have a ways to go with all that.”
“Of course—I wasn’t trying to be nosy.”
He waves a hand as though to dismiss my concern. “Nah, it’s fine. You should hear the shit people ask me on the regular—like if I can still swim or shower or fuck. It’s pretty ridiculous.”
I can feel the color washing up over my neck. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t wondered if all of his parts are useful. But hell if I’m going to ask.
“Yes.”
I blink over at him as he starts to wheel away.
“Yes what?” I ask, confused.
“Yes, I can still swim. And shower. And fuck.”
I open my mouth, then close it. Twice. Like a fish. He barks out a little laugh, then shakes his head.
“Come on, Carson. Let’s get that burger. If we wait long enough, it’ll be noon and we can grab a beer, too.”
I raise a brow. “They don’t serve beer before noon?”
“Oh, I’m sure they do—but we have to have some moral boundaries, don’t we?” he asks.
“I suppose,” I say, faking a dramatic sigh. The truth is that alcohol is sounding really appealing right about now. Especially considering I’m not exactly sure what I’m walking into here—The Factory, harmless lunch spot, or The Factory, scene of my unending crimes of passion.
Once we’re inside, it’s hard for me to reconcile that this is the same place I used to get trashed at every weekend. It looks bright and clean and cheerful, like a diner. There’s red vinyl booths and black-and-white checkerboard tiles on the tables. In my mind’s eye, this place is one big black light. Today, it feels more like a Cracker Barrel.
“Yo, Deena!”
Wyatt calls out to a woman behind the bar—she’s petite and wearing horn-rimmed glasses that scream
librarian
, not
bartender
. Her curly red hair is pulled up off her face and she’s wearing a legit frilly apron with a pattern of tiny red cherries and little pink flowers. She’s not one of the staff I recognize, but that doesn’t mean the opposite isn’t true.
“Well, look what the fucking cat dragged in!” Deena squeals.
Okay. Less Librarian now.
She hurries over to hug Wyatt and, rather than bending down to do so, literally crawls into his lap and squeezes him hard. He laughs and pats her back.
“Long time no see, lady. How’s tricks?”
She gives him another squeeze, then blows a stray curl from her face.
“You know—same shit, different day. Been quiet lately. Less drama than . . . you know. Before.”
I’m chewing my lip when she glances over at me, then cocks her head.
“I know you,” she says, narrowing her eyes. I give a forced smile and shrug.
“I’ve been here a few times.”
She nods slowly, still watching me carefully.
“Uh-huh—that must be it.”
I’m already cringing, waiting for an embarrassing anecdote that outs my former self—but, no. Instead she gestures for us to take a table near the back corner where there’s a large alcove for Wyatt’s wheelchair. I slide into the booth and settle myself, immediately flipping through the menu as I try to chase down my breath and wrangle it into something slow.
“We’re gonna have burgers, Deena. And fries?”
Wyatt’s looking at me. I nod, swallowing.
“Fries,” he repeats, then lowers his voice. “And two PBRs—cans are fine.”
“And a water,” I call out as she turns her back. The little head bob she gives me lets me know she’s heard my request, but I still feel a little twitchy. I take my time smoothing my sweating hands over the vinyl seat and letting them slide from the back to front.
“Damn, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a good burger,” Wyatt muses, glancing around the room. “Even longer since I’ve had one here. How about you?”
His gaze—both lusciously smooth and completely piercing—nails me back against my seat. I blink at him.
“I’ve never had a burger here.”
He tilts his chin up a bit and regards me. “But you’ve been here?”
“Once or twice.”
I start fiddling with my
“Of course—I wasn’t trying to be nosy.”
He waves a hand as though to dismiss my concern. “Nah, it’s fine. You should hear the shit people ask me on the regular—like if I can still swim or shower or fuck. It’s pretty ridiculous.”
I can feel the color washing up over my neck. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t wondered if all of his parts are useful. But hell if I’m going to ask.
“Yes.”
I blink over at him as he starts to wheel away.
“Yes what?” I ask, confused.
“Yes, I can still swim. And shower. And fuck.”
I open my mouth, then close it. Twice. Like a fish. He barks out a little laugh, then shakes his head.
“Come on, Carson. Let’s get that burger. If we wait long enough, it’ll be noon and we can grab a beer, too.”
I raise a brow. “They don’t serve beer before noon?”
“Oh, I’m sure they do—but we have to have some moral boundaries, don’t we?” he asks.
“I suppose,” I say, faking a dramatic sigh. The truth is that alcohol is sounding really appealing right about now. Especially considering I’m not exactly sure what I’m walking into here—The Factory, harmless lunch spot, or The Factory, scene of my unending crimes of passion.
Once we’re inside, it’s hard for me to reconcile that this is the same place I used to get trashed at every weekend. It looks bright and clean and cheerful, like a diner. There’s red vinyl booths and black-and-white checkerboard tiles on the tables. In my mind’s eye, this place is one big black light. Today, it feels more like a Cracker Barrel.
“Yo, Deena!”
Wyatt calls out to a woman behind the bar—she’s petite and wearing horn-rimmed glasses that scream
librarian
, not
bartender
. Her curly red hair is pulled up off her face and she’s wearing a legit frilly apron with a pattern of tiny red cherries and little pink flowers. She’s not one of the staff I recognize, but that doesn’t mean the opposite isn’t true.
“Well, look what the fucking cat dragged in!” Deena squeals.
Okay. Less Librarian now.
She hurries over to hug Wyatt and, rather than bending down to do so, literally crawls into his lap and squeezes him hard. He laughs and pats her back.
“Long time no see, lady. How’s tricks?”
She gives him another squeeze, then blows a stray curl from her face.
“You know—same shit, different day. Been quiet lately. Less drama than . . . you know. Before.”
I’m chewing my lip when she glances over at me, then cocks her head.
“I know you,” she says, narrowing her eyes. I give a forced smile and shrug.
“I’ve been here a few times.”
She nods slowly, still watching me carefully.
“Uh-huh—that must be it.”
I’m already cringing, waiting for an embarrassing anecdote that outs my former self—but, no. Instead she gestures for us to take a table near the back corner where there’s a large alcove for Wyatt’s wheelchair. I slide into the booth and settle myself, immediately flipping through the menu as I try to chase down my breath and wrangle it into something slow.
“We’re gonna have burgers, Deena. And fries?”
Wyatt’s looking at me. I nod, swallowing.
“Fries,” he repeats, then lowers his voice. “And two PBRs—cans are fine.”
“And a water,” I call out as she turns her back. The little head bob she gives me lets me know she’s heard my request, but I still feel a little twitchy. I take my time smoothing my sweating hands over the vinyl seat and letting them slide from the back to front.
“Damn, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a good burger,” Wyatt muses, glancing around the room. “Even longer since I’ve had one here. How about you?”
His gaze—both lusciously smooth and completely piercing—nails me back against my seat. I blink at him.
“I’ve never had a burger here.”
He tilts his chin up a bit and regards me. “But you’ve been here?”
“Once or twice.”
I start fiddling with my
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