EXCERPT

Chapter One

 

Chay Tamblin hated crowds. He cringed at the tight press of strange bodies, and fought the urge to plug his nose against the aromas of stale beer and smoke-saturated clothing. He didn’t like the sensation of being so lost in a sea of humanity that his very identity seemed to get washed away on the waves. He felt vulnerable. Exposed.

He knew that didn’t make sense. On one hand he participated in events that required he dive into frigid cold water and fight his way through dozens of thrashing bodies toward an elusive finish line, all under the glare of hundreds of screaming spectators. He did that on a regular basis. Looked forward to it even. Paid money to do it. And yet the good-natured St. Paddy’s Day crowds that had spilled out onto Toronto’s Church Street, the most well-known and eclectic gay community in Toronto, gave him the heebie-jeebies. He hated it, dreaded it, but he was toughing it out for a reason. He was here because Kat needed him to be here.

At last he reached the carved oak doors to The Celtic Knot. Or rather he reached the crush of people that waited outside the doors to the popular, upscale Irish pub.

“Hey Chay!” called a chorus of unfamiliar voices. He may not know them, but they most certainly knew him. That kind of dubious popularity was the price he paid for being the owner’s best friend.

“Can you get us in?” someone said.

“Get Kat out here, would ya?”

“Where’s that hot little friend of yours?”

These were just a few of the pleas that greeted him as he pushed his way through the knot of patrons.

“Garth!” he called, waving to the bouncer who stood at the door like the wall of human flesh that he was.

A smile lit the baby face that Chay had always thought was a little too small for the rest of Garth’s body. Garth winked and cocked his head in the direction of the door. He was a man of few words and Chay appreciated that. A moment later he was inside the doors, but that fact did nothing to change the population density around him. If anything it was worse.

“Hey Tasha,” he called, this time referring to the hostess, a blonde bombshell with legs to her throat and breasts that could—and had—supported a half pint each. “Where is she?”

“In the back. Harassing Horace. As usual.”

He nodded his understanding, and headed gratefully for the kitchen. Passing the long, oak bar crowded with busy bartenders, pints of Guinness and masses of thirsty patrons in green hats, purple hair and leather pants, he worked his way through the noisy room. Before pushing through the swinging kitchen door, he gave a nod to the young singer in the corner who was strumming his guitar and trying to make his folk tunes heard above the melee. He took a moment to catch his breath and was immediately greeted by Kat’s familiar—and tonight very irritated—voice.

“Laurie is starting on Monday. And that’s final!” Kat’s emerald green eyes flashed, and she raked her fingers through the unruly mass of black spikes and vibrant burgundy curls that passed for a hairstyle. Tonight she wore a green cocktail dress that matched both her eyes and the season. The chunky-heeled, thigh-high black boots she wore, however, would have been better suited to a denim mini and stretchy tube top. But Kat made style—not the other way around.

Horace crossed his arms over his ample abdomen and tried to glare down his boss. “Zees ees reediculous.” His phony French accent got even phonier when he was upset. “I’ll not allow sauch an aberration in my kitchen. Let alone to touch my food!”

Kat arched one pierced brow. “That’s just the point, Hor-ass. It’s not your food, or your kitchen for that matter. It’s my food. My kitchen. And you’ll do as I wish with it, or you can find alternate employment elsewhere.”

Horace’s mouth dropped open, and promptly lost the accent. “But…but…she has a penis! You would choose that over me? How can you allow something like that to serve customers?”

Kat was virtually vibrating with fury. Damn it but he loved to see her like this. “She is not a something. She is a someone! And I promise you, she will not be stirring the soup with her penis.”

Horace harrumphed. “I still do not understand.” To Chay’s horror Horace turned a pleading glance on him. “Chay, my friend. Surely you can talk some sense into her.”

Chay laughed. “Man, are you barking up the wrong homo! Some of my best friends are trannies. I’m just here for the show.”

Kat stepped forward, hands propped on those little hips. Damn, but she looked like a pretty little pit bull. “This has nothing to do with Chay. Laurie is a transsexual. I only told you so that you would be sensitive to her special situation. But that’s it. End of story. We’ll not discuss it again. Work here and work with her, or don’t. I don’t care.” She dropped her hands to her sides. “Not that you should be concerning yourself with what’s between her legs, anyway.”

“You offend me!”

“Good. Sounds like you needed to be.” She slipped her hand through Chay’s arm. “Now I need to get back to my customers. What’s your decision?”

Horace glared at her for a moment before turning around and muttering under his breath as he went back to preparing the pile of chicken wings he’d apparently been working on.

“I guess that’s a yes,” muttered Kat as she dragged Chay away. But to his surprise, she didn’t head for the dining room. Rather she headed for the employee washroom.

She pushed him in ahead of her, closed the door and leaned heavily against it.

“Need a break?” asked Chay, hitching a hip on the sink.

“Damn. What I wouldn’t give for some whiskey.”

“You can’t. You’re working.”

“You just love throwing my own rules back in my face, don’t you?”

“Immensely.”

With a harrumph, she crossed to the sink beside him and proceeded to splash water on her face. She never wore much makeup, so ran no risk of having mascara-stained raccoon eyes. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”

“It’s not a competition, you know. You’re Horace’s boss. His employer. He knows that.”

“Does he?” She snorted. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“Well, you sign his paychecks, don’t you?”

“Sure, but…it’s not that simple. I’m a woman and I’m…little. I have to earn his respect every day. Just like I have to maintain the respect of every server, bouncer, and dishwasher who works for me. I need to work at that every day. That’s what being a good boss means. For anybody.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think you’re a great boss.”

She smiled, the red in her cheeks already fading. “Thanks. You don’t know shit about running a pub, but it’s still nice to hear.”

He shrugged, stifled the urge to reach out and draw her into a hug. He may have needed it, but she didn’t. At least not now. “I do what I can.”

“And I love you for it.” She sighed, settling her head on his shoulder. And he thought he should be happy with that.

The silence that settled over them was comfortable and familiar. They listened thoughtfully to the distant din of music, laughter and conversation, along with the bang and rattle of pots and pans, and the yells of waitresses looking for their orders.

“It’s busy tonight,” observed Chay needlessly.

“I know. Even more so than last year.”

“You really turned this place around. You done good, you know. Really good.” And she had. She’d done wonders. She’d taken over the location from the previous, completely inept owners and had made extensive renovations. And put her entire life into hock to pay for it. And she had turned it into one of the hottest, most eclectic, most sought-after gathering spots on Church Street.

It was her town, her people. She’d known exactly what she was doing.

“I guess so.” Kat did not handle praise well. She never had. And Chay knew when he’d said enough.

Out of nowhere she asked, “Hey…so how was your swim today? Was Dex there?” Chay was in training for a number of triathlon events coming up that summer. They involved running and biking as well, but swimming was his true passion. Dex was his longtime training buddy and, more recently, part-time lover. He knew Kat was hoping for more between them, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her that while he thoroughly enjoyed Dex—in many ways—there was no way it was ever going to be more than that. At least he didn’t have the heart to tell her today.

“Yes, he was. And you’re procrastinating,” he observed, choosing instead to address the true issue of the moment.

She glanced at the door, sighed, and stood. “I do love my work, you know, and I love this place. Ninety-nine percent of the time I absolutely adore it. But tonight…”

He stood beside her. “Tonight is a lot.” St. Paddy’s was, without compare, the busiest night of the year. And, for as much as that meant huge profits, it also brought along huge stresses.

“Yup. A lot. But thanks for the little break.” Unexpectedly, she touched his cheek, sending bolts of electricity zinging through his body. “You okay? I know how much you hate these crowds.”

“I’m fine. I—”

The door burst open. “Hey Kat! You in here?” It was Tasha, looking unusually harried, and sounding a little desperate. “There you are. Thank God.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, it’s just nuts out there.”

Kat brushed off the back of her dress. “Okay. I’ll grab a tray and—”

“No, no. That part is fine. It’s crazy busy, but we can handle it.”

“So, what’s up?”

“There’s a man in the corner booth. I guess he’s been there all night waiting to see you, and he’s getting impatient.”

Kat’s head jerked back. “Huh? Waiting to see me? Why?”

“Damned if I know.” Tasha adjusted her bra and enhanced her already impressive cleavage. “But he’s becoming very insistent,” continued Tasha. “Verging on pushy.”

“Pushy, eh?” Kat’s hands landed on her hips and her eyes blazed anew. God, he loved the way she could go from zero to full throttle in a half second flat. “Well, let’s just see what this is about.”

And so Chay found himself trailing along behind Kat’s flashing green dress and ball-crusher boots as she wended her way through the crowd. She was making good progress considering the crunch when she drew up, stopping so suddenly he almost ran into her back.

“Oh my god.” Strangely, he could hear the strangled whisper easily above the noise and bustle. And before he could ask her what was wrong, she said it again. Only this time much louder.

A moment later she stood beside the most popular booth in the place, glaring at an elderly gentleman with graying temples, hollow cheeks, a Versace suit—and vivid emerald green eyes. “Get out!” she yelled, her voice cracking on the words.

“Katrina, please,” said the man, easing his way out of the booth. “Let me talk to you.”

“I don’t even want to hear your voice. I said, get out. Get the hell out of my place. And stay the hell out of my life. If I ever see you in here again, I swear to God I’ll take a frying pan to your skull.” And with that she whirled and rushed away.

And Chay wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d caught a glimpse of something he’d only seen twice before in his life. Tears in Katrina Mulligan’s eyes.

 

 

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