Limelight (Vino and Veritas) Read online

  “Uh, that… that was my last one.” I stare down at the papers in my hands and then bob my head in a quick, nervous half-bow, half-nod, entirely-awkward thing.

  The applause that greets me is polite and steady. Not scattered, and certainly not rapturous. The way you clap when you didn’t hate something but you’re glad it’s over.

  Did I suck that much?

  I swallow the lump in my throat and focus again on Angel. He’s the only one applauding hard. I can’t bear to see the disappointment in his face when he looks around and realizes that nobody else was that impressed.

  There are no prizes for surviving, like my brothers would say. Only winning.

  And I sure as hell didn’t win.

  I turn away and clatter down the steps at the side of the stage. Embarrassment uncoils in my gut and tightens like a snake around my throat. I should just go home now and sleep for twelve hours before work tomorrow and pretend none of this ever happened.

  My brothers will rib me for days when they hear about this—and no doubt they will.

  “Well done,” one older lesbian couple tells me, waving me over to their small table. They’re leaning on it with drinks and sympathetic smiles.

  I manage a smile for them and mumble my thanks, but I can’t resist a peek over my shoulder. A peek at him.

  When I turn back to the couple, one of the women winks at me. “Better go catch your boyfriend before he leaves.”

  “What?” I spin around again, my cheeks burning at the word. “He’s not—I mean—I don’t—”

  There’s Angel, skulking away between the tables. I could swear he’s trying to sneak to the exit.

  Despite my performance, I want to talk to him. Thank him for rescuing me. Yeah, those are excuses. He’s hot and he seemed genuine, and I don’t want him to leave.

  If he walks out, I might never see him again. That thought is worse than the thought of screwing up the courage to approach.

  I nod an embarrassed thanks to the women. Then I hurry in between the tables to cut off my hunky savior. With panic in my throat, I reach for words—any words—that would stop him from leaving.

  “I think you’re supposed to leave behind a glass slipper.”

  Oh, God. Why was that the first thing out of my mouth? My cheeks flush with scorching heat, and I kind of want to disappear into the ground. I should have apologized for making him stay to listen to everything, or thanked him, or said something normal.

  The guy stops, though. I can hardly breathe as he turns and slowly raises an eyebrow, an amused smile curving his sensual lips. Straight away, my gaze slides down to his feet before I manage to look him in the eye again.

  I just stared at him for ten minutes. Why is it so much harder to make eye contact one-on-one?

  “I figured you’d have enough dances on your card tonight.” My Angel’s voice is a slow and sensual rumble. Like a hug that lasts long enough to make my heart sing.

  “Oh, I… I’m not really the dancing type?” My laugh as I say it makes the last few words breathy and indecisive, and I kick myself. He’s clearly drawn to confidence. The moment my newly-discovered stage persona switched off—he left.

  Be strong. Be confident, I urge myself, but I just want to melt into a puddle of goo at Angel’s feet.

  “Can I thank you with a glass of wine or a mojito or a beer or, uh…” I gulp for breath. “The drink of your choice? Please?”

  My self-kicking intensifies. Almost smooth, except for all the words that weren’t.

  But despite my fears, Angel smiles back at me. It lights up his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes gently. “How can I say no?”

  “Because I’m a complete nerd and I just froze up on stage and nearly peed my pants because, like, ten people looked at me at the same time?”

  I grin at him so he doesn’t try to reassure me it wasn’t that bad. It was, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise. I am who I am, even if that’s not his thing.

  Okay, fine. I’ll be briefly and intensely devastated if I’m not his thing. But I’m not going to pretend to be Mr. Slick just to impress him. That way lies misery.

  Angel’s look is gently amused, even understanding. “What if I’m into shy nerds?”

  “Oh.” Harnessing my sigh of relief would have powered the whole town for a few seconds. “Then… why run away?”

  Angel pauses and scrubs a palm along his scruffy jawline. When he answers, his voice is measured but tentative. “I’m not sure. It’s been so long since I felt that kind of spark with anyone. It took me by surprise, I guess.” Then he leans in, like he’s confiding in me, and I sway toward him too until the scent of his cologne fills my nose. “If anything, I’m the scaredy-cat here.”

  My heart is pounding and my head spins. I straighten up again. “How about we both pretend to be brave for just one drink, then?” My voice squeaks a little on the very last word, and he pretends not to notice.

  “One drink,” he agrees, that warm smile returning. “It’s a deal.” Then he walks alongside me to the bar.

  I’m trying to work out how to stand there without hopping from foot to foot with excitement when Murph comes over.

  “What can I get you?”

  “A mojito, please,” I tell him, glancing sideways at Angel to see his reaction. He doesn’t roll his eyes or frown or even look vaguely annoyed, though.

  Phew. A lot of guys I’m trying to flirt with get uptight about shit like that. And that’s when I excuse myself to go “talk to a friend” and they become stories to tell my yoga class.

  Murph nods. “And you, Tag?”

  “Just a glass of red is fine. Thanks, Murph.”

  That must be Angel’s real name. Don’t call him Angel, I remind myself. That would be like, peak weird.

  Tag. It fits him. Big, hunky, strong and silent. I wonder what it’s short for. Taggart? Is it some obscure Celtic name?

  “Tag,” I repeat, handing a bill to Murph to cover the drinks and turning to him. “Now we’re on equal footing, at least.”

  “Oh, shit. I didn’t introduce myself.” Tag lights up with a sheepish grin that makes me relax instantly. “I’m such an ass. Or Tag. Whichever you prefer.”

  “I’ll forgive you, Tag,” I wink. “You’ve earned a few freebies.”

  Tag just quirks a brow, holding my gaze. And then it hits me what I just said, and a blush swamps me. I squeak softly, and he breaks into a laugh.

  “Thank you for my drink,” Tag tells me. “What should we toast to?”

  I hastily lower my mojito and pretend I wasn’t about to swallow it all in one gulp to take the edge off my nerves. “Uh… new beginnings.”

  “Yes,” Tag hums, gazing away for a moment. Then he looks at me again and holds up his glass of wine. “Perfect. To new beginnings.”

  I clink my glass against his, trying not to spill any mojito into his wine, and finally take a sip. If he notices my hands trembling, he very kindly doesn’t say anything about it.

  “You want to sit at the front and listen?” I ask, my gaze nervously roaming over our seating options.

  Tag just smiles at me. “I’m not interested in hearing anyone else tonight.” He leads me over to a table against the back wall instead.

  Oh, my God, I’m melting into a live and unfiltered puddle.

  It’s happening. It’s really happening!

  3

  Caleb

  I’ve always wanted a man who doesn’t play games or beat around the bush, but now that I’ve found one, I hardly know what to do.

  I fan myself with a hand and give a playful giggle, but Tag doesn’t seem to expect a response. He guides me into a chair, and even tucks my chair in against the table before sitting down.

  Is this guy straight out of Hollywood, sent to capture my heart? I kind of want to squeal and grab my phone and call everyone I know while this moment lasts.

  Unfortunately, nobody I know is here. That’s my own fault. I didn’t invite anyone, because I was scared to death
that it’d all go wrong.

  And I was right to worry. It almost did, if not for Angel—Tag, I mean.

  “Thank you for the help.” I have to say that first—but I’m dying to know why he did it.

  Tag just blinks, like he’s already forgotten what he did. “Oh. No sweat. I own a business, so I’m always pitching,” he says with a casual shrug. “I know what it’s like to go into a room cold.”

  I tilt my head. “Pitching what?”

  “Yeast, on the good days,” Tag says with a grin that invites me to share a joke I don’t quite get. I smile through my confusion, and he hastily adds, “Oh. I make mead.”

  Mead? Or meat? Like, sausages? I’m pretty sure he said mead… I tilt my head.

  Before I can say a word, he adds, “Honey wine.”

  “Oh!” I look behind the bar and back to him. “I’ve seen it on the menu around town.” Oh, God. I don’t want to offend him by admitting I’ve never tried it. I usually stick to my tried and true. If breath mints could make you tipsy, that’s a mojito. Ideal.

  But Tag just offers me an easygoing grin. “Yeah, that’s mine,” he says like it’s no big deal. “How about you? Are you a roving poet with a lute?”

  I almost choke on my mojito at the mental image. I played a lot of video games as a teen—nerd, remember—and now all I can see is myself as a quirky NPC standing in a town square with a lute.

  “No. I’m an accountant,” I admit, rubbing my shoulder with my arm tightly pressed against my chest. I want to hug myself to calm down every part of me that’s so excited I just know I’ll screw it up.

  “Oh,” Tag says with a light smile. “Poetry and numbers. They don’t usually go together, do they?”

  I shrug. “I think they do. It’s hard to explain, but…” I set down the mojito as I struggle for words, my fingertips running along the glass. “The part of my brain that likes everything to be in tidy rows and columns, every problem to have a source… just loves poetry. It’s the same thing, just with words.”

  Tag nods and leans back in his chair, his legs sprawled open in a casual, confident stance that I envy. I’m all tucked in on myself, trying not to fidget out of my skin.

  This feels like a blind date. And I… kind of love it.

  I’ve never actually been on a date. Not an official one, where we called it a date and talked about our families and tried to imagine fitting into each other’s lives.

  I’ve “met up for coffee” with a few guys and flirted with others right here at this bar, but it always fizzles out when I tell them I’m looking for more than one night. Being on dating apps made me feel like shit, so I deleted them. And most of the eligible men around town seem to have boyfriends already.

  But Tag is interested. Even a totally clueless dork like me can tell.

  “So, what brought you to town?” I ask, tilting my head as I fidget with the straw in my tall, slender glass. “I don’t think you’re local, are you?”

  His accent is hard to place, neutral but with an East Coast twang.

  Tag smiles and buries his nose in his wine glass, his gaze lifting like he’s thinking. At last, he lowers his glass and shrugs. “I visited and didn’t want to leave. I realized I wanted to get away from it all. The stress, the people, the constant busyness.”

  Now I’m all tingly. I’ll never get tired of hearing people fall in love with my hometown. “Yeah,” I agree with a nod. “This place is great for that. Lots of big city types end up here. Especially when they want to settle down, start families, all that stuff.”

  I’m totally fishing here. Guys who just want to get laid will panic and run a mile when I say that.

  Tag just smiles and shrugs. “I might start a family one day. Just need the right guy first. What about you? Did you grow up here?”

  “Born and raised,” I say with a proud smile. “I never had my gotta get out to the big city phase. I guess I’m lucky. It’s so gay-friendly here, and my family was supportive, too. I didn’t have anything to run away from, or to go discover. Nothing I couldn’t find here.”

  Except what it’s like to actually be with men instead of gazing at them from across the room. But I am not telling him that I’m a twenty-something virgin. I need at least one more mojito first.

  Okay, half a mojito. I’m a lightweight. Sue me.

  Tag raises his glass to toast that. “I’m glad,” he says. “My family’s back home in Maryland, but they supported me from the start, too. I’ve always felt lucky.”

  I nod my agreement. I’ve got a few gay friends, and not all of them have been so fortunate. “Even if my brothers are assholes sometimes. But that’s siblings, huh?” I grin.

  “I’m the only kid,” Tag admits and chuckles. “Good for scoring leftovers at Thanksgiving, though. Do you have a big family?” Tag tilts his head and settles back.

  “Three older brothers. A biochemist, a pediatrician, and a family lawyer. I’m the numbers nerd—and the baby of the family.”

  Tag beams at me. “Aww. Wow. Those are big footprints to follow. The accountant thing makes sense.”

  I open my mouth for a moment to brush it off, and then close it. He just understood—without my saying a word—that a creative career was off the table from the very start.

  His perceptiveness catches me off-guard. He’s right. All three of them are super-talented in respectable careers in science, medicine, and law. Poetry? Not so much.

  “Yeah, they are.” I shrug. “Maybe one day I could leave behind the spreadsheets and just be a poet. But I don’t think many people get to do that, you know?”

  First, I need to get good at it—and learn how to read them out loud without dying of embarrassment. I confronted my biggest fear today.

  Their slightly too polite applause is still squirming around in my gut, tormenting me with self-doubt. Is that reaction any better than being laughed off the stage? I’d rather know where I stand than have to guess.

  Apart from my family, most people don’t even know I write poems, much less that I dream of doing it full-time. It’s my own dirty little secret. Well, one of them. But I’m still half a mojito away from spilling the rest.

  “You never know,” Tag tells me, his voice gentle but sincere. “I really enjoyed that first one. What was it about?”

  Oh, crap. I open my mouth as my cheeks flush. The fact I’m a big gay virgin? No, think of something more eloquent than that! “Uh…”

  I clear my throat and stir the straw around, frantically hoping for some ice cubes to melt so I can sip my drink and buy myself more seconds. But Tag just waits patiently, unhurried and not even fazed by how easily I get flustered.

  When my throat unclenches, words return to my brain, and I let them flow. “Longing. When you want something so badly, but it seems so far out of reach.”

  Tag leans forward and nods, setting his empty wine glass down. “I felt that,” he agrees. His voice is soft and intimate all of a sudden. “There was a fragility, too. It was bittersweet. Like when you really like someone and you want to see more of them, but you can’t quite bring yourself to ask.”

  Tag’s eyes pin me to the spot as he picks through my deepest desires and lays them on the table where I can’t ignore them anymore.

  I blush, but there’s no ignoring Tag’s searching gaze. He’s watching me like he’s seeking permission to keep flirting with me. Normally I’d shut him down right here with some lame excuse and run away.

  I’m tired of hiding from what I want.

  I’m terrified of asking Tag out and screwing up this insanely awesome chemistry that makes every fiber of my body quiver with pleasure. But I’ll never get to the next step if I don’t actually try. It’s time. Way past time. Like, at least eight years past time.

  Being openly gay in high school was fine. I never had to hide the lisp or keep my wrists rigidly straight to stay safe. But I wasn’t the hot football star or the class president. Nobody ever took me to the movies to hold hands and awkwardly giggle.

  And I sure as h
ell don’t know how adult dating works, except for putting up some cute photos of yourself on Grindr and getting an endless stream of dick pics. Not my thing.

  A date. I can do it. Just one little date.

  “You want to do it?” I ask, clutching my glass in front of my chest in both hands like a shield.

  Tag’s brows climb, one at a time. “Whoa,” he teases. “I didn’t expect that.”

  His wicked grin makes him even more fucking gorgeous. My misfiring brain is way more interested in his dimples and the flash of his white teeth than actually remembering what the conversation is supposed to be about.

  “Fuck. Sorry. A date!” I squeak.

  My throat is tight. Screw butterflies—boulders tumble around my stomach. I want to dive under the table and hide from his amused grin. But I don’t want to miss a moment of his beautiful smile, either.

  Fuck. I’m crushing so hard.

  “Do it like, ask me,” I keep bumbling on as he grins. “I mean, I’m basically asking you to ask me. Which means I’m asking you. Oh, God. I’m trying to ask you out…”

  “I’d be delighted,” Tag tells me, finally showing mercy. He reaches across the table to touch the back of my hand.

  A burst of heat flashes through my whole body, a tingling warmth that starts in my knuckles and radiates up my arms into my brain, down into my very tippy-toes. He keeps his hand there, so I clumsily set down my glass. My fingertips are icy-cold, but I turn my hand over.

  Tag rests his fingers in my palm, and I close my hand around his, relishing the sudden heat. Is it my imagination, or is the whole world spinning around me? I can hardly breathe.

  This is what I’ve been missing? Holy crap.

  “C-Cool. Like, tomorrow?” I ask like I’ve said it a million times before. I’m not sure how I’ll survive twenty-four hours without spending every minute staring into space and giggling.