his T-shirt.A couple of hard-looking bikertypes slapped bills down on the Formica surface and stood in front ofhim, looking up at his crotch.Gene s muscled chest was extremelytan.I could just make out a thin line of curly dark hair that ran belowhis navel into the top of his faded blue jeans.He dropped to his knees,picked up the bottle, and leaned back.The first biker stepped forward,opened his mouth, and licked the hair under Gene s navel.He left histongue there, cupped just below Gene s belly button, and gazed up asthe bartender uncorked the bottle and poured a stream of golden liquidinto the shallow spot between his pectoral muscles.The liquor pooledfor a split second before the first rivulet streamed erotically overGene s stomach into his navel.I could see the glint of voyeuristic eyesflash from the smoky corners of the bar.I couldn t stop watching asthe little pocket of flesh filled and overflowed into the biker s mouth.Self-loathing stirred me to action.I wasn t up to body shots ona Sunday afternoon. Well, I m out of here. I stood, opened my wallet, and tosseda couple of bills on the bar. Where re you going? Danny asked. Home, tomorrow s a school day. Bummer, Marco mumbled.I left the two of them staring attheir drinks in the gloomy bar, made my way to the exit, and weavedthrough the next wave of alcoholics pushing into the entrance.The late-afternoon sunshine blinded me as I stepped out, andI squinted at Fourth Street, trying to see through the glare.I turnedtoward my car, parked on Congress Avenue.A collision nearly knocked me down. Whoa there, he said. I m sorry, my eyes aren t used& As my sight adjusted afamiliar face came into focus.The surprise took my breath away. Been inside? he asked, tilting his head toward the Can.I smiled, trying to inhale, and nodded. How s the crowd? Scary. " 44 " BLUEThatcher smiled back. Go figure.So where are you headed? Home, I guess.What about you? Early dinner at Sullivan s.You hungry? I tried to hide my enthusiasm.Was he really asking me todinner? Uh, I guess I could eat. Join me then, he offered, and I nodded.The two of us ambled up the street in comfortable silence.Ifought an inclination to fill the void with mindless chatter and heseemed happy with the silence.We rounded the corner at ColoradoStreet.The conversational lull lasted all the way to the restaurant sentrance.An attendant at the valet stand opened the plate-glass door,and a tall, gorgeous African-American woman at the hostess standgreeted us. Hi, guys. Her smile was dazzling. How many? Just two of us, Thatcher replied. I don t suppose you have reservations? No. We answered in unison and grinned at each other as sheran a bloodred fingernail down her clipboard. No problem you re early.We can seat you right away. Shetossed her soft, dark hair over an ebony shoulder and murmurednumbers to a pudgy blond waitress with enormous hips.The waitressnodded and grabbed a couple of menus. Right this way, guys. We followed her to a booth in the back not far from the kitchenwhere she placed oversized leather-bound menus in front of us andset the wine list in the middle of the table. Robbie will let you know about our specials. She smiledagain and trudged away, deftly avoiding a busboy carrying a tray ofdirty dishes. Wine? Thatcher asked.I nodded. Red or white? Red. He glanced down the list while I scanned my menu.A youngLatino with slicked-back hair dropped off a basket of bread, filledour water glasses, and lit a votive candle in a small jar on the table." 45 " RUSS GREGORYRobbie arrived and described the special selections, using ridiculousadjectives that made the offerings sound like they were antediluvianor, at the very least, pre-Mayan.Thatcher ordered a bottle of SilverOak cabernet.Robbie shot off in search of the bottle of wine whilethe two of us perused our menus.Hmmm, good taste in wine, I thought, stealing a furtive glanceat those amazing eyes.His attraction seemed to shoot out like asearchlight between us.His golden skin glistened and flickered inthe candlelight.He had great bone structure, a straight nose, and astrong, pronounced chin.But those eyes took my breath away.I dnever seen anything like them blue and green at the same time.Thatcher was distant and mysterious.And shy.I wanted toknow him, understand him, and protect him.My heart melted forhim, and I didn t know why.I could feel more than see a depth to hischaracter that made me wary of idle conversation.So I sat quietlyuntil the waiter returned and we had ordered dinner. Why don t you go out more? I finally asked. What? He looked up with a lost expression. The other day, at Central Market, you said you don t go outmuch.Why not? He brushed the sandy hair from his eyes. I don t really like it,I guess.Too confusing, bad memories, he said simply. Confusing? He looked down, obviously lost in thought, butdidn t answer.I prodded again. Confusing, how? He sighed. I was in the military& army& don t-ask-don t-tell.Evidently frequenting gay bars is tantamount to telling
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