Read Online Beauty Queen by Patricia Nell Warren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Nell Warren
Tags: gay, romance, novel
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like there hadn't been in a long time.
Danny Blackburn shrugged a little at his black leather motorcycle jacket, which was sticking to his broad shoulders in the heat. He rounded the corner of 20th Street and Eleventh Avenue and strode toward the doorway of the Steel Spike Bar. He was off duty, but he didn't dare be without a gun. In his pocket, hidden by the jacket, his .38 Detective Special made a bulge in its pocket-holster.
The bar's entrance did not flaunt itself—a small sign, blacked-out windows, just a wooden door. Across the street were the murky shadows and studded pillars under the West Side elevated highway where trucks were parked. Beyond lay the waterfront and the sooty old piers. The Hudson River sparkled blue in the distance, looking as if it were unpolluted.
Danny pushed at the door, and walked gratefully into the cool dark interior. After a moment, his eyes adjusted from the glare outside, and he could see the scene so familiar and dear to him.
He had chosen the Spike for a number of reasons. It was one of the few independent non-Mafia gay bars in town. Also, it was well outside his precinct. Both these factors hopefully lessened the chances of his running into a shoofly. The Spike did not encourage you to push in that door unless you were a man and wore leather and/or denim. Danny was really not sure whether he had become a cop because he liked leather, or the other way around, but he was not one to question himself too much. For Danny, the joy of living, and the risk and challenge of balancing his career on the force with his off-duty lifestyle, was reason enough in itself.
At this hour, the Spike was nearly empty. That suited Danny fine—it was a third factor that might keep him from meeting a shoofly. But Lenny was there behind the bar polishing glasses, and the jukebox was playing punk rock.
The place had a dark medieval splendor. Above the bar were masses of glittering trophies won in cross-country races by the local bike clubs, and the ceiling was hung with rich velvet-and-gilt banners encrusted with the proud names and the heraldry of leather men across the country. DETROIT DAMON AND PYTHIAS, said one, with two clenched fists or a sable. MANHATTAN ENTRE NOUS, said another, with a draped chain gules. On the wall, a small sign said, "The dress code of this bar will be strictly enforced." There was a bulletin board with posters announcing beer picnics, dances, bike crosses and personals. On the other side were wooden rails for the men to lounge against, and unsmilingly display their visual splendor to each other.
Danny slid onto the leather bar stool.
"Hiya, Danny," said Lenny.
The bartender reached for the bottle of Wild Turkey. He knew that Danny never touched anything but Wild Turkey. In fact, one of the few things that Lenny didn't know about Danny was that he was a cop. Fun was fun, but Danny was no dummy—you had to be very careful. You had to trust almost nobody.
Lenny filled the sparkling heavy shot glass. "You're a little late today," he said.
"Yeah," said Danny. "They gave me an extra night run from Jersey." He had always told Lenny he was a truck driver.
"Armando called," Lenny said. "He's going to be a few minutes late."
"That bastard," said Danny, laughing a little, but feeling a twinge of jealousy.
Lenny must have read his mind, because he wiggled his eyebrows archly and said, "He said he got into a big argument with somebody about Intro Two."
"Well, I believe that," said Danny. "Armando would argue with Saint Peter about which side he was wearing the key to Heaven on."
Just then the wooden door creaked open again and a great bear of a man walked into the bar.
He was fully six foot five, weighing 220 pounds and dressed in battered black-leather pants and black-leather jacket, and a couple of battered handcuffs. A bunch of battered keys hung from his right pocket, looking like they might fit into the trunk lock of every junkyard car in lower Manhattan. If a bear could
Danny Blackburn shrugged a little at his black leather motorcycle jacket, which was sticking to his broad shoulders in the heat. He rounded the corner of 20th Street and Eleventh Avenue and strode toward the doorway of the Steel Spike Bar. He was off duty, but he didn't dare be without a gun. In his pocket, hidden by the jacket, his .38 Detective Special made a bulge in its pocket-holster.
The bar's entrance did not flaunt itself—a small sign, blacked-out windows, just a wooden door. Across the street were the murky shadows and studded pillars under the West Side elevated highway where trucks were parked. Beyond lay the waterfront and the sooty old piers. The Hudson River sparkled blue in the distance, looking as if it were unpolluted.
Danny pushed at the door, and walked gratefully into the cool dark interior. After a moment, his eyes adjusted from the glare outside, and he could see the scene so familiar and dear to him.
He had chosen the Spike for a number of reasons. It was one of the few independent non-Mafia gay bars in town. Also, it was well outside his precinct. Both these factors hopefully lessened the chances of his running into a shoofly. The Spike did not encourage you to push in that door unless you were a man and wore leather and/or denim. Danny was really not sure whether he had become a cop because he liked leather, or the other way around, but he was not one to question himself too much. For Danny, the joy of living, and the risk and challenge of balancing his career on the force with his off-duty lifestyle, was reason enough in itself.
At this hour, the Spike was nearly empty. That suited Danny fine—it was a third factor that might keep him from meeting a shoofly. But Lenny was there behind the bar polishing glasses, and the jukebox was playing punk rock.
The place had a dark medieval splendor. Above the bar were masses of glittering trophies won in cross-country races by the local bike clubs, and the ceiling was hung with rich velvet-and-gilt banners encrusted with the proud names and the heraldry of leather men across the country. DETROIT DAMON AND PYTHIAS, said one, with two clenched fists or a sable. MANHATTAN ENTRE NOUS, said another, with a draped chain gules. On the wall, a small sign said, "The dress code of this bar will be strictly enforced." There was a bulletin board with posters announcing beer picnics, dances, bike crosses and personals. On the other side were wooden rails for the men to lounge against, and unsmilingly display their visual splendor to each other.
Danny slid onto the leather bar stool.
"Hiya, Danny," said Lenny.
The bartender reached for the bottle of Wild Turkey. He knew that Danny never touched anything but Wild Turkey. In fact, one of the few things that Lenny didn't know about Danny was that he was a cop. Fun was fun, but Danny was no dummy—you had to be very careful. You had to trust almost nobody.
Lenny filled the sparkling heavy shot glass. "You're a little late today," he said.
"Yeah," said Danny. "They gave me an extra night run from Jersey." He had always told Lenny he was a truck driver.
"Armando called," Lenny said. "He's going to be a few minutes late."
"That bastard," said Danny, laughing a little, but feeling a twinge of jealousy.
Lenny must have read his mind, because he wiggled his eyebrows archly and said, "He said he got into a big argument with somebody about Intro Two."
"Well, I believe that," said Danny. "Armando would argue with Saint Peter about which side he was wearing the key to Heaven on."
Just then the wooden door creaked open again and a great bear of a man walked into the bar.
He was fully six foot five, weighing 220 pounds and dressed in battered black-leather pants and black-leather jacket, and a couple of battered handcuffs. A bunch of battered keys hung from his right pocket, looking like they might fit into the trunk lock of every junkyard car in lower Manhattan. If a bear could
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