Heat Stroke Page 2

  Jamie was quiet so long, Marcus worried he’d had to go rescue someone. Or worse.

  Someone was giving him a problem on the beach.

  Marcus’s pulse started to tick faster and faster in his ears. There was more than one reason he liked being close to Jamie’s chair. More than one reason he bounced at the Castle Gate. Just in case someone fucked with Jamie. Marcus had heard the story about the incident. If someone bothered Jamie on the beach—or worse, harmed him—it wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Jamie.”

  Still nothing.

  Marcus stood up and prepared to jump down to the sand.

  “Sorry,” Jamie came back, laughing. “The PD arrived. The hippie is giving me the finger.”

  Marcus flopped back down into the chair and let out a shaky breath. “Are you in on the bet?” he asked, after he’d composed himself.

  “What are the stakes?”

  Don’t do this. You shouldn’t be doing this. “If you lose, you go with me tomorrow.”

  Jamie scoffed. “Go with you where?”

  “You only find out if you lose.”

  “Ohhhh. So this is how murders happen.”

  Marcus reared back. “Right. Like I’d let something happen to you.”

  Idiot. He rapped on his forehead with a fist. Too much. Guys didn’t say things like that to each other. His suspicion that he’d said the wrong thing was confirmed a moment later when Jamie spoke again. “If I win, Marcus…you have to stop this, all right?”

  “Stop what? Being a natural born winner? I can’t help it.” He rolled his eyes at himself even as he chuckled weakly into the radio. “Talk to you later, Jamie Prince. I gotta go crack down on an old lady.”

  He switched off the channel before he could embarrass himself further. He dropped his head into his hands. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much stress the truth caused him, though…he couldn’t help but count the hours until the sun went down.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jamie rolled his eyes as “Baby One More Time” kicked off again over the Castle Gate loudspeakers. He’d been keeping a mental tally all night. Currently, the score was Jamie: five, Marcus: seven. And it was a testament to how loaded their customers were that no one seemed to notice the same two songs kept playing over and over again. Jamie caught Marcus grinning at him from his station at the door and gave him a look that said the night is young, bitch.

  “Someone go fix the jukebox before I jab this cocktail stirrer in my fucking eye,” Andrew called from the other end of the teaming bar. His command received several drunken cheers from summer revelers. As usual, they were red faced, sloshed and showing no signs of going home. They were a different crowd than the one who typically patronized the Castle Gate during the rest of the year. These were Down for the Summer folks—or DFS’s as they were referred to by Long Beach locals. With no jobs to wake up for in the morning and apparently a yawning gap where their morals used to be, DFS’s typically remained in the bar until they were thrown out, and tonight would be no different.

  During the summer months, after the Prince brothers ended their lifeguarding shifts at the beach, they went straight to the Castle Gate and started slinging drinks. Working the family bar their father had bought decades earlier was nothing new, but the bar’s success had become a lot more necessary because of the debt their father had left behind. Thankfully, because of Andrew’s relentless drive, the tone of the place had changed dramatically and money was coming in, long overdue bills were being paid. A seedier crowd that usually drew the attention of local law enforcement had been replaced with college kids and vacationers. So while the new wave of customers might be entitled and inexperienced, they’d started putting more money in the register and given the place a trendy reputation.

  Their father would never see what it had become.

  Jamie swatted away that disquieting thought and tipped a pint glass sideways under a steady amber stream, leaving it with just the right amount of foam on top before he slid it across the bar toward a customer, accepting a twenty in exchange. Sitting beside that customer was an older man in a fitted gray T-shirt, a little salt and pepper in his hair. His gaze warmed when Jamie looked over, letting Jamie know he was interested.

  There. Right there was his usual type. A mature gentleman who knew what he wanted, was secure in who he was and didn’t mind everyone knowing.

  In other words, the opposite of Marcus O’Shaughnessy.

  Forcing himself to stop comparing Marcus to people—or thinking about him in any capacity—Jamie met up with Andrew at the register.

  “Why couldn’t the jukebox have gotten stuck on Journey or something?” Andrew muttered, his fingers flying over the touch screen. “Drunk people love Journey.”

  No way Jamie was telling his brother about the bet. One, Andrew didn’t like anyone fucking around on the clock and two, Jamie had no business engaging in a bet that could equal more time with Marcus. None whatsoever. “Yes. But drunk girls love Britney, and when girls are happy, so are the menfolk. It’s basic math.”

  Andrew eyeballed him while counting out singles. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your favorite song is the other one that keeps playing.”

  “Weird coincidence.”

  “Sure.” His brother elbowed the register shut and left to return change to the customer, before lining up a row of tequila shots for another group. Jamie could feel Marcus watching him over the next half hour as he poured endless pints and so much vodka, any minute now the customers were going to start speaking in Russian. Rory returned from his dinner break in the bar’s back office, Olive stumbling out behind him with a dazed expression. He picked her up by the waist and sat her down in a stool at the end of the bar, sliding a Coke in front of her. Jamie shook his head as Rory approached, his brother unable to stop glancing back at his girlfriend with each step like she might have disappeared.

  “How was your dinner break?” Jamie asked dryly. “Did you actually manage to eat?”

  Rory plowed a hand through his hair and winked at Jamie. “Oh, I ate.”

  “Christ.”

  His younger brother laughed. “Not exactly the sexiest soundtrack, but I worked with what I had.” Rory nodded at a customer and started filling the order, hitting the ground running as if he’d never taken a break. That was bartending. Like riding a bike. “What’s with the Buckley/Britney mashup?”

  “How would I know?”

  Rory snorted. “Give it up, man. The same two songs playing on a loop? This is the kind of puzzle that you’re usually determined to solve.”

  Jamie pulled the handle on the Guinness and started building a line of pints of the inky black beer. “Why don’t you worry about the lecture Andrew is going to give you for hooking up in the break room?”

  “It’s not hooking up. It’s Olive.” He shook his head on a laugh. “If it was just hooking up, I wouldn’t have to stop myself from proposing nine times a day.”

  That was news to Jamie—and hell if his cynical heart didn’t twitch a little hearing it.

  “Someday you will,” Jamie said, nodding briskly. “And she’ll say yes.”

  “Yeah.” Rory scratched his chin, looking kind of bemused. “I think she might.”

  “And you’ll beg me to be your best man and I’ll drag it out, saying ‘I don’t know, I’ll think about it,’” Jamie drawled. “Even though we both know I look the best in a suit and wouldn’t deprive anyone of seeing me in one.”

  Rory’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed. And in the distance, Jamie could see Olive melting into a blonde puddle while watching Rory laugh. Oh yeah. She’d say yes.

  Jamie assessed his brother, taking note of how well rested he looked. How light. And God, he loved seeing Rory happy. When Olive showed up in the beginning of the summer, by way of Oklahoma, Jamie had been worried. Rory projected a tough image to the world—or Long Beach, as it were—and his prison record only bolstered the notion that he was bad news.

  What the judgmental
bastards didn’t know?

  It was Jamie’s stupidity that had put his younger brother behind bars.

  A memory of what happened on the beach six years ago caught Jamie off guard and the glass slipped out of his hands, clattering on the brass drain beneath the beer spouts. The sensation of gasping for air, the laughter…it all welled up in his throat and ears until it drowned out the riot of voices in the Castle Gate. If the hands holding him underwater would just let him get a full breath—

  “Hey.” Rory elbowed him, concern creasing his brow. “You all right?”

  The present rushed back in like a slap to the face. “Yeah,” Jamie managed, righting the glass and continuing the pour. “Sorry. I’m great.”

  But Rory was perceptive. He’d been there that evening on the beach and it had changed both of their lives. A few weeks ago, Rory had run into the man who’d given Jamie those shitty, lasting memories. The guy was back in Long Beach. Living there or visiting? Jamie didn’t know. But Rory’s encounter was probably why details of that evening had been popping up without warning more and more frequently lately.

  When the happiness on Rory’s face started to ebb the longer he scrutinized Jamie, Jamie rushed to patch up the moment. He was responsible for two years of Rory’s misery. Two years of his brother stuck in a dark hole, facing danger day in and day out. Never again. Rory deserved to be happy now. Jamie would do everything in his power to make sure he stayed that way.

  “Look, you know how I hate to lose a bet?”

  Rory shifted on his feet, clearly suspicious over the subject change. “It’s more of an extension of the fact that you hate to be wrong.”

  “Right. Which is so rare. And why I need your help.” Jamie made sure Andrew wasn’t in earshot. “I’ve got a bet with Marcus that I can get people to play more Buckley than Britney.”

  “I knew it was some shit like that,” Rory said, accepting a fist full of money from a customer. “You’re not losing, are you?”

  “I am, if you can believe it. I didn’t take logistics into account.” Jamie grimaced. “He’s way closer to the jukebox.”

  After a moment of Rory staring at Jamie, he nudged Jamie toward the register so they could keep talking while he made change. “Hey…you know I’m in no position to give advice to anyone. Especially you, man. You’ve got your shit together in a way I probably never will.”

  “Not true. Look at the responsibilities you’ve taken on here. You’re doing incredible.”

  Visibly uncomfortable with the praise, his brother waved him off. “You’re putting a lot of energy into Marcus. You know?” Panic danced across his features. “I see what’s happening. Last time—”

  “I know what happened last time.” And he couldn’t handle hearing it out loud. Still. Maybe ever. “Rory. Come on, Marcus is just the asshat we put up with three months out of the year.” Saying those words left a taste of acid on his tongue and he had to pause. “What happened six years ago will never happen again. You have to trust me.”

  “I do.” A tight smile spread across Rory’s face. “I do, man. You want me to ask Olive to go play some Buckley?”

  “What are future sister-in-laws for?”

  A few minutes later, Buckley’s voice crooned over the speakers, and despite the song’s darkly depressing meaning, not one tear was shed. Marcus caught his eye over the mass of bar patrons and made a jerk off motion in the air. Jamie feigned offense while pouring another drink. They both laughed—and it was too easy. Way too easy and dangerous to start having fun with Marcus when he was also nursing a low key attraction.

  Low key. Sure.

  The prick swaggered into the Hut every morning in gray sweatpants and no shirt, his free-balling cock swinging around in the right leg of his pants. He was loud, rude, unpolished and didn’t know Kerouac from karaoke. And yet, Jamie couldn’t help but wonder if Marcus would pay as much attention to him in bed as he did out of bed.

  Right. Like I’d let something happen to you.

  Marcus’s words drifted back from their walkie-talkie conversation earlier that day and an unwelcome warmth spread in Jamie’s middle. What would it be like if that protectiveness wrapped around him in the dark? Pressed the front of his body down, down into the mattress? What if he was the one who helped Marcus solve the mystery of what he really needed? If it wasn’t Jamie, it could be someone else.

  A heavy weight dropped in his stomach, causing a hitch in his step while striding from one end of the bar to the other. Rory and Andrew raised their eyebrows at him.

  “Baby One More Time” pumped over the loudspeaker and Jamie cursed, returning from his pointless thoughts.

  “Jesus Christ,” Andrew groaned up at the ceiling.

  Rory laughed, but there was still a line between his younger brother’s brow, his gaze bouncing back and forth between Marcus and Jamie. He was worried.

  Should Rory be worried?

  Should Jamie?

  Yeah. They should both be concerned—and admitting the situation had gotten this far was a cold bucket of water being poured over the top of Jamie’s head.

  Before Jamie could question why it felt so wrong, he leaned against the bar in front of the man in the fitted gray T-shirt with salt and pepper hair. The one who’d been not-so-subtly checking him out all night. “Hey,” Jamie said. “Either ask me out or quit being creepy.”

  The man paused mid-sip of his gin and ginger. “Uh. Let’s go out?”

  Jamie took out his cell phone, punched in the security code and slid it across the bar. “Leave your number and I’ll think about it.”

  Usually, Jamie took a lot of satisfaction catching men off guard. Or impressing them. Tonight he only encountered the smallest iota of gratification—and even that disappeared into the wind when Jamie looked over the man’s shoulder to find Marcus watching the scene unfold, resembling a giant golden retriever who’d been kicked by his owner. It took every ounce of Jamie’s willpower not to snatch the phone back before the man finished programming in his number.

  “It’s under Kurt.”

  “Great.” Jamie’s smile was tight as he took his phone back and left the guy looking flustered. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “I hope so.”

  Jamie couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the night. He was way too aware of Marcus in the room. Where he stood, how irritable he looked. The worst part was knowing why he was perturbed, when even Marcus didn’t know the cause himself.

  Nothing I can do about it.

  It wasn’t until the end of the night that Jamie realized he’d forgotten all about the bet.

  Marcus clearly hadn’t. As he passed Jamie on his way out the door, he stopped and turned, looking uncomfortable. Like he didn’t know how to act now.

  “It’s uh…Monster Jam. A monster truck rally. That’s where I was going to make you go tomorrow, but…” He crossed his arms over his big chest, obviously trying his best to sound casual. “Don’t worry about it, though. It was just a stupid idea. My brother bought tickets and had to back out. I can just sell them.”

  Ten tons of bricks pressed down on Jamie’s chest. “You don’t want to go anymore?” He didn’t want to hear Marcus say no. He physically didn’t think he’d be able to stand it. What was wrong with him? “You won the damn bet. We’re going.”

  Jesus. He’d had his way out. And he’d bypassed it.

  “Really?”

  Jamie sighed. “Yes.”

  Marcus seemed taller all of a sudden as he backed out the front entrance of the Castle Gate, the Long Beach boardwalk lit up behind him. “See you tomorrow. Bye, Jamie.”

  “Later, Diesel.”

  Moron. You’re a fucking moron.

  A moron who’d just agreed to attend Monster Jam.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Marcus stared down at the phone in his hand, wondering if the last five minutes had actually been real. Or if this was like the time he tripped on the treadmill, hit his head and dreamed about dancing bananas. He looked at the clock. Five
minutes until he was supposed to meet up with Jamie. That also seemed kind of like a dream, so no help there.

  He reached down and tweaked his nipple.

  “Fuck. Ow.” Rubbing the spot with the palm of his free hand, Marcus caught his reflection in the full-length mirror across the room, where it was leaned up against the wall. “Marcus O’Shaughnessy,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders back. “Entrepreneur at age twenty-four.”

  Pride rolled through his stomach, but he didn’t have time to savor it now. He had a dat—a casual, low key, bro hangout that was completely not a big deal. Fine, he didn’t usually jerk himself off twice so he could stay mellow around his other guy friends, but there was no time to dwell on that either. He and Jamie were taking the train to Nassau Coliseum for Monster Jam, and Marcus was pretty sure if he was even one minute late, Jamie would use the excuse to bail and go read or some shit.

  Or maybe call that customer from the bar.

  Kurt, if Marcus had overheard the exchange accurately.

  If Marcus scowled any harder at the mirror it was going to shatter. He snatched up the red Under Armour baseball cap hanging on the bedroom doorknob and fitted it backwards onto his head, heading for the door of his second-floor apartment. He was halfway down the stairs before realizing he’d forgotten his wallet and keys—again—so he jogged back up and retrieved them, locking the door and spinning on the heel of his boot toward the stairs. Crunched for time, he hustled toward the LIRR station, hoping the exertion would keep him from thinking about Jamie giving his number to the man in the bar.

  No luck.

  It shouldn’t be bothering him this much.

  He definitely shouldn’t have been kept up all night worrying Jamie had met up with the dude instead of going home after his shift at the Castle Gate. It was none of his business.

  Marcus was so distracted by his thoughts, he didn’t hear his name being called until the person was shouting in exasperation—and that person was his brother, Joey. On the other side of the avenue, his brother was smoking a cigarette outside the diner, a to-go cup of coffee in his hand. He was still wearing his Sanitation Department jumpsuit from his shift collecting the trash that morning. Running into his father or brother in their Long Beach neighborhood was not unusual. Why they even bothered to live in three separate apartments was beyond Marcus, since they came and went as they pleased in each other’s homes.