Hidden Passions (Hidden, #7)(23)

"Getting shagged is a good tension reliever."

"I am aware of that," Chris said.

The desert dryness of his response wasn't lost on Syd. "Okay," he surrendered with a small grin. "You can arrange your own love life."

Chris grimaced and said nothing. He wished he could arrange it. He dug into the food, aware he'd dodged more than one bullet in the last few minutes. It occurred to him he hadn't worried about dominance issues during his two encounters with Tony. He'd pushed the wolf to be less submissive . . . though he couldn't deny enjoying that side of him. Frankly, everything Tony did was enjoyable.

Thinking about the wolf wasn't a good idea. Chris's blood was up from facing off with Liam. One salacious mental image would dump him in libidinal hot water. The klaxon going off for a new alarm was undeniably good timing.

Because Liam probably needed bucking up, Chris squeezed his shoulders before they rolled out. He wished he could swear Tony hadn't been in some corner of his mind when he struck the gay-phobic cat.

What the otherwise likeable tiger might do to a wolf like Tony didn't bear thinking on.

~

Tony's disreputable running shoes felt like they were cemented to the unnaturally clean sidewalk. P.J. Brit's wasn't the sort of bar he was accustomed to. For one thing, it was uptown, with shiny plate glass windows and perfectly groomed green ferns hanging from a stamped tin ceiling. The predominantly male clientele looked just as snipped and trim. Most sat in laughing groups at too-small tables, wearing GQ-ish suits Tony wouldn't have dreamed of wasting his paycheck on. For variety, a smattering were tricked out in motorcycle leathers, reminding him of greaser movies from the Fifties.

Fetishwear, he guessed it was.

Tony doubted the men who wore it actually rode Harleys.

Fuck, he thought, cursing his unpreparedness for this.

Their precinct dispatcher Dana had recently come out as a lesbian. Because everything Tony had found on Elfnet seemed skeevy, he'd asked her if she knew where gay men hung out.

P.J. Brit's and the Central Park public johns were what she'd come up with.

Tony probably should have consulted Nate instead.

Stop dithering, he scolded his reluctant feet. His tiger fireman was a write off. He needed to get his gay self into circulation some other way.

A group of laughing pointy-eared yuppie elves bumped him on their way in. They didn't glance at him as they passed. They were oblivious to everything but their own circle.

God, Tony hated going out alone.

Too bad, he told himself, ordering his legs forward. If he wanted to be who he really was, he'd have to function without wingmen.

His sweaty palm gripped the door handle. Nervous strength caused him to nearly bash himself in the face. That embarrassment narrowly avoided, he stepped inside with his heart pounding. Going to hookup bars was so much easier when you didn't care about the outcome.

"Meeting someone?" inquired a sharp-nosed effeminate shifter behind a podium.

Okay, what the f*ck sort of watering hole had a maitre d'?

"No," Tony said. "Is it cool to hang at the bar?"

"You can't order food there, just snacks."

"That's okay," Tony said. "I doubt my stomach can handle food anyway."

The host looked to where Tony had pressed his hand over his belly. His lips slanted to one side, making him abruptly seem friendlier. "First time?"

"I guess that's obvious." Tony tried to breathe out his nervousness. "I'm dressed all wrong, aren't I?"


He'd pulled on a clean yellow polo shirt and new jeans, nicer than what he'd have worn to a cop bar. He'd also showered and shaved but--given that he was a dark-haired wolf with a persistent beard shadow--he wasn't ever going to look as polished as most of the men here. Given that he wasn't a wannabe anything, he wasn't going to carry off fetishy either.

The maitre d' laid one finger beside his mouth to consider him. When he finished the slow once-over, he was grinning. "I expect you'll do. Variety is the spice of life."

This should have reassured him, but his butterflies flapped harder.

"Why don't I show you through to the bar?" the host suggested with a kindness Tony didn't expect. "I'll let the bartender know you're new."

"Thanks," Tony said, falling gratefully into his wake.

"Just take it slow." The host threw the advice over his shoulder. "Nurse your drink. Watch how people interact. Make your decisions with a clear head."

"You're alpha," Tony said, the realization surprising him.

"Werefox," the host replied. "We don't care so much about who's butchest."

They'd reached the packed but not rowdy bar. The flat screen that hung above it had the financial news on instead of sports. The werefox caught the bartender's attention and then pointed at Tony. The tall bald man was polishing a glass with a drying cloth. He nodded at whatever signal the werefox sent. He was part-demon, Tony saw, his all-black eyes giving him away.

Not gay, Tony decided, and not as kindly as the maitre d'. "I'll have a faerie stout," he said. "On tap, if you've got it."

The bartender pulled one with quick motions. Tony paid, braced his shoulders, and looked around. One of the leather daddies was looking back. He raised his whiskey tumbler in salute.