Between Jerry’s apology and the small, glowing hope flickering in his chest, he managed to write a polite email to his brother, informing him that they should start putting together a bid for the Diablo County area service agreement.
Then he went to trade in that stupid phallic car he had.
On Tuesday after work, Dalton walked into the employee parking garage, as distracted as usual, juggling his messenger and gym bags, searching for his keys. The structure was deserted, since he left a few minutes late—state workers tended to leave at five on the nose, if not earlier. The coral glow of the lights inside the lot matched the last bits of sunset on the horizon outside. His heels made a lot of noise on the concrete, a small drumbeat celebrating his freedom from work. He’d worn his new motorcycle boots as a little bit of a pick-me-up after a couple of days of thinking almost constantly about Tierney—about whether he really liked the man, or simply liked being needed. Nearly driving himself insane but coming to no conclusions. At least, not any he was certain were driven by his higher brain.
The only thing he knew for sure was he’d take almost any excuse to talk to Tierney. Make sure he was all right. Make sure that actual penetrative sex hadn’t turned him straight.
Stop it. Now.
Finding the keys and his car, Dalton got in, started it up, and then saw the manila envelope trapped under his windshield wiper. The front was facing him, his name spelled out neatly in capital letters.
Tierney? His heart bobbled. Except, he’d always suspected Tierney’s writing would be messier. But who else would leave him a note here?
The person who’d sent the fruit basket?
He turned off the car and stared at his name another few seconds, various options presenting themselves. But the only way he’d figure out what was in the envelope or who it came from was to open it, right? So . . .
Undoing his seat belt and unlatching the door came automatically, but he hesitated at pushing it open and climbing out. The car dinged over and over, reminding him he’d left his key in the ignition, while he wondered what it meant if this envelope had been left by the same person who’d sent the fruit.
Would that be stalking behavior?
Don’t be ridiculous, he told the fear that sluiced through him.
Maybe it was from Tierney. What if his secretary had addressed the envelope? Did Tierney even have a secretary?
Why wouldn’t he just come up to the office and give it to me? Maybe because it was a note confessing his undying love, and he’d been too shy to give it to Dalton in person.
I sound like one of Sam’s romance heroines. That got him right out of the car to yank the envelope free. His name was lettered in felt-tip marker, and faint pencil lines were just visible, as if a kid had drafted it out as painstakingly as any science fair poster.
Well, that didn’t seem like Tierney at all. He flipped it over and fumbled the clasp open, nearly tearing it, shaking out the contents on the hood of his car. Two pieces of stiff, multicolored paper fell out, about the size of . . . tickets? He bent to see them better, his brain scrambling the visual, until it suddenly resolved like a digital image. The City West Opera Company logo was splayed across the top, with Rigoletto printed in that dot-matrix font underneath.
Ummm . . . He turned back to the envelope, peering inside. One more piece of paper was stuck in a crease. He freed it, then pulled it out to read: A little something to make up for what happened that night.
Only Tierney would think he had something to apologize for after their sleepover Friday. It was just three nights ago, but Tierney made it sound as if it had been weeks or longer and that kind of overexaggeration was so him.
But ugh, the opera. Dalton hated opera. One of his exes used to drag him along, when socializing with his other closeted gay friends and their boys. Somehow, though, getting tickets to Rigoletto from Tierney wasn’t annoying, not after a few seconds of reflection. In fact, it had him squirming like a happy puppy on the inside.
Two tickets . . . Clearly, I’m meant to invite someone to go with me.
Relief rushed through his chest. I can talk to him. Thank God he had a good excuse for ignoring Sam’s advice. He didn’t have to be careful and thoughtful and make logical, nonemotional, adult decisions. In fact, he had to call Tierney, because it would be rude to not respond to this gesture.
His fingers only shook a little as he dialed.
“Dalton. Hi.” Tierney sounded surprised. Good surprised or bad surprised?
Well, he’d instigated this, so . . . “Would you like to go to the opera with me? I happen to have these two tickets.” He smiled, waiting for Tierney’s response. Would he play along awhile or admit he’d left them right away?
But when Tierney answered seconds later, his tone was more flummoxed than playful. “Um, opera?” Flummoxed, and a bit put off.
“Opera,” Dalton confirmed, disoriented, trying to figure out what he’d misread. Did Tierney expect him to find a different date?
“I gotta be honest with you, I’m not a huge fan of opera.”
“You’re not?”
“No.”
Dalton’s breath caught in his throat, but he forced out a question. “Did you think I was?”
“Why would I think that?” Tierney asked.
A tingling numbness invaded Dalton’s fingertips, right where they touched the envelope. “So . . . you didn’t leave two opera tickets on my car with a note that says ‘A little something to make up for what happened that night’?”
“Yes, I’m saying that.”
“Then who left them?” Dalton half whispered. The numbness began creeping up into his hand. Because there was only one other incident in recent memory that could reasonably be referred to as “that night.”
“Okaaaay . . .” Tierney said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Dalton swallowed. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“I’m thinking of the bashing.”
He nodded, but couldn’t actually voice agreement, as if the numbness had invaded his vocal chords.
“Dalton.” Tierney’s voice became very focused, as if each word were of supreme importance. “Call one of your brothers. One of the cops, not the accountant.”
He coughed out whatever was keeping him from speaking. “You really think I should?”
“Yes! You’re a major witness in a high-profile hate crime.”
“It’s not high profile, not rea—”
“Just call. Please.”