Color of Grace Cost of Repairs 2 by A. M. Arthur

Author:A. M. Arthur [Arthur, A. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Erotica, Fiction, Gay
ISBN: 9781619213258
Google: n4Dfpm8urocC
Amazon: B009MA8QDM
Publisher: Samhain Publishing
Published: 2012-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

On Wednesday evening, Schuyler stood outside of Dixie’s Cup for a good ten minutes watching Barrett. For the first time in his life, he hesitated going into the diner where he’d spent countless hours doing his homework, filling napkin holders and generally being a pest during his formative years. The place felt foreign, almost scary, and it was all his own fault.

The hours since Sunday had passed slowly, creating a chasm between his idiocy with Barrett and the best time to apologize. Every day made an apology seem more urgent, and yet harder to actually put forth. He should have called Monday morning. Hell, he should have apologized Sunday night. But he hadn’t, and now it was nearly ten o’clock on a school night, and he was standing outside the Cup, instead of at home getting ready for bed.

He watched Barrett work. Barrett moved behind the counter like swimmers moved through water, each action easy and perfectly timed to put food on the plate. The complicated dance between flattop, fryer and deli counter almost made Rey look clumsy. Almost. Rey had been passionate about food, and that showed in every plate he made and special he tossed up on the board. Barrett was passionate about his job, which happened to be cooking right now. Schuyler had a notion that if Barrett was ever to take up a tattoo needle again, he’d shine like a supernova.

The Cup was slowly emptying out. Weekdays, they served a good deal of coffee and desserts until about ten, and then service slowed considerably for the rest of the night, until it picked up again for breakfast at six thirty. This wasn’t the best place or time to talk to Barrett, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. He had put it off too long, as it was.

He went in. Lucìa waved from the back, where she was wiping down a table. Barrett didn’t look up from the flattop, so Schuyler sat at the counter, choosing a stool right behind where Barrett stood. His pulse jumped with a sudden rush of nerves as he waited to be noticed.

Barrett grabbed a clean plate, scraped something off the flattop, added a handful of potato chips, then turned. “Gee-h-and-c up,” he said, turning around. He slid the plate onto the lower counter for pickup, and Schuyler noted it was a grilled ham and cheese. Barrett started to swing away, then stopped. His eyebrows jumped, lips parting, as he realized who was sitting there.

“Hey,” he said. “How long have you been waiting?” “Maybe a minute,” Schuyler replied. No sense in telling Barrett he’d been lurking outside for at least ten already.

Barrett tilted his head, thinking. Probably trying to figure out why Schuyler was here, since this was completely off his typical schedule. Even during those weeks his class was in the Cup painting their mural, he made sure everyone was finished and cleaned up by nine-fifteen. “A little late for your usual, isn’t it?” Barrett asked.

His usual was a club sandwich with lettuce, tomato and mustard.

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