Embracing His Syn (Nothing Special 2)

“I accept,” he said with complete confidence and closed the door behind him.

‘The Name’s Syn’

Syn made it through the parking lot and into his truck before pausing to take a couple of deep breaths. He’d completely lost his shit in there, even told the Captain ‘fuck you.’ What the hell was I thinking?

“A test. A goddamn test,” he yelled to no one. Syn started his beat-up Chevrolet pickup, driving quickly out of the parking lot. He needed to blow off some steam. He was still tightly wound, and his body ached all over.

Syn parked at the curb in front of the pub across the street from his apartment. He’d seen different types come and go from it over the last few days and he figured it’d be a good place to get a stiff drink, and possibly get his stiff sucked. It’d been long enough.

Syn checked his cell phone to make sure it was on vibrate. As part of the task force, he was required to be available 24/7. He tucked his wallet and badge into his back pocket and secured his weapon at the small of his back. He plucked his faded leather jacket from the back seat and got out. After scanning the parking lot one last time he walked into the small pub. A quick look around told him the crowd looked friendly enough and the back exit wasn’t blocked ... this was a place he could hang for a bit.

The long wood bar held only half-a-dozen or so customers, most of the patrons seated in small booths along the wall and a few standing tables surrounding a tiny dance floor. The music being played was classic rock – thank goodness.

Syn took a seat at the far end of the bar, allowing him to observe the entire place. Cop habit. He scanned the multitude of liquor bottles lined up on the bright wall behind the bar and tried to choose his poison for the night.

“What can I get you, Sport?” The young bartender threw a coaster in front of him and braced both hands on top of the smooth wood. Syn’s head turned back toward the masculine voice and looked into eyes as dark as his own. The guy looked to be in his late-twenties, early thirties maybe. He wore a tight black t-shirt with the bar’s logo on it and jeans that rode low on his narrow hips, barely held up by a black-studded belt. A silver chain hung across his hip and disappeared into his back pocket.

Syn didn’t respond for a few seconds and noticed the man’s dark eyebrow go up in question. The bartender brushed his fingers through his long brown hair, tucking one side behind an ear that had two silver hoops and one stud in it. That’s when Syn noticed the ink along both lean muscular arms and an intricate pattern which led up out of his t-shirt and wound around his neck. Was it a dragon’s tail or a serpent? He couldn’t tell for sure.

“Did you want a few more minutes or do you want to see a menu?”

Syn snapped out of it and cleared his throat before speaking. “Uhh. Let me get a Bud Light on draft.”

“You got it. Want a menu?”

“No thanks.”

Syn watched the man walk down to the other end of the bar to pull his beer. He just reminds you of someone. No big deal. Chill out.

He tried not to stare at the bartender. All those damn tattoos. The way his ass looked in those jeans. The way his hair swayed with his movements. It looked so thick and soft; straight on the top, its length curving into a few deep waves just past his shoulders. He was lithe, but not skinny. Toned but not overly muscular.

Syn turned and looked out at the dance floor. There were two women – obviously intoxicated – dancing seductively with each other, putting on a very entertaining show. Aerosmith blasted through the speakers about making love in an elevator. Hmm. There’s an elevator in my building. It was after ten o’clock now, time for people to consider if they were going home alone or with company ... Syn was hoping for the latter. ‘Lovin’ it up ‘til I hit the ground.’

“Here ya go, Chief.” Tattoos set his beer in front of him.

What’s with the fuckin’ nicknames?

“Name’s Syn,” he grumbled and took a long swallow of his beer.

“Is that right?”

Syn watched Tattoos flash him a sexy smile and give him a look that said ‘I like it’ but moved on to a couple a few seats over.

Syn. Now that sounds dirty.

Furi tried to concentrate on the customers that had just sat down, but he’d wanted nothing more than to linger and find out more about the intense man at the end of the bar. He was sure the guy was straight, but he was throwing some interesting looks in Furi's direction. He tried not to read too much into that. People stared at him all the time. Young people gawked at his tattoos, women wanted to play in his hair, and men wanted his tight ass … the gay ones anyway, and a few that weren’t. But he couldn’t get a read on Syn. Furi wouldn’t mind seeing what the guy’s smile looked like, surrounded by all that delicious dark stubble. Obviously Syn didn’t like the nicknames, but Furi wanted to see if he could get a rise out of Mr. Too Damn Hot.