He isn’t sure how it happened, really. Someone threw a coin on the bar and said, “Penny for my thoughts,” while downing a whiskey in one shot.
Alaric snorted and slid the customer another drink. “Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”
“I’m paying for your secrecy, kid.”
That made him pause. “Well.” He crossed his arms. “If that’s the case, you better be giving me more than a penny.”
Alaric didn’t know what it was about bartenders that made people want to spill their guts. It was the anonymity, he decided. The liquid courage.
Everyone did it. He was just the first to make a business of it.
The sign outside his bar read ‘Confessional’ in glowing red letters, and it made him smile every time he stepped inside. His parents would roll over in their graves if they could see it.
It was a tiny place, with one stool at the weathered black bartop. He kept his bottles on glass shelves where they shone under red lighting. It was a dark, dingy place, and he loved it.
The night was slow. Unusual for a Friday, but he didn’t mind. He polished glasses with a cloth and told two sad men to quit their financial jobs. He didn’t know how anyone could live doing something so sinfully boring.
They probably wouldn’t listen to him. Very rarely did people come for advice, but instead to vent, because they lived in worlds cluttered with people who believed finance was the holy grail in life. Alaric had lived in that world once. He didn’t much like it.
When the bell rang above the door and his next customer stepped in, he had a sudden inexplicable feeling—this one would be different.
The man looked anxious, but as soon as his eyes found the bar, something soft settled in them that made Alaric pause. They had to be about the same age, but right then it seemed like the man was reliving a much younger moment.
He had a small smile on his face and blonde ringlet curls that fell at the crinkles next to his eyes.
Alaric put down the glass he was cleaning and reached for one of the shelves. He started mixing a bloody mary without asking.
The customer slid onto the single stool and gave him a wry smile. “How’d you know?”
“You have that look about you…”
Alaric pushed the drink forward. The man chuckled and took a sip. “Greyson,” he finished. “Should I be offended that I look like someone who prefers to take my vegetables with vodka?”
“You look like you’re bleeding inside, Greyson.”
Alaric always got straight to the point. He stood back behind the bar and waited.
For a moment, Greyson only stared. Surprise and curiosity warred in his expression. “Well, no one can say you aren’t good at your job.” Greyson tipped his drink at Alaric and took another swig.
Alaric watched as Greyson surveyed the room, his eyes lingering on the red display lights. When he shifted, his thighs stuck to the stool. He was sweating. Nervous.
“This isn’t the kind of confessional where you tell me I’m a sin, right?”
Alaric arched an eyebrow. “Do I look like a priest to you?”
He was a tall, dark-haired man who wore earrings in his cartilage.
Greyson chuckled again, dark and low. “I’m getting married tomorrow,” he said.
Ah. Maybe this wouldn’t be so exciting after all.
“Let me guess,” Alaric said, leaning a forearm on the bartop. “You’re in love with someone else?”
Greyson tipped his drink again and threw back nearly half of it. He grimaced as he set the glass back down.
Alaric would never understand why people subjected themselves to this. Love was one thing, but being tied down was another. He wasn’t naive enough to think love was guaranteed forever. Not when half of his income came from people drowning in it.
Alaric had fought for his freedom, and he wasn’t about to give it up. Certainly not for love.
“It’s thirty-six an hour,” he told Greyson. Including the drinks, it wasn’t a bad deal.
Greyson had such a sad laugh. Like so little was funny to him anymore.
He slid exactly thirty-six dollars in cash onto the counter and finished the bloody mary. “Then pour me another, bartender.”
“Alaric.”
He set out a new glass and poured some flavored vodka into it. There wasn’t really a name for what Alaric did. He hated settling on one.
Greyson gave him the same soft smile, unspoken words behind his eyes. They were a pretty amber color, like whiskey with a hint of lime.
“Tell me how it happened,” Alaric said, leaning against the shelves with crossed arms. He never sat when he was working.
“Delilah,” Greyson said. “We met in college. We both wanted to be architects, and we sat together in almost every class.”
Now there was an interesting job. Alaric nodded for Greyson to go on. People liked to see that you were listening.
“And then the day of graduation, she asked me out. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.” Greyson traced his finger around the lip of the glass. His wry smile was back. “I wasn’t sure about it, at first.”
“Why not?” Alaric poured another bit of vodka out.
Greyson swallowed it at once. He shrugged. “She was pretty. She designed pretty things. We worked well together.” His eyes stuck on the thin layer of vodka in his glass. “But I wasn’t sure I loved her.”
Alaric frowned. “Isn’t that what dating is for?”
Not that he could really say. Love had never tempted him before.
Teeth poked out of Greyson’s smile, irony and that same nostalgia in it. “So I’ve been told.”
Alaric poured another drink—a martini this time—as Greyson continued. He liked to alternate between mixed drinks and hard liquor. It was a careful balance between a loose tongue and loose limbs sprawled out on his floor.
“Anyway, I said yes. And we’ve been together ever since.”
Alaric stepped back and crossed his arms again. “I’m not seeing the problem.”
“You said it yourself.” Greyson met his eyes, a challenge there.
Not one to back down, Alaric let it linger. “The other woman. Does she love you back?” he asked, still hovering near the shelves.
Greyson smiled the widest he had yet, like there was something especially amusing about this. “Definitely not.”
Alaric nodded. “So this is about going for the safe option instead of risking it all.”
Greyson shrugged. “I’m not in the habit of taking risks I’ll lose.”
“So instead you’d marry a woman you don’t love?”
Alaric always felt bad for the people on the other end of cheating confessions. He didn’t understand why it was so hard to let someone go. To him, it seemed as cut and dry as one of his martinis.
“We could be happy together.” Greyson fidgeted with the stick of olives in his drink. “I do care.”
“If you cared, you’d tell her the truth.”
Alaric’s business was not to be soft. He made his money telling it like he saw it. Probably because so few people were willing to do the same. He didn’t care about sparing feelings. Some people called him cruel—even ruthless—as they left his bar in a huff, but it didn’t matter. They’d heard what they needed to, whether or not they listened. It always gave Alaric a feeling of peace at the end of the night.
“The truth doesn’t even make sense.” Greyson scoffed into his untouched martini.
“‘Delilah, I’m in love with someone else,’” Alaric said in his best impression of Greyson.
Greyson blinked in surprise. Their eyes locked in a staring match that lasted a second too long.
Finally, Greyson shook his head. “I don’t think you can even call it that.” He sighed, then looked at Alaric over his glass. “He probably doesn’t know I exist at all.”
Oh. Something twinged in Alaric’s chest. He wasn’t used to empathy.
“Not until tonight, at least.” Greyson spun the stick of olives around and around in his drink.
Alaric took a deep breath and regained his composure. “Why? Are you planning some sort of big confession?”
They both smiled at his choice of words. Greyson’s smile was sad too as he looked at Alaric. “Maybe. Don’t know.”
Alaric leaned both arms on the bartop. “Tell me about him.” This was—admittedly—a harder and more complicated truth to tell.
Greyson let out a breath, more than a little relief in it. “We only met once, five years ago.”
Alaric’s eyes widened. He couldn’t imagine falling in love based on one meeting, let alone sustaining it for years. This man in front of him was something different.
“But sometimes I pass by his work just to get a glimpse of his smile. God, I sound like a stalker.” Greyson dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
Alaric smiled despite himself. “I promise you aren’t the worst criminal I’ve met here.”
Greyson looked up, and the longing in his eyes was almost too much. He was bleeding inside, and Alaric had always been faint at the sight of blood.
“It’s stupid, really. I just can’t get the idea out of my head.”
Alaric shook his head. “It’s not stupid.” Sometimes people came in just looking for comfort, and in this case, he was happy to provide it.
Greyson considered him. “Do you believe in love?” he asked.
Alaric shrugged. Normally, he deflected whenever his personal life came up, but this time he felt compelled to answer. “In theory, sure. I’ve heard enough people blabber about it to know it exists. In practice…”
He leaned further over the counter, so that his chin was level with the martini glass. In its reflection, his eyes met Greyson’s. “Prove me wrong.”
Greyson flushed, and Alaric grinned. That would teach him not to meddle.
“It was a mistake to tell her yes, from the very beginning. But I think you know that.” Alaric stood back and crossed his arms. He had little patience for denial.
Greyson’s smile ate up the side of his face. “That’s pretty rich, considering you’re the one who told me to do it.”
Alaric stumbled a step. It took a lot to floor him—hazards of a job collecting secrets—but he was so caught off guard that he only stared.
“I told you all about Delilah the night she asked me out. I believe your exact words were ‘just go for it.’” Greyson finally picked up his martini and took a long sip.
It did sound like Alaric. That was his standard advice to anyone who seemed on the fence. More often than not, they were too scared to take the leap and just needed someone else to push.
Alaric’s eyes met Greyson’s over the martini glass. “That hardly seems fair, if you withheld half the story.”
He watched as Greyson set down his drink. “I didn’t know it until that night.”
They were locked in another staring contest, but behind his eyes Alaric was beginning to do the math. When did Greyson say he met his crush? Five years ago? He looked like he must have graduated college around then…
Right around when he came to see Alaric.
“So you’ve been stalking me.” It wasn’t a question. Alaric swayed an unconscious step forward.
Greyson’s hand fell away from his glass. He looked surprised. “That doesn’t freak you out?”
Alaric shrugged, but there was a smile growing. “I’ve never had a stalker before. I’m flattered.”
Greyson rolled his eyes and pushed the martini away. “Shut up.”
But Alaric was having too much fun. He liked the pink color on Greyson’s cheeks and the way it matched his lighting.
“So what was it about me that did it for you?” Alaric asked. “The bloody mary? Or telling you to go out with a woman?”
Greyson groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face. For a moment, Alaric thought he wouldn’t respond. Then Greyson sighed. “Just the way you said it. Like it was so simple. Like a person could sell drinks and buy secrets for a living without batting an eye.” He dropped his hands and looked at Alaric. “I was jealous. I’d never made choices for myself. Also, you have cartilage piercings.”
The alcohol was starting to settle. Alaric could tell, otherwise he never would’ve made such a brazen admission.
Alaric smiled. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“I took your advice.”
Alaric blew out a breath and shook his head. “See, that’s the thing, Greyson.” He leaned over the bartop, their faces only inches apart without the martini glass to separate them. “I don’t make choices for people. They’ll make mistakes with or without my help.”
“I know.” Greyson nodded, pushing his face an inch closer. “I’m getting married tomorrow and all I can think about is the bartender who told me to go for it.”
“Whoa.” Alaric smiled and flipped his palms up on the counter. “I never said anything about marriage.”
Neither of them were backing down. Greyson tipped his head. “It really doesn’t bother you?”
Alaric laughed softly. “I told you before, honey. I’ve had much worse than you in that chair.”
Greyson flushed, and it was more red close-up. He fit perfectly in this place.
Truth be told, Alaric was far from bothered. Most people came in here for an anonymous ear or a faceless sounding board. They were never interested in him, and he hadn’t realized how tiring it was until now. How thrilling it was to see Greyson’s reaction to him. He’d never had that kind of power before.
“So tell me, Alaric,” Greyson said, placing his hands on the bartop. So few people actually used his name, and there was power in that too. He felt it wrap around his ribs as Greyson leaned in. “What should I do tomorrow?”
Alaric grinned and shook his head. One of Greyson’s curls brushed his forehead. “Oh no, we’re not doing this dance again.” Alaric jabbed a finger at Greyson’s chest. “You’re going to make a choice for yourself.”
Greyson sighed and Alaric felt it on his cheek. Sooner or later, one of them was bound to win this staring contest they kept having.
“What do you think I’m going to do?” Greyson was practically speaking into Alaric’s lips, and for the first time ever, Alaric was tempted to let him.
“You’re not getting married tomorrow,” he said simply.
Greyson grinned, red light glinting in his eyes.