Elliot DeMile requested their first meeting be over drink, for no particular reason, and Jacob didn’t feel he had the right to say no. The two found a pinpoint address in between both of their houses and though it was a shitty dive bar on the low end of town, it was the closest thing they could find.

Maddy could have stayed the night by herself, but Jacob demanded she stay with one of her parents at least, cheaper than a regular babysitter. Lauren only complied when he said it was mandatory business and that he would be sending some funds to feed Maddy while she was over. Even though Lauren could pay plenty for herself, he sent twenty dollars to buy her dinner and would return her tomorrow morning.

Maddy’s hands were tight around his neck when he placed her in the back of her mom’s Corvette, buckled her in, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast, okay?”

“Good luck at your meeting.” Lauren looked through the rearview mirror, smiling for the first time in months. “You’re gonna need it.”

Jacob stands on the corner, taking up shelter against an old bookstore he used to work at. The canopy only half covers him from the bounding rain, the rest pattering against his umbrella. His heart flutters against his thin chest wall, as his fingers run down the umbrella’s stem. He waited fifteen minutes total, checking his watch about seventeen times in the process. He grips his pocket every couple of minutes when he hears footsteps pass by, feeling the small switchblade he’s hiding. There’s no way in hell he’ll stand out in the open without a weapon, not at night, not during the day.

His mind often wanders to the house, what he locked, what he didn’t, and how quickly someone could raid him if he wasn’t there. How much of Maddy’s items would they take, what’s more valuable, what would be inevitably stolen? He settled only when he rationalized with himself, he checked the house four times before leaving, a fifth was not necessary to worry about.

Two silent feet step into view from under the umbrella, looking down at his watch. When Jacob initially flinches and looks up, he’s met with a kind face. A middle-aged native man, dressed in a standard workmen’s getup, countering Jacob’s umbrella with a larger, flatter one. “Jacob Wolmin?” His low, silky voice addresses, formal and polite. His smile is comely and warm, and his hair is perfectly trimmed and pools to one side.

“Yes, you’re Dr. Elliot DeMile, I take it?” Jacob replied, his stomach churning in knots, feeling like he was only seconds away from getting mugged, or worse. He still holds out his hand, which DeMile takes with vigor and shakes like he means it, a true businessman. Jacob feels like his arm will slop off when he lets go, accidentally keeping his hands there for much too long. His hands are sweet and barely wrinkled with time, and his nail beds are perfectly trimmed and well-manicured. He smells of Polo Green, his eyes are a stark light blue, and he carries a cross necklace that reaches the center of his chest.

“Please, Elliot is fine.” His hands pull away, and the two stand in silence for a few moments, when Elliot raises his head to the street light. “Should we get headed off now?”

The two pad silently down east, passing cars and radios playing a cacophony of music. The streets are admittedly more peaceful with another body beside him. “Where are we going again?”

“It’s a small underground bar near where I used to frequent in my uni days,” Elliot responds, checking his wrist, he suddenly curves left and Jacob trips a little trying to follow. “The locals know me, so I get in for free.” Now the location made sense, something cheap for them to sus each other out. Jacob nodded, though admittedly, he felt a ping of embarrassment that he didn’t tell him about his situation.

He wanted to ask if there were women at this bar if he had a chance of getting evidence, if maybe he could try and rig this situation to benefit him even more, but he felt horrible knowing he was that selfish.

“Something wrong?” Elliot asks, and Jacob takes mental notes. Caring, cheap, perceptive, analytical.

“Hm? No, just thinking…You said you visited here in your uni days? Where did you study?” Pulling out his notepad, Jacob squishes his umbrella under his armpit, cocking it too far forward and spilling water all along the back of his patchy cotton overcoat. Elliot swiftly takes the umbrella by the neck and holds it up, as Jacob fumbles for his notepad. “Sorry, you don’t have to!”

“I know.” The doctor replies smoothly. He’s nearly a foot taller than Jacob, towering over him as he tries to desperately scrabble down his notes. “I went to Université de Montréal when I was eighteen, graduated in 1965.”

He tries to write as fast as possible, tucking it back into his pocket and taking his umbrella once more, his face a little darker for it. “How was uni? I’ve never been, so I might need some context.”

“Well, I lived off-campus in my father’s townhome up north. Back then I’d wake up at four or five in the morning to make it to class.” His laugh is raspy and worn from smoke, a light whistle to his cough. “I still own the property I grew up in, and rent it out to this young family. I technically own three homes now.”

“Three?” Jacob’s head throws back when he hears it, blinking rapidly, it feels like the rain has completely stopped at this point, his attention sucked in from the start.

“My childhood home, my current home, and the one next door. My best friend from church, this single mom, needed somewhere to stay, so I’m merging the lands to eventually exchange the property line so she can homestead out of her backyard. She currently has a few chickens and a whole garden. I let her use my backyard. You might know her if you attend St. Albert or the Saturday market.” He doesn’t pause as he hooks another left into a thin alleyway, descending a set of stairs that’s covered in water and algae. His well-manicured hands never touch the railing as he steps down, knocking politely on the large metal door of the establishment.

Jacob manages to write out another note, using his forearm to press his umbrella up to his chest. Heritage? Languages? Interview neighbor. St. Albert interview?

When he glances up, the hefty door swings open with a creak, and Elliot exchanges some French with the doorman. The two close their umbrellas and whip them against the doorframe, kicking their shoes on the bristled mat.

The floor is sticky, the music is much too loud, played by a cover band doing a rendition of I Get Around by the Beach Boys. Elliot lets out a short chuckle as soon as he hears it. The crowd signs and claps along in a drunken haze, the tables are full of men and women chatting and swaying. Jacob feels his chest sink, but he has to follow close behind. He toddles as fast as he can, squishing past standing patrons to follow the silhouette of his target. Elliot takes a seat at the bar, and among his better judgment, he sits down beside him. He feels the seat peel against his slacks and he wants to pretend it’s alcohol and not anything else.

“Loud place for an interview.” Jacob has to shout over the music, the sweet stench of mixers makes his stomach whirl.

“Well, you wanted history, didn’t you?” Elliot calls back, flagging down the bartender. “Two old fashioned.”

“Oh, you can just get one,” Jacob says too quietly, the bartender has already passed on, grabbing oranges from the little fridge underneath. The first time he’s able to get Elliot’s attention, which was mostly taken up by the stage, their drinks are already served. “I’m sorry, I don’t drink, I’ll pay my end of the tab still.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Elliot pulls back, offended, his thick eyebrows curl in the center. The band has switched to Wouldn’t It Be Nice, it seems Beach Boys is the theme of the night.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Interrupt what? It’s just the two of us.” He scoffs.

Jacob had no answer. Apologizing was easy, coming up with a valid reason that didn’t make him look stupid was another.

“Why can’t you drink? Are you Buddhist or something?” His question is innocent, but his face shows scrutiny. Jacob bites the inside of his lip, knowing if he lied, he’d only be making things worse.

“N-no, I’m an atheist, but, my…uh… My therapist doesn’t want me to drink.”

“Ohhh you’re an alcoholic. I see, I see.” Elliot nods, lifting his drink. Jacob would gladly let him believe he was an alcoholic before a petrified homosexual with a track record of kissing strangers on a single shot. “Let’s find a table to give it to then.” Leaning on his wrist, he orders two more drinks from the bartender and elbows Jacob in the ribs. He nods over to a small table of women, and Jacob quickly realizes why they were picked. Two out of three are Asian.

“I’ll stay here,” Jacob says, leaning over the bar, his eyes beginning to blur and vibrate with fear. This was a horrible idea to begin with. “One guy is a flirt, two is a threat.” He laughs it off, but Elliot is grabbing his hand and pulling him out of his seat.

His hands are just as smooth and pristine as they looked, soft and delicate. Jacob can feel their scents lingering together where they touch. He didn’t realize how attention-starved he truly was until now, and desperately clung onto his hand as if letting go would kill him.

Each man carries two drinks and Elliot is the first to address the ladies. “Hey, Carmen,” He begins, leaning on the only white woman’s shoulder.

The woman looks up at him with a familiar kind of smirk. “DeMile.” She’s in her mid-thirties, brunette in a bob cut and dressed in a high-collared blouse. Jacob awkwardly stands to the side, wishing he could wipe his palms on his pants, but he’s holding drinks like a loser. “Those for us?”

“Sure bet,” Elliot replies coolly, his teeth are so straight they must be artificial. “My friend here thought you all could use a drink.”

Now the attention is on him, and he couldn’t hate it more. He softly sets the drinks down in front of Carmen and a lady he believes is Taiwanese. He says nothing, and Elliot sighs with mild disdain.

“He’s shy.” He chuckles, placing the last drink, and sipping his own. “So, Carmen, introduce me to your friends.”

Jacob tunes them out, which is easy over the music. He gathers the other two are named El and Abby, past that, he couldn’t care less. Elliot waves his drink about, tapping his feet to the music now that they’ve switched to a more punkish kind of style. Jacob doesn’t catch the song's name, so instead, he nods and tries to pretend like he’s up for this.

“Jacob!” Elliot calls, and he’s suddenly forced back up straight, trying to focus. Elliot swings his hand around his waist, threatening to creep up his shirt, his side pressed against Jacob’s arm. He could feel his ribs through his thin shirt, wanted to touch them, and could feel his heartbeat if he focused hard enough on it. “I never did ask you what your type was. Are any of these dolls speaking to you?”

For the first time in his life, he had an accurately timed erection, for the wrong reasons. He glances between the girls, before hesitantly pointing to the first one he makes eye contact with, El.

“Aww, too in love to speak?” Elliot chimes in, and as soon as they touch, he is gone, pulling away with ease. “Why don’t you take her to the dancefloor, buddy?”

His entire body was sweating bullets, running hot then cold then hot again, the music so fast and chaotic that he couldn’t hear anymore. White hot lights burn in his eyes, scanning everywhere for something to clutch onto, feeling seconds from passing out.

Without reason, Jacob pushes past Elliot towards the bathrooms, slamming the heavy metal door behind him, deafening the sound. He looks under the stalls to see no feet and rushes to the sink to splash water on his face. He shakes his head as hard as possible, heaving forward with each breath.

A high-pitched cackle screams in his ear, causing him to clutch it, backing away, before he realizes it’s just the opening to a song outside. Jacob’s eyebrows press together in frustration when he sees the door begin to creak open. Act Normal Dumbass!

“Wolmin?” Elliot’s smooth voice follows his head peeking out behind the door, slipping in, and closing it behind himself. “You alright?”

“Yeah! Fine, just, not one for talking to girls.” That’s a lie, ACDC. “I just needed a break.”

“Why’d you let me drag you to a bar then?” Elliot approaches closer, towering over Jacob, the fluorescent lights behind him casting him in shadow. “You can’t drink, you don’t talk to girls, you clearly don’t want to dance. Why didn’t you say no when we were at the door?”

Jacob had no answer, and now the guilt set in. Waste of money, waste of space, waste of time. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize where it was until we got here, and I just… I didn’t want to waste your time.”

“It’s not a waste of time to turn around and go to dinner or something. What’s more of a waste is me forcing you to do something you don’t want to do.” Elliot’s voice is soft and coherent, against the music, it is fresh to hear. “C’mon, why don’t we go to the Brit & Chips across the road.”

“That… That sounds a lot more like my speed.” Jacob admitted, face flushed. You just want to watch him eat something, don’t you?

“C’mon.” Elliot grabs his hand again, and Jacob’s thoughts are completely uncontrollable now.

God, he’s hot. He’s probably straight, though he likes Asian girls, doesn’t he? At least tolerates them, maybe he’ll like you? I want him in me, on me, to stay in this bathroom forever.