We Have Till Monday

by Cara Dee

  If he didn’t know, King seemed to. He was frowning at the boy. “Camden.”

  The two locked eyes, and King’s look was pointed—a silent reminder of something that made Camden release my arm and avert his gaze to the floor.

  “I apologize, Anthony,” King said. “We don’t entertain often. And Camden was clearly raised by a pack of wolves.”

  “Was not,” Camden whispered. Next, he excused himself to go to the bathroom, and he disappeared out of the other kitchen entrance.

  Dejection was written all over his posture, and it tugged at something in me.

  King followed after sending me another look of apology, and I had a feeling he was beginning to regret having a bunch of people over for a barbecue. Because there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell they had a regular relationship dynamic. They reminded me too much of my friends, although Moshe handled the transition between family life and playtime much easier. But it was still there, like an undercurrent, obvious to those who knew.

  The psychology major in me had always been fascinated, and I didn’t think twice about taking a few steps closer to the doorway to see if I could overhear anything. Douchebag move of me, but whatever.

  It took a beat before I heard anything, long enough for me to suspect they’d locked themselves in somewhere.

  “…just wanted to meet him.”

  “I know, darlin’, but you need more recovery time to come out of your regression.” That was King, in a low, reasoning tone. And he confirmed my guesses. “This isn’t what you want to hear, but I think you should rest today.”

  “But, Daddy…”

  Cazzo, that soft whine coming from Camden was something else.

  “Hey.” King lowered his voice further. “This is on me. I should’ve told Clara today was off-limits. I knew you weren’t ready.”

  “I am—I will be—”

  “No. You will take today off. You know our rule, love. We don’t push our lifestyle onto others, do we?”

  I’d heard all I needed to hear, and I felt the most forceful urge to assure them that I didn’t mind. Because I didn’t. I returned to the kitchen island and decided to wait for one or both of them to get back, and then I’d say something.

  In one capacity or another, I’d been around alternative dynamics all my adult life, and I knew the stress it could bring to have to constantly explain yourself to people who didn’t get it. I was lucky in that my folks had accepted my sexuality fairly quickly. Pop and Nonno had been on the fence for a while, which I’d counted on. Irish-Italians smack-dab in the middle of Brooklyn, with Catholicism’s chokehold as an added spice. An instant acceptance hadn’t been on the radar. But they’d come around, thanks to Ma and Nonna. And by the time Nicky came out, they were seasoned pros.

  My family had struggled more to accept my relationship with Charles, who’d been thirty years older than me.

  This was no different. Fetishes were just an extension of our sexuality. We didn’t choose our kinks and preferences.

  When King returned, I could tell he had another apology on the tip of his tongue, and he was probably ready to scrap this day and try again later tonight. So I spoke before he could.

  “I have friends in the lifestyle. You don’t have to hide that when it’s just me.” I was still a realistic man, and Camden running around like a carefree kid tonight would likely not go over well with some of the other guests.

  I was fairly certain I detected at least an ounce or two of relief in King’s eyes, and some of the tension eased off his shoulders.

  “I appreciate your sayin’ that, Anthony, but I knew today was a bad idea.” He opened a cupboard and hauled out two bowls in different sizes. “PR people—Christ. Can’t reason with them. Clara would probably turn our life into a reality show if nobody hit the brakes.”

  I couldn’t imagine. My own life was as different from theirs as it could be.

  Hoping I wasn’t overstepping my boundaries, I joined King at the long counter along the wall and turned on the water in the sink to wash my hands.

  “Well, instead of kicking me out, how about you put me to work? I’m completely useless at cooking, but I clean up like a champ.”

  He gave me a sideways look. And a faint smile. “First of all, my mama would tan my hide if I gave my guests chores to do. Second, you should be running for the hills.”

  “A saying that actually works in this area,” I noted.

  He chuckled and pulled out several spices from another cupboard.

  Sensing he wasn’t wholly convinced yet, I went a step further. “Teach me, Chef. I didn’t come all the way to Nashville to stand by and watch.”

  That seemed to work. Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he nodded at the island behind him. “In the top drawer, you’ll find measuring cups. I guess I can teach you how to make a marinade.”

  Now we were talking.

  Chapter 4

  Difference Maker

  As the song drew toward its close, I spoke into the mic. This song and the next were connected by a segue, so we didn’t stop completely. “If ‘Difference Maker’ didn’t already clue you in, the next one probably will,” I said. “My brother and I grew up in a church—it’s where we started learning how to play instruments, and it’s where we met this amazing group of friends behind us. They’re part of our local gospel choir, but they left their shiny robes at home for this gig.” I grinned to myself when I heard the chuckles from the audience.

  Sylvia switching from piano to the organ was my cue.

  I leaned into the mic again, gripping it with both hands, and closed my eyes.

  I was ready to surrender.

  “A couple tablespoons of black pepper.” King placed the pepper in front of me, and I dutifully poured it into the measuring spoon.

  “Are you just pulling these amounts outta nowhere?” I wondered, because it felt that way.

  “Depends what you’re really askin’.” He moved away from the counter and headed for the fridge while I poured the pepper into the mixing bowl. “My head isn’t what I’d call nowhere. But if you’re wonderin’ if I have an actual recipe for marinades, the answer is not really.”

  Figured.

  He returned with two beers and a lemon, and he swiftly pulled out a cutting board and a knife. “So far, you’ve added soy, cumin, pepper, two types of oil, onion powder, garlic, a bit of mustard, and chili into the bowl. You haven’t once asked why.”

  “Uh…”

  He grinned and slid the bottle of honey my way. “Three tablespoons of honey. But why?”

  For fuck’s sake. “I’m used to giving students homework, not the other way around. If there’s a quiz coming, you gotta warn me.”

  He rumbled a warm laugh, the sexiest goddamn sound. “Come on. Think about it. Why are we adding honey?”

  Because that’s what you told me to do!

  “To make it taste good?” I guessed.

  He shook his head in amusement and split the lemon into two halves. Then he squeezed the juice from one of them into the bowl. “Why am I adding lemon?”

  “To make it taste good,” I repeated.

  He found that funny too. “This is why you have oatmeal for dinner, Anthony. You don’t take the time to get to know your ingredients.” Did he actually remember my entry in the giveaway? “Have you taken any cooking classes before?”

  “Once.” I winced internally at the memory. “My little brother still makes fun of me for it. He calls me the worst Italian in Brooklyn.”

  That earned me another charming smile. They were fucking dangerous. “What were you makin’?”

  “Alfredo,” I replied. “Mine came out lookin’ more like risotto.”

  At the very least, my kitchen failings were brightening his mood. That counted for something.

  “That’s the problem with most cooking classes.” King took over the mixing once the honey was in, and he whisked it all together with a practiced touch. “They give you a recipe to follow and entertain you w
ith the origin of the main ingredient, fun anecdotes about that one time the chef was in Tuscany and tried homemade pasta for the first time, and then they give you some wiggle room about the time it takes to bake something, because, you know, all ovens are different.” Oh, he was passionate about this. He added some more spices too. A pinch of this, a pinch of that. “What they fail to introduce many times is a flavor profile. Just like with wine, whiskey, and coffee, a recipe is about bringing together the perfect combination of flavors.” He leaned into me to throw the whisk in the sink, which gave me a whiff of his cologne. Cazzo. “A marinade can be the character in a movie with only one line, or it can be more of a significant secondary character. For barbecues in the South, you wanna taste the marinade properly.”

  I was on board for tasting.

  In the bigger bowl, he started adding chunks of meat that he cut at a pace I couldn’t keep up with. “I’m making kabobs tonight, so I want the marinade to bring out something extra in each ingredient. The chili goes well with the bell peppers. Nutmeg with mushrooms, and…” In quick succession, he finished adding the meat, poured the marinade, and, lastly, emptied half a bottle of beer into the mixture. “Beer tenderizes the meat.”

  I was a little turned on, to be honest.

  “Don’t listen to the people who say you should only add the beer an hour before grilling,” he told me. “They’re wrong.”

  Okay. I wasn’t going to listen to those people.

  “Honey for sweetness, lemon for tartness, and black pepper that binds it all together,” he finished.

  When all was said and done, he’d put plastic wrap over the bowl with the meat, he’d wiped down the counter, and he handed me the unopened beer.

  “Let’s have a seat outside.”

  “All right. Shouldn’t the meat be in the fridge?”

  He chuckled and clapped me on the back. “God no.”

  Was this the test? I should ask why. Right?

  “Why not?”

  The way his eyes warmed with approval affected me way too much. “It’s old thinking. Whether you’re baking or cooking, most ingredients are better to use at room temperature. And that includes ingredients we’re taught should always be in the fridge to prevent bacteria or everything going bad. Eggs, milk, butter, meat. You name it. One day on the counter won’t make a difference. Not in today’s day and age. Our homes are cleaner, most of us have air conditioning—hygiene is generally better.”

  I shoulda known that. Nonna always brought out the ingredients in the morning if she was baking later in the afternoon.

  I expected to be hit by a chill when we stepped out onto the patio, but I was greeted by the opposite. The afternoon sun blanketed the area in warmth, and it wasn’t very humid at all. It was perfect.

  The big dining area near the grill was probably where we’d eat tonight, but right now, I had my eyes set on the cushy loungers around the pool. There were a lot of them too, at least a dozen. Hadn’t King said they weren’t used to entertaining? How big was his sister’s family? Or maybe when you were loaded, you simply had to have multiples of something. The pool belonged in a hotel, not someone’s backyard.

  There was a pool house, to boot.

  Out on the hills, I spied horses. And a barn, far away on the horizon.

  Trees here and there, from massive heavy oaks to smaller ones that looked like they’d bear fruit in the summer. Apple, maybe.

  King slumped down in a lounger with a long sigh of contentment, and I set my beer on the side table between us before I got comfortable too.

  I was a long way from New York…

  Jesus Christ, this was nice. The faint smell of manure didn’t even bother me. The air was already ten times cleaner than I was used to. And I could quite fucking happily sleep in one of these loungers.

  “You didn’t leave New York today, did you?” King murmured.

  “Last night,” I replied. “Stopped somewhere in Virginia around midnight.”

  He hummed and took a swig of his beer. “I like New York. I lived there for a while in the eighties.”

  I’d never really reflected on my feelings about New York, other than…it was home. It was home, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. But this place, a ranch in Tennessee—I had no words. It was peaceful and stunning.

  “The eighties were good,” I mused. “Not a care in the world. I was just a punk scraping together money to upgrade my guitar.”

  King chuckled drowsily. “I’m surrounded by children. In the eighties, I was bustin’ my rear deliverin’ food to businessmen in skyscrapers and doing catering at upstate weddings.”

  It seemed like a good moment to ask. “How old are you?”

  “Fifty-four. You?”

  “Forty-three. Just turned.” I hesitated before asking again. “And Camden?”

  He cleared his throat. “He’ll be twenty-seven this year.”

  Seriously? Well, he pulled off eighteen great for that age.

  Their age difference was an incredible turn-on too. It’d been the biggest draw for Charles and me.

  “Yeah, he’s a youngling.” King was misinterpreting my silence.

  “One of my first boyfriends was thirty years older than me,” I said.

  “Oh?” That’d surprised him.

  “What can I say, I always liked mature men.” I smirked lazily, too comfortable for words, and lolled my head against the cushion to read his expression.

  “Is that a fact.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, and his gaze was unreadable. Perhaps I should take a step back and change the topic. “You mentioned you have friends in the lifestyle… It’s nothing for you, I take it?”

  Or maybe we didn’t change the subject at all.

  “Not really,” I admitted, stifling a yawn. “I’m never on just one side. There are situations in life where I prefer to follow, some where I feel more comfortable taking charge, but most of all, it comes down to chemistry with a person.” I paused and tried to come up with the quickest way to explain. This wasn’t a normal topic for two people who’d just met, so I didn’t wanna get into it too much. “I’m a pleaser through and through, but that sometimes translates into leading someone—knowing what’s best for them and pushing them toward it.”

  I’d tried it with Shawn when we first met. He’d been in between jobs and without ambitions. Then I’d discovered that he had no interest in anything other than being seen by people; he wanted all the attention he could get, and he wanted to look pretty on the arm that provided for him.

  I wasn’t sugar daddy material.

  “It’s interesting that you speak in terms of who you are,” King said pensively. “You’re not bringing up kinks or specific playtimes, but rather how a relationship of that kind would fit your personality.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure I knew exactly what he was talking about, but I ventured a guess. “I never understood fetishes as an added spice. Unless you have to, of course. My buddies, for example. They reserve their Daddy/Little Boy time for when they’re alone, because they have children together. They have a vanilla life that comes first, so to speak. But if dominance and submission is that big of a part of who you are, how can you turn it on and off and save it for the weekends?”

  King smiled ruefully. “It’s not easy.” Ah. He was talking about earlier, how Camden wasn’t able to… Something about regression. I knew the gist of it. “Camden and I aim for a lifestyle dynamic, but of course, life gets in the way sometimes. We both have full-time jobs, even though we’re lucky to be able to manage most of that from home.” He shifted in his lounger to sit on the edge. “I suppose you have to separate fun kinks from core kinks. Take a Sadist and a masochist, for instance. I don’t think anyone into pain wants it twenty-four seven. It’s something that requires specific playtimes. But the same Sadist and masochist might also be into D/s, and that’s something you can incorporate into your everyday life much easier.”

  I nodded slowly. It made sense. Separate the mind from the body. If you were
only into impact play—I believed that was the term—then it was easier to save kink for when you had the time.

  “I guess I don’t have any fun kinks, to use your term,” I answered. “Who doesn’t like experimenting and trying new things in bed?” I shrugged. “But I don’t have an urge to get beaten or beat someone. I don’t have a leather kink or…I don’t know.” I waved a hand. “I’m not into feet or latex. You know what I mean.”

  He chuckled. “I do.”

  “What about you two?” I wondered. “Aside from the lifestyle dynamic.”

  He scratched his stubbly jaw and peered over at the house. His stubble glinted silver in the sun. “Regression play would be the one,” he responded. “I dislike the word play, but it’s what we have. It’s nothing we can do every hour of the day for a very long time.”

  I didn’t know enough about it. “That’s when the submissive regresses mentally, right? Like, even in his mind, he becomes younger.”

  King inclined his head. “That’s exactly what it is. To various degrees, depending on the Little. Camden regresses pretty heavily.”

  “Does he have a set age when he regresses?” I knew Moshe had talked about that.

  He shook his head. “No, and…” He let out a small laugh. “He bounces from one side of the spectrum to the other when he’s really little. It can be a struggle to keep up. He’s good at communicating, thankfully. He’ll let me know if he wants to do ‘grown-up stuff’ or if he’s in a nonsexual mind-set.”

  Madonn’, grown-up stuff—that one hit me right in the gut. It was impossible not to picture it. Camden, that sweet, mischievous boy, telling Daddy if he wanted to do inappropriate things or not.

  My God.

  I took a long swig from my beer and forced myself to pull back. Time for a reality check. I needed to take a leak too.

  King smirked and scrubbed a hand over his mouth and jaw. “Now that’s somethin’ I didn’t think I’d discuss with one of the winners of an online contest for a cooking class.”

  I coughed around a laugh. “I was just thinking the same.” On the other hand, was all this really so weird? We were just talking. I’d been balls deep in a guy five minutes after meeting him in a bar. “I guess it depends when you think about it. The time and place—I didn’t think in a million years I’d be discussing BDSM with August King today, that’s for damn sure. But when I was young and dumb, going to a bar and introducing myself as ‘Hey, wanna get outta here?’ was kinda my style.”