Chapter 19

The kid’s gaze flew from the gun in my hand—Jesus, I tucked it back into its ankle holster—up to my face and then to Quinn.

“E-everyone knows g-gay men like boys,” he stuttered. “Th-they told me down in the kitchen that all gay men j-jump pretty boys. I know I’m not pretty, but I am a boy.”

“Jesus.” I was tempted to kick something, or someone. “This place is crawling with homophobic assholes.”

Quinn shook his head and sighed. “We won’t hurt you,” he assured the kid.

“O-okay.” But it was easy to see the kid didn’t believe him.

If I growled, the kid would piss his pants, so I didn’t. I stepped aside, and he wheeled in the cart stacked with covered plates, a pitcher of orange juice, and a carafe of coffee. He made sure he gave me a wide berth.

“We didn’t order orange juice,” I said.

“Uh… Mr. Daniels’s compliments?”