Dalton rested his hand on Tierney’s leg, squeezing, trying to communicate that he’d give all the support he possibly could. Glancing up, though, he found Tierney’s eyes trained on Ian.
Oh. That kind of support.
Any contentment or joy Tierney felt over beating on his brother, then having a truly enjoyable (for the first time ever) Thanksgiving meal with his family faded as soon as he walked through the door of the Monaco and saw the crush of partially bared bodies and the darkness cut into varying patterns by every kind of light but natural. Then the overwhelming dance beat registered and his desire to flee nearly escalated into panic.
He’d forced himself to walk in, though, and then across the club, because Dalton was waiting for him.
Finally sitting with his friends, he began to relax. The constant reassurance of Dalton’s thigh pressing against his helped. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, just sit here and let others shout over the music while he soaked in the triumph of having successfully done a social thing without alcohol. The thump of the music was making his body buzz, getting him high on the atmosphere. This wasn’t so bad after all. He could do this, have a decent time without a drink in his hand. The problem with habits—like, the addictive kind—was that they were triggered by things. He’d learned all about it at Dunthorpe. Smells and sounds and activities. He’d never been in a club like this, not a gay one at least, so it couldn’t trigger much, could it?
It didn’t take him long to figure out that wasn’t the deal. It may be a gay club, but the smell of alcohol was the same as any other bar. And so was the party atmosphere. In other words, the vibe of Club Monaco was worming into him, tickling the part of him that liked its alcohol, waking it from its resting state. I can do this. He could hang on, right?
It was the damned Exposed Innerds song that pushed him over the edge. “She sits on the shelf all day and night . . .” it began in a wail, before the drums and bass crashed in and the story of the Siren on the Shelf began. Tierney’d only heard the tune a couple of times, but he’d felt the words soul deep the first time he’d listened to them, because he knew that siren on the shelf, didn’t he? Bourbon.
Or other alcohol would do, he’d never been that picky.
“Oh, I love this song,” Sam shouted. “Let’s dance.” Then he bulldozed Dalton and Tierney out of the booth, dragging his boyfriend behind him, which was great, because Tierney felt the need to stand as the fucking song really got going. Stand and run . . . or get a drink. This would be more fun if I were smashed.
Getting drunk wasn’t fun anymore, his higher brain reminded him.
“She thinks you’re so gullible, her reality so plausible, you can’t change your mind,” the leader singer (whoever the hell that was) sang.
I so fucking can change my mind. “I gotta go,” he said near Dalton’s ear, then he fled. He shoved through the crowd, not focusing on anything but the floor and the next foot or two of his escape route. Stumbling, he pushed out the door of the club and through a bunch of guys trying to get past him to the inside. “Hey, chill, man,” someone said.
“Tierney!” Dalton’s voice.
He stopped in a pool of yellowish light in the middle of the sidewalk, relief over getting out of that atmosphere warring with disorientation over shifting from his nonsober persona. A hand grabbed his arm, long fingers gripping his biceps and pulling on him, spinning him around. Then Dalton clasped his other arm, gaze locking on his. “Are you okay?”
“Define okay.” The feeling of disorientation started to drain away, though. Maybe Dalton was siphoning it off through touch.
Dalton searched his eyes for a second. “Did that bother you?” He stepped closer, letting his palms skim down and off Tierney’s arms and lowering his voice. It was barely louder than the buzz of the streetlight. “Seeing Ian and Sam like that?”
Huh? “It was everything. Like, the smell and all the people in a party mood and the lights, but that fucking song was the last straw. I can’t believe Sam likes it. I mean, the lyrics are so . . . I just, I got hit by a craving, and I had to bail.” Craving was such a weak word for it.
“Oh.” Dalton’s nose wrinkled up in that cute, confused way he had. “So it wasn’t because of them?”
Tierney leaned his shoulders against the brick wall of the club, the rough surface scraping him through his shirt. Taking a moment to wonder why Dalton thought Sam and Ian would make him want to fall off the wagon.
Because he thinks I’m in love with Ian.
Grabbing Dalton’s wrist, Tierney pulled him closer, so they could talk more easily. So he could make what he had to say clear. Dalton’s blue eyes were huge and totally focused on him. “Ian had nothing to do with why I left. I know I said before rehab that I was—”
“Dude!” Speak of the devil. Ian jogged up to them. “Are you all right?”
Tierney drew a deep breath, not letting go of Dalton, but having to look away from him, toward his buddy. “Fine, man. I’m okay.”
Ian nodded, eyes flicking to where Tierney held Dalton’s wrist.
Tierney slid his fingers down to interlace them with Dalton’s.
“Just checking,” Ian said. “Thought you might need some, uh, support.” The corners of his mouth quivered, as if he was trying not to smile. Was that approval or amusement? Who cares?
“Thanks, dude. I really appreciate it, but crisis averted, you know? No help needed.” Tierney forced out a social smile.
Ian tipped his head, turning back toward the club door. “Good to hear. I’ll leave you guys to it, then?” But he didn’t wait for an answer.
“I thought you wanted to hang out with Ian,” Dalton said quietly.
Returning his attention to him, Tierney found Dalton’s eyes just as big and magnetic as before. “You did?”
“This morning, when I said we didn’t have to come here if it made you uncomfortable, you said you wanted to see him.”
“I did?” He ran through what he remembered about that conversation. Not a lot of the words, mostly images. Like Dalton’s bangs, still damp from his shower, hanging down and just skimming the arch of his brow, and the way his shirt fit his shoulders, and how much Tierney had wanted to undress him again. But, oh, yeah. “I think I meant he’d be here if I needed help or, like, an intervention.”
Dalton gave him some more nose wrinkle.
“Because, you know, that whole thing about you being my lover means I should probably have someone else at my back in a situation like this.” Didn’t matter that he didn’t want anyone else at his back, or his front.