felt so… vulnerable. Brian had started
offering the ride and then making it a point to get off before Tate so
he could be there in the parking lot, ready to give him a ride home.
Tate…. Tate was grateful. He was grateful and distracted
and… empty. Watching him walk into the club was like watching
him put in a computer program of who Tate was supposed to be,
and that’s who he was when he was around people.
Talker | Amy Lane
52
When Tate was home, he was often so silent, Brian would go
thundering into his room to see if he was stil there—and, frankly, to
make sure he hadn’t left some way other than the door.
Brian had yet to hear him sing, off-key or otherwise, and he
twitched his head almost constantly, since the “worst date ever.”
About two weeks after Trevor Murray had made Tate cry,
Brian saw him waiting in line to get into the club as he was pulling
away. He shoved his car back into the parking spot and was
running for the guy before he even knew what he was going to do.
“Hey, straight roomie!” Trevor cal ed as Brian strode up to him.
The smile dropped off his face as Brian twisted his arm around his
back and hauled him behind the club. They were halfway there
when Brian realized he had company.
“Uhm, Brian?” Jed, one of the club’s two bouncers, was a six-
foot-four-inch black man built like a Panzer tank on steroids. He
was one of the few straight men who worked at Nick, but he was
very protective of his guys.
“Hey, Jed,” Brian panted.
Trevor said, “Man, you gotta help me… this guy just went…
ouuu!”
“Shut up!” Brian snapped, giving Trevor’s arm another yank.
Possibly for the first time in his life he threw those words at
someone and meant it. “Shut the fuck up!” They’d reached the back
of the club by now, and Brian shoved Trevor into the wal , giving
him a chance to stumble against it and recover.
“Any chance you want to tel me what you’re doing?” Jed
asked, rubbing his hand over the back of his bald head.
Brian saw Trevor trying to make a run for it, and feinted in that
direction. Trevor subsided and stood, panting, waiting for the
answer too. His carefully wisped “man-do” was a mess, and he had
Talker | Amy Lane
53
a smear of dust across his white clubbing shirt, but the arrogance
was still there.
“He hurt Tate.” Brian said it and then he glared and settled into
a crouch. He’d never looked forward to hurting another human
being in his life—but he did now.
“Hurt?” Jed said, careful y neutral.
“Hurt.” Brian emphasized the word and made sure the piece of
shit responsible for wrecking the guy he loved was making eye
contact and on the same page.
O ne corner of Trevor’s mouth curled up. “That sweet little
bitch? Man, he liked it….”
Brian’s first punch across Trevor’s pretty mouth sent him back
into the wal of the club, his head making an audible “thunk” on the
wooden siding. Trevor rebounded, fists out, and Brian took him
down in two punches, and then followed him down, straddling his
chest and proceeding to work him over like a boxer doing exercises
on a heavy pummeling bag. He’d thought he was terribly
dispassionate and reasonable about the whole thing, until Jed
wrapped strong, thick arms around his shoulders and hefted him
bodily off an unconscious asshole who was missing three teeth and
could barely make out a moan.
“Brother, the cops are coming. You’d better go.”
F uck. C ops? “He hurt Tate!” Brian snarled—and until he tasted
salt on his mouth, he hadn’t been aware of his own tears.
“Wel , you paid him back,” Jed said reasonably. “And I’ve got
to do some quick talking, and some faster lying, okay? Just get in
your car and go.”
“He hurt Tate….” Brian’s voice trailed off and he went to wipe
his face when he saw the blood on his hands. It was thick, and
some of it came from his own knuckles, which were ripped and
Talker | Amy
offering the ride and then making it a point to get off before Tate so
he could be there in the parking lot, ready to give him a ride home.
Tate…. Tate was grateful. He was grateful and distracted
and… empty. Watching him walk into the club was like watching
him put in a computer program of who Tate was supposed to be,
and that’s who he was when he was around people.
Talker | Amy Lane
52
When Tate was home, he was often so silent, Brian would go
thundering into his room to see if he was stil there—and, frankly, to
make sure he hadn’t left some way other than the door.
Brian had yet to hear him sing, off-key or otherwise, and he
twitched his head almost constantly, since the “worst date ever.”
About two weeks after Trevor Murray had made Tate cry,
Brian saw him waiting in line to get into the club as he was pulling
away. He shoved his car back into the parking spot and was
running for the guy before he even knew what he was going to do.
“Hey, straight roomie!” Trevor cal ed as Brian strode up to him.
The smile dropped off his face as Brian twisted his arm around his
back and hauled him behind the club. They were halfway there
when Brian realized he had company.
“Uhm, Brian?” Jed, one of the club’s two bouncers, was a six-
foot-four-inch black man built like a Panzer tank on steroids. He
was one of the few straight men who worked at Nick, but he was
very protective of his guys.
“Hey, Jed,” Brian panted.
Trevor said, “Man, you gotta help me… this guy just went…
ouuu!”
“Shut up!” Brian snapped, giving Trevor’s arm another yank.
Possibly for the first time in his life he threw those words at
someone and meant it. “Shut the fuck up!” They’d reached the back
of the club by now, and Brian shoved Trevor into the wal , giving
him a chance to stumble against it and recover.
“Any chance you want to tel me what you’re doing?” Jed
asked, rubbing his hand over the back of his bald head.
Brian saw Trevor trying to make a run for it, and feinted in that
direction. Trevor subsided and stood, panting, waiting for the
answer too. His carefully wisped “man-do” was a mess, and he had
Talker | Amy Lane
53
a smear of dust across his white clubbing shirt, but the arrogance
was still there.
“He hurt Tate.” Brian said it and then he glared and settled into
a crouch. He’d never looked forward to hurting another human
being in his life—but he did now.
“Hurt?” Jed said, careful y neutral.
“Hurt.” Brian emphasized the word and made sure the piece of
shit responsible for wrecking the guy he loved was making eye
contact and on the same page.
O ne corner of Trevor’s mouth curled up. “That sweet little
bitch? Man, he liked it….”
Brian’s first punch across Trevor’s pretty mouth sent him back
into the wal of the club, his head making an audible “thunk” on the
wooden siding. Trevor rebounded, fists out, and Brian took him
down in two punches, and then followed him down, straddling his
chest and proceeding to work him over like a boxer doing exercises
on a heavy pummeling bag. He’d thought he was terribly
dispassionate and reasonable about the whole thing, until Jed
wrapped strong, thick arms around his shoulders and hefted him
bodily off an unconscious asshole who was missing three teeth and
could barely make out a moan.
“Brother, the cops are coming. You’d better go.”
F uck. C ops? “He hurt Tate!” Brian snarled—and until he tasted
salt on his mouth, he hadn’t been aware of his own tears.
“Wel , you paid him back,” Jed said reasonably. “And I’ve got
to do some quick talking, and some faster lying, okay? Just get in
your car and go.”
“He hurt Tate….” Brian’s voice trailed off and he went to wipe
his face when he saw the blood on his hands. It was thick, and
some of it came from his own knuckles, which were ripped and
Talker | Amy
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