String Theory
“HOBBES, WHEREare you taking me?” Jax Hall definitely didnotwhine as he followed his grumpy roommate down the sidewalk. On a Friday evening, the downtown London, Ontario, streets were as bustling as they ever got these days. Jax and Hobbes automatically ducked sideways to keep a “safe” distance from another pedestrian. Old habits, Jax thought bitterly.
He shook away the thought.
“Hobbes!” he urged, but Hobbes stayed mum.
Jax lunged forward and grabbed his right hand in both of his and gave it a little shake. “Hobbes!”
“A bar.” Hobbes pulled his hand free and jammed it into his pants pocket, stymieing another attempt. Jax wasn’t bothered. He hooked his arm through Hobbes’s and leaned into him.
The gazes of two women walking toward them lingered on their hooked arms and faces, and they clearly came to the same conclusion. Knowing that some people thought Hobbes’s grumpy face was attractive—and having plenty of evidence of his own desirability—Jax leaned into his friend and batted his eyelashes to further the appearance of coupledom. After they passed by, the women whispered together, and was that a coo?
“Why are you so goddamned handsy?” Hobbes grumbled but didn’t untangle their arms.
Jax shrugged. “Not enough love as a child?”
Hobbes barked a laugh. “Pull the other one. I’ve met your mother.”
This, Jax reflected with fond amusement, was all too true. His mother had arrived like an avenging angel on the heels of the first lockdown to spend a week presiding over their house and making friends with Hobbes’s diabetic cat. Jax’s mother had never fussed or coddled a day in her life, but he could tell by the set of her shoulders and the way she glared at Hobbes that Jax’s midpandemic roommate acquisition must have had her on edge for months.
Not that she didn’t fall in love with Hobbes almost as quickly as Jax had. What could he say? The Halls clearly had soft spots for antisocial pediatricians who grimly risked their lives while complaining at high volume about dangerous working conditions and a lack of professionalism.
“Why are we going to a bar?”
“Because we can,” Hobbes said grimly, and Jax couldn’t argue the point.
“Which bar? What’s it like?”
“That one, and you can see for yourself.” Hobbes tipped his head toward the bar at the end of the block—the Rock. The name was written in blocky text across an outline of… Newfoundland?
Hobbes untangled their arms to yank the door open, and Jax followed him into the dim interior. To the left sat the bar, a long counter that spanned nearly the entire length of the room, front to back. To the right, Jax spied a stage with room enough for a small band, currently hosting a piano and a drum kit.
The place was empty at this early hour—it had only just opened, according to the hours on the door—but a few staff milled about.
Hobbes headed for the bar and slid onto a stool. Behind it stood a man with dark stubble and a toque over his hair. He wore suspenders over a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was so beautifully Canadian Jax wanted to ruffle his hair. Or suck his cock.
“Calvin, ’ow’s she cuttin’?” the bartender asked in a thick Newfie accent, but the next words came out smoother, slower. “What can I pour ya?”
“Whiskey,” Hobbes grunted.
Jax leaned into the bar next to him, rested his arms across it, and cocked his hip to display his ass to best advantage should anyone take a look.
“Who’s the friend?” the bartender asked Hobbes as he unscrewed the top from a bottle of Hobbes’s favorite brand and poured two fingers’ worth.
Hobbes grunted. “Jax Hall, my roommate, meet Sean Murphy.”
Jax gave his best flirty smile and fluttered his lashes. “My pleasure, Sean,” he purred. He had no desire to sleep with Hobbes’s favorite barkeep—he wasn’t about to make the mistake of getting between Hobbes and whiskey again—but Sean Murphy was a good-looking man with a lumberjack vibe that Jax found all too attractive.
Sean lifted an eyebrow and said, “I’m sure. Call me Murph. Everyone does.”
“Will do, Murph. Can I get a beer?” He wasn’t supposed to drink much, but one beer this late in the day wouldn’t interfere with his medication.
“Sure. What’ll you have?”
“Hm.” Jax licked his lips. “What’s your favorite IPA?”
Murph didn’t react to the flirting with any sign of interest, and instead reached for a beer.
