O.B. leaned back against the seat of the Fiat 500. He looked at the profile of the man he’d just picked up—or who’d picked him up, depending on how you looked at it.
After surfing the web back at his hotel he hadn’t had much hope of furthering his plan for clarification here in Cleveland. None of the dozen or so bars listed on the Gay Cities site had had sterling reviews, and some had been downright disgusting. But he needed closure, so he’d taken the bull by the horns and had set out.
The first bar he’d visited had been so bad he’d made an abrupt U-turn and walked out. He’d felt like he needed a shower after only being in the place for thirty seconds.
O.B. had tried two more bars and had been on the brink of giving up when on entering the fourth bar he’d literally bumped into a very ha
