Not really, but it was nice to be told so. “I’m here, as requested.”
Tierney straightened away from the door. “Would you like to come in?” he asked, in that slow tone people used when they were working not to slur.
Dalton shouldn’t, and possibly he should be censorious about the drinking too. He’d heard about it from Sam and seen enough from the man himself to suspect Tierney had a problem with alcohol. But so far he hadn’t had any experience with a drunk Tierney. “Sure.” He took the plunge, stepping into Tierney’s apartment.
“Can I take your coat? Would you like a tour of the condo, or you wanna watch Star Trek?” Tierney took a step back, catching himself on the door, then rounded on it as if it had bumped into him.
“We can watch Star Trek. Give me a tour another time?” Groan. That had totally sounded like invitation fishing. Dalton shrugged off his black leather jacket.
Tierney looked over his shoulder. “You like Star Trek? I’d offer you porn, ’cause that’s the only other thing I ever watch, but I already saw that t’night, if you know what I mean.” He winked and faced Dalton again, taking the coat and hanging it on a hook hidden behind the door. At least Dalton assumed there was a hook because he didn’t hear anything hit the ground.
“Take me to your television.”
Tierney bowed low, sweeping a hand toward a large, open room with a wall of windows. “Right this way, m’sieur.” He straightened and crooked his arm, holding it out. Was Dalton supposed to take it? He hesitated, but he’d never seen someone just stand still, waiting, elbow hanging in the air for any other reason before. He took it; Tierney’s skin was warm and a little crinkly with body hair, which shifted against Dalton’s forearm as Tierney led them toward the TV.
Dalton rolled his eyes, mostly at himself. “You’re a ridiculously charming drunk.”
“Why, thank you.” Tierney guided him toward one of those long low couches in an L shape. The cushions were extra wide, lots of butt room. Two guys could lie down next to each other on it, if they were close. Dalton focused so much on that that he almost missed checking out the rest of the place. It was all one big room as far as he could see, but the lights in the living area were the only illumination, and that area seemed sort of . . . anemic. He’d bet a designer picked out the pale leather club chairs, the coffee table and matching, gilded end tables, not to mention those pleated-shade lamps. None of the furniture fit Tierney. He’d pick out dark stuff, with simple lines and splashes of red, or some other color. Maybe he liked yellow.
The lambskin rug right in front of the couch was nice, though. Maybe that’s why Tierney went barefoot in his house. It probably felt great to rub against.
“Here we are,” the man himself announced, flopping onto the couch, grinning up at Dalton and patting the cushion next to him. Last time they met he’d been sincere and serious, but he’d had this same intensity. A way of making Dalton feel like he was the only person in the room.
I am the only person in the room. He sat next to Tierney and focused on the big screen across from them—it had to be huge to see it from that far away—and his butt instinctively knew Tierney had picked out this couch and that TV. And the sound system that became evident the second Tierney hit the Play button. It was the old Star Trek, with Kirk in full Lothario mode talking passionately to a green-haired woman in a tinfoil bikini.
Then Tierney poured himself another drink from a bottle on the coffee table in front of them, and Dalton couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Do you really want that?” God, so much for nonjudgment. But he’d said it now, so he met Tierney’s startled look, trying to appear supportive in fact if not in word.
“Do you want it? I can get another glass.” Tierney lifted the drink, holding it out toward Dalton.
Oh, that was a horrible idea, and not what he’d meant at all. Dalton leaned closer though, until he could smell the whiskey and the man. He’d already thrown caution to the wind by coming over here . . . “I shouldn’t.” Wouldn’t that be enabling Tierney?
Enabling him to what, exactly? As far as he knew, Tierney could stop anytime.
“Why not?” Tierney blinked at him. “Oh yeah, you said you don’t drink.”
“Much. I don’t drink much.” He looked at Tierney’s hand, feeling like the star of an after-school special. Did he take the drug the evil pusher was offering him? It’s just one drink. “I’ll have some.” He stood up. “I can get my own glass.”
Tierney stood next to him, nearly bumping shoulders. Maybe his personal boundaries changed when he drank. Maybe he just wants to be closer to me.
“No, really, take this one. I should prolly slow down anyway.” Tierney bent over to grab the remote and muted Kirk, then stood even closer, turned toward him fully, holding the whiskey right in front of Dalton’s chest. Close enough for Dalton to feel the heat radiating off his fingers.
Temptation made his lungs tighten and his lips tingle. So few people had truly green eyes, but Tierney’s were close to the genuine article, the color broken only by occasional flecks of brown arrowing through the irises. And God, he hadn’t shaved recently. Dalton wanted to feel the scruff along Tierney’s jaw, let it prickle his fingertips.
Instead he took the glass, gripping it just under Tierney’s hand, emphasizing the friction of skin against skin. Tierney’s pupils widened, and he took a deep breath. They stood there like that, barely touching but totally absorbed in each other for a few seconds. Then Tierney relaxed his hand and let it fall away, but he didn’t back off.
“Thank you,” Dalton whispered before he lifted the drink to his lips, touching the glass with them, wondering if that’s where Tierney’s lips had been, watching Tierney’s jaw go slack and his eyelids get heavier.
“Drink it,” Tierney murmured.
Dalton tilted it back, holding Tierney’s gaze, opening his mouth more, letting the liquid slide over his tongue—
Then he spewed whiskey everywhere as his survival instincts forced out the stuff burning through his esophagus.
Tierney laughed, thank God.
“I’m sorry I blew whiskey all over you,” Dalton croaked when he could speak again.
“This is bourbon,” Tierney said, holding the bottle up and grinning. He still had tracks on his cheeks from where little amber rivulets had run down his face. He turned and headed toward the kitchen. “Be right back.”