Infected: Lesser Evils by Andrea Speed Read Free Book Online Page B

don’t try this when Weaver’s on the floor. He doesn’t like the staff displaying their gayness.” At that, he rolled his eyes, unspoken disgust at Weaver’s policy, and gestured him on with a wave of his hand.
    He assumed Weaver was the manager. So, was he a straight who didn’t like gays but hired them anyways, or was he a self-hating gay? He’d have to meet him to know.
    It must have been a slow night. The lighting was low, “moody,” but he could still see that only four of the tables in this section (there were at least two others, one a VIP room that no ordinary peon could access) were occupied. There were two people at the opposite end of the bar, a woman in a red dress and a man in a suit who looked like he was either a lawyer or a white collar criminal (or both).
    Dylan was behind the bar, looking handsome and posh in a long-sleeved black dress shirt and a silver vest that looked like it was the closest thing the place had to a uniform. (Dylan wasn’t the type to own a silver vest. The only guy he ever knew that might was Paris, and even then, only as a joke.) Roan took one of the tall stools at the empty end of the bar, and that’s when Dylan glanced down and saw him. He gave him a genuine, lazy smile, and said, “I know what you want.”
    He was tempted to say, “I doubt it, it’s not on the menu,” but kept the innuendo to himself as he watched Dylan work. It may have been a new bar, with more space and more clothing, but he still moved like he’d always worked there, picking up a crystal highball glass and pouring a scoop of crushed ice into it in one smooth motion, then decanting some juice in it before coming over and placing the glass in front of Roan, on a coaster that looked like it was made of cork and wicker. Dylan leaned on the bar, close but not too close.
    “Pineapple juice?” Roan asked. “You couldn’t Irish it up a bit?”
    “Since when do you like whiskey?”
    “I don’t. I just don’t want to feel like the designated driver.” He sipped the juice. Fancy place or not, it was still the equivalent of store-bought. “How’s it going?”
    “Not bad. It’s kind of nice not being deafened, and having a shirt on is a novelty.”
    “It’s killing you, isn’t it?”
    “No.” He glanced around, perhaps to make sure no other staffer was close, then admitted, “It’s a little staid. It seems a bit unreal, so formal and… regulated. I feel like a butler.”
    “This is not your world.”
    “Is this anyone’s world? It’s bizarre. I mean… my life is nuts. I guess I got used to nuts.”
    “What kind of nuts are we talking about here?”
    Dylan raised an eyebrow at that, and had to fight down a smile. “Don’t you start.”
    “It was an innocent question.”
    “Innocent, my culo ,” he replied, using the Spanish word for ass, possibly because this place didn’t like its employees swearing. What a change from Panic, where almost everything was okay, as long as it was consensual and not a violation of the health code (in full view of anyone who might complain). “You are many things, Ro, but innocent has never been one of them.”
    “Well, if you’re going to take that attitude, I’ll just go buy my juice at the 7-Eleven. By the way, how much is this gonna set me back?”
    “Nothing, I’ll say I drank it. But, if you were a customer, five bucks.”
    “For a pineapple juice? This isn’t even a proper glass.”
    “It’s an expensive place. The cheapest salad is twenty-five dollars.”
    “I hope that comes with extra croutons and a hand job.”
    Dylan laughed, and instantly clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. He glared at Roan, trying to give him the death stare, but there was too much mirth in his eyes to properly sell it. “Bastard,” he finally muttered. “Making me laugh.”
    “What, laughter is a crime in this place? Fuck it then. Let’s blow this pop stand. Better yet, let’s get some of those Improv Everywhere people in here to make them