Stray for You (Rainbow Rescue Cat Café #3)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Julian

I KEEP RELIVING CAMERON’S meltdown in the café as I sit through boring lectures in stagnant conference rooms the next day. The rage twisting up his face does far more than my overpriced coffee to keep me alert through a morning of mind-numbing drudgery. It’s important, I get that, but this stuff isn’t the real reason Garret sent me here. He sent me here for the coffee breaks, the lunch meetings, the after-hours gatherings. That’s where I truly shine; that’s where the real business gets done.

None of that stuff happens until later, however, so I sit in the back of the room with my coffee and imagine the way Cam’s face flushed when he saw me strolling into that café of his. His dark eyes could have burned a hole through me. His lips pressed so tightly together they paled to several shades lighter than his face. A muscle along his jaw jerked from how hard he clenched his teeth.

It was kind of cute, if I’m being honest.

He would hate being called cute, but that only makes his reaction more adorable, of course. Besides, that banter in the café sent me back to happier days. It was like we were in college again, arguing in Albert’s basement before the start of our shift at the Boyfriend Café. We both worked there as servers, making tea for customers and chatting with them about their woes. Despite our extreme personality differences, we both found success too. Some people wanted bright and sunny and charming, but plenty of people found Cam’s quiet nature calming.

I did too, though I never would have admitted it back then. I was too busy being the center of attention as much as possible. No wonder I annoyed him so much. I knew I should have stopped messing with him, even back then, but for some reason I just … can’t. The second I see him, I yearn for his attention at any cost, and the easiest way to get it is to make him angry.

It’s better than being ignored.

I survive the morning, then head to lunch with some of the other reps. Every restaurant near the convention center in downtown Seattle contains good-looking salespeople in smart suits and tight skirts. They’re beautiful, and I should probably be picking out my evening entertainment, but when one of the guys I’m eating lunch with laughs too hard at my jokes, I make no attempt to reel him in.

I’m thinking about someone else instead. I’m thinking about seeing him tonight. I’m thinking about the plans I made for this evening, plans that probably won’t get me laid, but excite me all the same.

The rest of the day passes in a similar blur to the morning. The conference has just begun, so people are settling in, finding their targets, figuring out where they fit in the hierarchy. I don’t mind hanging back and observing for now. My time will come. Besides, this evening is already booked.

“Hey, man, you hitting the bars tonight? A bunch of people are going out drinking,” the guy from lunch says. The hope in his eyes is clear, and any other day at any other conference, I would spring on that, but today I ignore it.

“I have plans tonight, actually,” I say.

“How do you have plans in Seattle? Aren’t you from the East Coast?”

“I get around,” I say with a wink. “There’s a bar I want to check out. Heard it’s the hot place to be. Anyone is welcome to join.”

It doesn’t hurt to have backup, especially if tonight leaves me riled up and without an outlet.

Lunch Guy (Zane, perhaps?) brightens, and pretty soon there’s a small group of us who plan to meet in the lobby of the Sheraton after we change out of our suits and freshen up. Alone in my room, I shower, blow drying my hair so it falls around my face in little drifts of blond. That one almost always works for me. Then I throw on jeans and a sleek black jacket over a charcoal gray shirt. Nice, slick, attractive, but not trying too hard at any of those things.

When I head down to the lobby, Zane, a red-haired woman and one other man are waiting for me.

“Where are we headed?” the woman asks.

“There’s an area around here called Capitol Hill,” I say. “Hear that’s where all the good bars are.”

“Isn’t that…” Zane says.

Considering the way he eyed me up during lunch, I’m surprised he doesn’t finish the thought.

“The gay neighborhood?” I provide. “Yeah. So what? That a problem?”

Zane coughs and covers his mouth. The other guy shrugs, and the red-haired woman laughs.

“Good,” I say. “Let me get us a car and we can get out of here.”

I order a rideshare, which appears in three minutes, anticipating the convention traffic heading out for the night. The car takes us up a steep hill and away from the convention center. As we travel, the road narrows and twists. How people out here stop on these treacherous little roads for lights and stuff baffles me. On top of that, it’s Wednesday night, and post-work foot traffic frequently crosses our path, forcing the driver to slam on her brakes more than once.

Eventually, she lets us out on the side of a busy street. I thank her before checking my map on my phone.

“This way,” I say, leading my odd group down the street. A left turn takes us onto a connecting street where half the businesses fly Pride flags even though it’s October. The flags are bright among the gray skies and prematurely encroaching night. Music thumps out of some of the buildings we pass. Laughter and conversation spill out of others as people catch a late meal. The whole place hums with life, with excitement, with vibrancy. By the time we reach the bar I have in mind, I’m vibrating from all the energy around me.

We head into a tight bar crowded with bodies. A Pride flag hangs on the wall alongside framed pictures of fake taxidermy. The walls scream in garish greens and reds, some of them striped like a candy shop. Gaudy chandeliers cast a weak, yellowy glow through the bar, and a couple arcade machines chirp in a back corner. People cluster around the bar on one side of the room, but I take my group to one of the tables. Luckily, we got here early enough to claim a good spot. The stage lies only a few tables up from us.

“Okay, this place is wild,” Zane says. “I need a drink. What do you guys want?”

Zane heads off to grab the first round while the rest of us admire the ostentatious décor.

“So, how’d you find this place?” the other guy, Marcus, asks, the sarcasm thick in his voice.

“Heard about it from a friend,” I say.

“You have friends here?”

“I have friends everywhere. Don’t worry about it.”

Marcus and the red-head, Shelia, laugh, and it’s not because of my razor-sharp wit. My reputation gets around nearly as much as I do.

“And this place is gonna be worth the trip?” Shelia says.

“Of course it will,” I say. “Besides, what the hell else are you doing tonight? Fucking Maggie from Anaheim?”

A flush washes through Shelia’s face. Clearly, she believes no one has noticed her and Maggie’s flirting.

Zane saves her by returning with our drinks. He and Marcus have beers, while Shelia has a Manhattan, but my beverage is bright pink, a fact I will not apologize for.

“You have no idea how embarrassing it was ordering that thing,” Zane says with a nod at my drink.

“What’s embarrassing about ordering something delicious?” I counter.

“It can’t be that good,” Zane says.

“It’s way better than beer. Here, I’ll prove it. Have a sip, if you’re man enough.”

The offer lights up Zane’s eyes, which I don’t mind one bit. He’s a handsome guy, if a little older than me. The salt-and-pepper thing is hot, as is the silver in his stubble. Later tonight, he’ll be a great way for me to forget about the sting of the rejection inevitably barreling toward me.

Zane sips at my drink. By the time I head to the bar for the next round, he’s replaced his beer with the cocktail I ordered for myself. I return to the table with an array of drinks that could have come out of a package of Skittles. Pink and green and blue. We share them around, trying out the weird concoctions while chatting.

All of this would be a fine enough night on its own, but I know the main attraction hasn’t yet begun. We’re mid-way through our second round when the lights in the bar dim, and a band starts setting up on the stage.

“Live music,” I say to my comrades’ questioning glances. “What? You didn’t think I chose this place for the drinks, did you?”

“Never knew you were such a music fan,” Zane says. He’s tipsy enough to bump his shoulder against mine as he speaks.

“Who doesn’t like music?” I say. “And this is a great city for it. I figured I should go at least once while I’m here.”

None of that is my actual motivation, but these people don’t need to know that. In a week, we’ll be distant work acquaintances. Zane might even have a wife and kids he’s returning to. He wouldn’t be the only guy doing that kind of thing at these conferences. So the less they know about my personal life, the better.

The band sets up, thanks the crowd, and launches into their first song. The lead singer, a man with a shaved head, belts out some kind of folk song. He’s not bad, nor are the drummer and guitarists backing him up. Their music blares through the bar, precluding further conversation throughout the set.

By the time it’s over, our drinks are gone, but I’m buzzing enough that I don’t go looking for another one. Besides, this is what I’ve been waiting for all day long.

The first band spends some time clearing their equipment off the stage. These aren’t big acts with their own personal stage crews. For one thing, we got into this show for free. So it’s no surprise that they have to clean up their own equipment after playing. It makes for a long and cumbersome transition between bands, a delay that frays my nerves. As confident and unaffected as I like to seem, there are some things in this world that make my heart race.

Or, rather, there’s some one who does.

The other sales reps fade away around me. The crowd quiets to a blur at the edges of my vision. I focus on the stage in the breathless beats when it lies empty and dark, awaiting the next act. Awaiting him.

My fellow reps might be going for more drinks. I don’t notice. I ignore Zane entirely. As figures disturb the darkness at either side of the stage, the bar goes perfectly silent, at least for me.

My heart throbs in my ears as Cameron takes the stage.

He doesn’t notice me as he busies himself setting up his guitar. In fact, he doesn’t look at the crowd at all. That suits him, the aloof, mysterious guitarist. Few people probably realize he’s shy, not arrogant, but I keep that greedily to myself.

Finally, he slings his guitar across his chest and straightens up to face the crowd — and that’s when his eyes meet mine.

In an instant, he flashes from fear to anger to understanding. I can see him putting the pieces together and realizing that Henry must have told me about this. His jaw goes tight, and though I can’t discern it from back here, I know that one muscle is jumping as he grinds his teeth.

I simply smile in response, my heart in my ears.