by L E Franks
The mood was broken by the furious voice of FatBoy’s cousin.
“Why is Nick-fucking-Valentine on our couch?”
I should have known that my climax was doomed. I’d never been the hero of my own story, but I never believed that I was actually cursed, until now.
“My couch—” FatBoy growled in my ear as his cousin Cam stood over us, glowering.
FatBoy reached behind to grab a throw. Not that it would help much. His hand was stuffed down the front of my pants, still wrapped around my dick, while mine was shoved down the back of his, groping his ass.
“Like I care about that, when you’re fucking Nick-fucking-Valentine on our couch, in our house in the middle of the fucking day! The last thing I need is to listen to his bull—”
“Cam, you need to calm it down—in fact, feel free just to leave…”
“Fuck you, Davey.”
“I know you have history, but that’s no reas—”
“Right. Do you see me dragging home any of your ex-girlfriends…?”
“Never happen—”
“Are you saying you don’t have girlfriends?”
“So you’re saying Nick is an ex?”
Who knew Davis was already so territorial?
“He’s something. Not that I’d touch that again.”
There was malice in Cameron’s voice. He was such a little shit—I couldn’t believe I’d let his angelic face snare me.
“Excuse me?” FatBoy’s rumbled warning was low and filled with dire promise.
Shit.
I’d heard that tone from him before, usually followed by a quick toss, out onto the streets.
I let Cam get under my skin and walk all over me in under ten minutes—a new personal best for picking the worst fucking men, ever. This was the first chance I had at a face to face since he’d… fuck—I couldn’t even think about what he’d done. Stomping on my soul might be a little extreme, but it sure felt like it at the time.
“So that’s how it is, Davey? You on the down-low? Well Cousin, if you wanted to experiment by playing an inning on the ‘other team’, you just had to say… I woulda hooked you up. No reason to go slumming over my leavings—”
Fuck.
I was pinned under FatBoy, trying my best to become invisible. Any last vestige of my erection was long gone.
“I’m not saying anything. You stay the hell out of my—”
The hint of emotion coloring FatBoy’s tone left an acrid taste in my mouth, and I knew in my bones that I really didn’t want to examine it too closely… not and stay sane.
“Backatcha!”
“You’re only here under protest, Cameron James! You can leave any time you want.”
“You think I’d still be here if I had anywhere else to go?” Cameron hissed out the painful words, and I almost felt for the guy.
“That’s right. But while you’re here, you don’t fuck with me. And. You. Will. Treat. Nick. With. Respect.” FatBoy’s words were punctuated with a glacial chill that even made me shiver.
“Right. Nick. Of course you’d back him up before your own kin…”
I heard angry stomping rocking the hickory floorboards and then a screen door slam from somewhere at the back of the house—Cameron’s string of profanity fading away.
FatBoy peeled himself off me and left the room. I could almost hear him taking calming breaths in the kitchen as I sorted myself out. Eventually he came back, perching on the back of the couch as I sat there, socks in hand. He looked down at me, apology shining from his eyes.
“So… how many ex-girlfriends are there?”
I was kidding.
Sort of.
After that, there wasn’t much left to say, except ‘good-bye’ as FatBoy dropped me off at my truck and left me to get ready for work.
Alone.
Chapter Four
Thursday March 14
I felt his hand settled in the hollow made by my neck and shoulder as I lay on my side, his thumb stroking the base of my skull, his forefinger slowly running up and down my naked spine. I finally had him here, in my bed. The teasing play of his whorled flesh against my back morphed into seduction—the one finger becoming the whole of his hand petting down the length of my side, lingering to cup my buttock before slipping around to grip my cock. I felt a flush burn away at my skin, a shyness creeping over me so I turned seeking my lover’s mouth with mine.
“I told Davis you were just an easy trick. I guess he’ll believe me now…” Cameron’s face mocked me in my dream as he continued to jack me off.
I shot upright in bed, gasping for breath. Shame roiling through my gut, I wiped my hand on the sheet and looked at my phone—five o’clock in the morning. I’d only been asleep for an hour. There was no point in trying for more—I couldn’t risk reliving the dream. I could chalk this up to a combination of blue balls, the bizarre breakfast disaster, and running into Cam for the first time since he’d screwed me over weeks before… more than that, I didn’t want to think about.
Stumbling into the living room, I reached for the remote.
* * * * *
“Nick! Try these on for size.” I’d taken two steps into Frisson before Natalie had thrust an emerald green vest and bowler into my arms. I was tired and hungry and in no mood to deal with Natalie’s St. Patrick’s Day fever.
“I ordered everyone on staff a—”
“Blake!” I looked around, hoping he’d save me from this madness.
“Wait… there’s a bowtie here somewhere…” Natalie rummaged through a plastic bag sliding off the top of the hostess station.
“Blake!”
“I mean, you looked so hot on Valentine’s Day with the special tux—”
“Suit. Special suit… Blake!”
“Anyway, Blake said it was a good idea…” She reached for my shirt, as if she was planning on stripping me down in the entry.
“Natalie, if you come one step closer to me with those… those…”
“Nick, come on! You have to! The wait staff say they won’t wear it unless the bar servers do… and Christine said she’d only do it if you did, and Juan just ran away from me…”
I rubbed my eyes, moving the grit around, and sighed.
“Nat, no one wants to wear this clichéd crap. No one. They’re just using me as an excuse.” I almost felt sorry for her and almost… almost considered reconsidering my position—her hangdog expression nearly hooking me—until I remembered who I was dealing with… the queen of faux guilt trips.
“I’m too fuckin’ tired to play out the whole ritual with you… the one where we go back and forth between you bleating at me and whining to Blake, and me making you pretend to cry until we compromise on something small and tasteful.
“Final offer: Everyone wears white button-downs with an emerald green silk tie and their black aprons. No stupid hats, no shamrock pins. Clean. Elegant. I have a dark green silk short-sleeve. I’ll wear that. No stupid vest. I’ll make my staff wear the white shirt and tie same as the dining room. Simone can wear whatever the hell she wants—no sane man would ever tell her what to do.”
“Niiiiick,” Natalie faux-whined for effect.
“Take it or leave it.”
“Deal!” Natalie was far too smug, but I didn’t care. Well, I cared a little when I heard her singsong from behind me, “Blake! Nick said exactly what you thought he would. Go ahead and place the order with your guy…”
She turned to me. “Oh and Nick? You owe me a dollar for the swear jar…” She laughed her evil little laugh, rattling the few coins she’d already collected for the day as I stalked to the kitchen.
I hated being predictable.
* * * * *
Sal was riding herd over kitchen prep when I blew through the swinging door: piles of onions and carrots being meticulously diced by a line cook I’d never seen before, a new dishwasher busy scrubbing out battered aluminum pots that looked bigger than him, and Juan stretched out at the small table in the corner, inhaling a plate
of linguini.
He waved me over, holding up a forked up bite of pasta for me to taste—some intimacies never seemed to disappear between us. If I were pressed, I’d probably confess that Juan was one of my best friends.
The bite was a rich boar ragu—dark and meaty—one of Marco’s specialties. He usually made it just for the staff whenever one of his shady cousins dropped by a fresh carcass.
“’s good… right?” Juan’s doe-eyes looked up into mine, and I pretended not to see want still shimmering in their depths. Just friends.
“Yeah, good. Do you know if Marco has any more of that, or are you the special one today?”
“Oh. You know I’m special.” It was good to see the grin back. I ruffled his carefully arranged hair—the boy was vain—and wandered over to the line. “Hey, Sal, can you make me something to eat before shift?”
Sal turned, dark eyes glittering as they searched me up and down. He didn’t say a word, just tapped a chef’s knife next to a basket of herbs and moved away, his underling snapping to, stripping leaves from the thyme, spreading an herbal top note to the savory smells already filling the room.
Sal gave me a second once-over and strolled into the walk-in, returning with an arm full of ingredients. I recognized the makings of huevos rancheros—something of a pity meal for the early prep shift or for the bartenders lingering after a late night—I really must look like hell.
He lit the fire under a pan already filled with his chili puree. My stomach growled.
It smelled fantastic.
Settling back down across from Juan, I snuck an olive off his plate. “Anything exciting going on?” I didn’t really care, but I was trying to mend bridges and be a better friend. I’d relegated him in the past to a quick tumble in the cold room, but Juan deserved someone who’d recognize him for the treasure he was and treat him with the love and respect he deserved.
He needed a man to steal him away from the grimy life of working in a bar. Not everyone was doomed to it like I was. He was sharp.
At least his look was.
I felt him dissecting me, his gaze picking me apart.
“What?” I couldn’t stop the question, not that I was very interested in the answer.
“What’s going on with you, Nicholas?” Juan donning his abuela persona was beyond annoying. There was going to be nagging and possibly chiding and certainly a version of the “time to settle down” lecture. Only his gender was saving me from the old “biological-clock-you’re-only-getting-older-when-are-you-having-kids” speech.
I really wasn’t in the mood for it.
“Leave him alone, Juan. Can’t you see? Nick is pining.” Sal set the plate of eggs swimming in a mahogany chili bath before me. “Sorry, no more tortillas. You know those busboys…” He left me a basket of the leftover French bread served in the dining room, just the right amount of stale—perfect for sopping up the rich sauce and runny eggs. I buttered the end of a baguette and dipped it in the glistening golden yolk.
“I’m not pining!” I grumbled at his cowardly back as he retreated to his line, ignoring me.
I dug into my meal, wolfing it down, as Juan finished up his. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at me, eyes hooded and stern. “Seriously, Nick, what’s going on with you? You’ve been twitchy all week. The only one worse was when…”
“Don’t say it—don’t you say it. You can’t. It’s not yours to say…” I almost choked on my panic.
I could see the wheels turning in Juan’s head. That damn fine brain of his making mincemeat of the mummers play FatBoy and I’d been performing for months. And as I watched the final tumbler fall, his eyes flew open wide.
“Oh!”
His hand wrapped around my forearm, jostling the bite I was about to take. The egg slid down the front of my shirt, and I bit back a curse. Friends don’t curse each other… right?
“Nick—be careful, hey?”
Fuck.
“It’s not what you think.”
He was too nice to call me a liar to my face, but I knew he wanted to.
“It is entirely what I think. And I wish you both well… but…” Juan looked sad. Old regret was painted all over his face, and the guilt sloshed in my gut, tossing the huevos around for good measure.
“I’m not exactly in the closet, you know. Just my mama, but otherwise…” His shrug was liquid. “I like him, don’t get me wrong… But loving a man still hiding everything from the world? You just don’t seem… It’s not the best fit for you, is it?”
He honestly wanted me to reassure him that I’d be okay.
“Dunno, Juan… I think it might be too late to let common sense and reason make the decision for me, you know?”
Reaching across the table with his pristine napkin, he wiped away a smudge of ranchero sauce from the corner of my mouth before leaning in, kissing me with a quick press of his lips.
“I do have your back if you ever need me to… I don’t know…” Juan trailed off, thoughtful. He ran his fingers through blue-black bangs, pushing them away from his face before scrunching up his nose, like he’d suddenly smelled something off. “He’s kinda big, isn’t he?”
I laughed with him. The visual of Juan defending my honor and challenging FatBoy was hilarious—like a teacup poodle running off Godzilla. Not that I wouldn’t put money on him.
“You’d end up bug splat, but he wouldn’t walk away unscathed, you know? You’re tough. And I imagine you fight dirty, don’t you?”
“You imagine correctly.” I loved it when he gave me that wide, bright smile. It was probably what drew me to him to begin with. Juan wasn’t my normal type—too slender and youthful, but he was… special and I was drawn to him from the first moment we met, flirting over a case of Stoli.
He was filled with sunshine, and he let all that joy spill out of him, never trying to hold it back… sharing it all with the world. He was a great kid, and I was such a bastard for causing him even a moment of pain.
The only drawback to Juan was he always could read my mind. He left me with one thought. “Don’t worry about it, Nick. I knew what I was doing… no regrets.”
And didn’t that just make me feel better?
Not. At. All.
* * * * *
The bar was its usual post-lunchscape with a few businessmen moving from the dining room to more comfortable chairs, lounging around the flickering fireplace. It was still chilly here, spring had rolled out the tulips and fresh greens in the market, but there was still a nip in the air, which was good for business.
Ian, our new bartender, was polishing glasses and filling the occasional order, while Christine was probably in the back napping before her split shift; I might have ‘inadvertently’ scheduled her for back-to-back late closing/early opening followed by a split shift at the end. I was still pissed about Monday’s stunt that had already cost me more than I could bear to contemplate.
I nodded to Ian as I wound my way behind the bar to make myself a coffee.
“How’s it going today? Liking the job yet?”
Ian was a fresh twenty-one. He’d taken a six-week bartending class and was hoping that tips would make up the difference between paying rent and eating. Even if it didn’t, working for a restaurant was always good for that. Marco never let anyone go hungry, and Blake never batted an eye if Marco made a little extra every week. The staff ate like kings and queens, off some of his leftovers.
“Oh, man. This is the best job. Christine has been teaching me all these drink recipes for the local favorites… like Golden Cadillacs and Sazeracs—”
It must have been written on my face, I’d tried not to smile, but I’ve never been the master of the bluff.
“So… not local favorites?” Ian had hazel eyes to go with his sandy curls. Not particularly memorable as far as exotic coloring went, but there was something about his eyes that drew you in… maybe a sparkle, like the fire found deep inside an opal that promised there was more to him.
When he connected the dots, I saw th
e barest flicker that told me Christine was toast. Maybe not today, but someday Ian was going to pay her back. As much as I’d love to see her twisting on his knife, Christine was my second and a damn good bartender, and she hadn’t really harmed him… just toyed with him a little. I thought it’d be in everyone’s interest to nip the vendetta in the bud and settle the score between them in a mature way.
Mature.
I could hear FatBoy laughing in my head.
“She was just pranking you a little to welcome you on board. But, you know…” An idea slowly formed and I gave him a grin.
“Why don’t you make up the menu board—today’s happy hour specials: Golden Cadillacs and Sazeracs $3.50. Make it sound really delicious—take the early half of the shift off the floor doing inventory for me in the back if you want.”
“She’ll hate me, boss.” Ian grinned back, which was—wow, dimples, but still no FatBoy.
“Nah, all’s fair. The only thing… don’t let her see that board until just before it’s time… and you’re gonna have to teach me the Sazerac… I have no clue what that is.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Ian went back to work, and I couldn’t help smiling at him.
* * * * *
I wasn’t smiling at Blake, however, by the time I’d grabbed my coffee and deposited a triple espresso on the desk in front of him. No word from FatBoy. I kicked the door to his office closed and slumped down onto a fancy club chair.
“Trouble in paradise?” he asked, looking up before reaching for his cup.
“What would you know about that?” I complained. I sounded a little bitter, even to my ears.
Blake just lifted a brow and kept sipping. I guessed he had a point, he had two women to keep happy.
We sat like that for a while. Drinking our coffees in relative silence.