Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,15

Got it?”

Lachlan gaped. “You’re going to use him like a distraction?”

Jordan scowled at him. “Like you used him to feed your own ego for the last year and a half? This at least is going to give us a chance to fix things. Now go!”

Lachlan recoiled, stung. That wasn’t fair, was it? He’d been solidly interested in Bartholomew. He’d really come to depend on those dewy-eyed looks and the small smiles he’d given when Lachlan had worked for a joke.

But did you want his affection in return, or his worship?

Shit. Well, a little of both, actually, but they were already heading toward the back of the booth while everybody else tried to control the crowd.

“Hey, I like him,” Lachlan retorted. “Why do you think I’m here?”

Jordan hit him with a hard look that made Lachlan reassess his previous opinion of Jordan as merely “pretty.” “Because you haven’t conquered him yet. He’s not a fucking citadel, Lachlan. You don’t climb him once and call it a day.”

Fire washed Lachlan’s chest, and a little bit of it was shame. Yeah, maybe, at the beginning. There was no question. But a year and a half of interest—and trying to register on Bartholomew’s radar, had changed that interest to affection. Lachlan had played the field for a while. He’d brought dates, male and female, to the vending floor. But ever since he’d started bribing Morty to put them together, he’d come exclusively stag.

Bartholomew was just really… alluring.

“It’s not like that,” he said with simple dignity. He couldn’t even be hurt or angry. Jordan was watching out for his friend.

“Guys!” Bartholomew interjected, his eye on the crowd. “It’s getting dire. I’ll get their attention. Jordan, you do the spell. Do you have it written?”

Jordan tapped his temple grimly. “All up here.”

Bartholomew’s lip twitched. “Don’t turn them into kittens,” he said and then pivoted and slid out of the booth.

Jordan put his hand on Lachlan’s wrist. “Take care of him, okay? He’s special to us.”

Lachlan nodded. “Me too,” he said simply, and then he followed Bartholomew to the space behind the booths.

Some of the tension in the room eased out, like Bartholomew was the magic ingredient that made them all a little crazy, and then, when the crowd realized he was gone, Lachlan heard—oh God. Sobbing.

“Shit,” Bartholomew muttered as they made their way toward the door. “How fast can you run?”

“College track,” Lachlan said proudly; then it hit him what Bartholomew was asking. “Why? What do you—”

They got to the big double-wide doors that opened into the cavernous vendor floor in the convention center, and Bartholomew scared Lachlan to death.

He stepped out into the space between the doors and shouted, “Hey! Everybody! Am I what you’re looking for!”

The effect was electric.

The mass of people crowding the booth turned as one body toward Bartholomew, eyes staring at him like he was their last best hope for happiness. For that moment, Bartholomew and Lachlan stared at them like deer pinned in the headlights, and then Lachlan realized what was about to come next.

“Tolly, run!”

And Bartholomew spun on his heel and took off running past the registration desk toward the exit, Lachlan hot on his heels.

“My truck!” he hollered as Bartholomew dodged more cosplayers in the carpeted hallway. God, they were lucky. Things usually got really packed after lunch on Saturday; this was still the early-morning crowd.

“Where? ’Scuse me, ma’am. Pardon me. So sorry. Excuse me!”

Lachlan almost went over his back, that thin runner’s body not as adept at weaving in and out as Lachlan might have expected. Behind them, Lachlan heard the ocean roar of over a hundred voices who suddenly needed a piece of that scrawny, sweet handful-o-ass, and decided he needed to take over.

He grabbed Bartholomew’s hand and hauled him, dodging past attendees and through lines, swearing copiously when he saw the big sign at the end of the hallway.

Freight Elevator For Employees Only!

A giant with no neck to speak of, wearing a bright orange SECURITY T-shirt stretched across his chest like a sinner at the rack, scowled over Secret-Service glasses, like Lachlan and Bartholomew were the wimps he’d been dying to take a swing at his entire life.

Behind them the ocean of treat-seeking heat-missiles roared louder, and Lachlan hauled Bartholomew around the corner to the best refuge he could think of.

“The women’s room?” Bartholomew said, confused as Lachlan barged his way in.

“Dude, they’ve got stalls!”

And they did—two rows of gleaming stainless-steel cubicles faced inward. They ignored the line of women in front of the mirrors