Brendan surprised himself by going to The Rainbow Baret the following Wednesday. For almost a whole week he hadn’t thought about anything else but the new bartender Phil had hired. He stepped into the bar with his stomach full of butterflies, a sensation he hadn’t felt in some time. He was afraid Lane wouldn’t be there.

But to Brendan’s relief, Lane was there.

Lane gave him a curve of the lips when Brendan sat at the bar. The young man was wearing a black shirt with blue flames spreading along the front to the edges of the short sleeves. “Hi there. Can I get you anything?”

“A beer will do me just fine.”

“Heineken, right?”

“You remembered.”

“I’m not too good at remembering names or faces but for some reason I can remember what people drink; it’s a strange talent of mine. Comin’ right up.”

Brendan took a swig from his beer and let out a satisfied sigh. “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking? You have an accent. Midwestern from the sounds of it.”

“Indiana,” said Lane in a cautious voice. “Why?”

“I don’t mean to pry,” Brendan said hastily. “Just wanting a conversation.”

“Well, it is pretty slow tonight. Real slowwww.”

Brendan looked around. Sure enough there were only a few people in the bar. Johnny Cash played on the jukebox. “So what brings you all the way to Denver from Indiana?”

Lane cocked an eyebrow. “Do you always chat up the bartenders like this?”

“Only the cute ones.”

The bartender laughed. It was a genuine sound, not embarrassed or disparaging. The caution that had been there just seconds before was gone. Brendan wondered if he had imagined it “You’re funny. I got bored with the Midwest. Wanted to see the mountains, breathe the mountain air. What about you? Where are you from?”

Brendan spread his hands. “Born and raised. I’ve never lived anywhere else. The mountains is where I belong. When do you get off tonight?”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“I close tonight.”

“What about tomorrow?

“I’m off tomorrow.”

“Any plans for the day?”

“Not really. Mostly just driving around and trying to find something to do.”

Here goes nothing. “I was wondering if you’d want to have dinner with me tomorrow?” There, Brendan had asked the question. Now he held his breath, waiting to be rejected. Perhaps Lane would spit in his face - and if he did Brendan wouldn’t blame him. He felt like a creep, like a horny old man with an itch he couldn’t scratch.

For a long moment Lane just stared at him, still as a statue. The jukebox had switched from Johnny Cash to something Brendan had never heard before: a mix of retro 80’s pop and modern synth.

“Okay,” Lane said after a moment. “Some Western hospitality would be good.”

Feeling like a high school boy, Brendan said, “Yeah?”

Lane gave him another smile. It was small, more like a smirk. Again, not disparaging. Brendan noticed the way Lane’s eyes seemed to gleam when he smiled, perhaps showing some flash of inner light, a contrast to the eyeliner and tattoos.

He’s beautiful, Brendan thought.

“Yeah,” Lane said. “What time?”

“Seven.”

“Perfect. Do you have a phone number where I can reach you?”

“Yes.” Lane reached for a napkin and a pen and wrote a phone number on the top. “This is the number to my room.”

Brendan glanced down at the phone number written neatly in black pen. “You don’t have a cell phone?”

“I have a cell phone. We just don’t know each other well enough for you to have it. Call me later, though.”

Brendan said he would, finished his beer, and left with his spirits soaring.

…

Lane watched Brendan leave with a bounce in his step, the door swinging shut behind him. What did I just get myself into? I should have told him no.

“But you didn’t,” Charlie said. He was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest as if he’d been there the whole time, watching and listening. “You do what you’ve always done, which is deny the truth.”

Lane felt his heart lifting against the rush of guilt within him. “Don’t I deserve some relief? Some indulgence?” Making sure no one else in the bar was looking at him, he turned to look at the apparition.

Charlie grinned back at him, knowingly mockingly. He looked so much like the real Charlie and didn’t at the same time. The real Charlie had never been bitter or cruel. “But we both know what happens when you try to indulge yourself. The people you love die.”

“Fuck you,” Lane said.