by Pat Henshaw
When I’d gotten bored the previous winter on the slopes and considered setting up a downtown restaurant, Stone had told me about an abandoned brick warehouse on Main Street, down from where his Stonewall Saloon had stood for over a century. As far as he could remember, no one had ever used the space, and it’d had a rusted For Sale sign in the window forever.
When I toured it with architect Fredi Zimmer, he told me it had possibilities and I should consider it. To me, it looked like shit. The accumulation of fucking spider webs and drug paraphernalia made me cringe. Who’d want to eat in this crap hole? According to Fredi, though, it was big enough for a good-sized kitchen, but small enough the dining room could feel cozy and exclusive. Cozy, yeah. Exclusive? My ass. Still, I trusted Fredi’s opinion.
After I bought the building, Fredi did some digging into its past and found out the place had been the first territorial jail for the county. The idea of turning a fucking jail into a place where everyone wanted to come eat made me smile.
“Okay, so what have you got for me?” I asked David as I turned around and straightened my shoulders. There’d be time enough to give up later. For now I’d listen to what David had to say.
He met me halfway across the space, his arms flung wide.
“It’s a jail! It’s a real Old West jail.” His smile reached Richter proportions.
“Uh, well, actually, it’s a sheriff’s office,” I answered. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
David opened his satchel and took out a huge folder. Abe and his crew had a table set up in the back of the room with four folding chairs around it. The sunlight wasn’t very bright back there even though glass shards sparkled on the table, chairs, and floor around them. David marched back to the table and gestured to me and Fredi.
“Help me move this near the front windows so you can see.” His voice bubbled with an excitement I hadn’t heard from him in years.
After we wiped off the table and chairs and sat down, he opened the folder and spread out the black and white photos.
“Okay. I’ve been doing some research, and I think you should go with the concept of an old-fashioned Western jail with iron bars separating the dining area and the foyer, and on the windows. Keep the uncovered brick walls and a plank floor. These are historic photos of lawmen who once worked in the area. I think we should enlarge them and hang them around with the guys’ bios.”
I looked at the scraggly faces of the men who’d fought to settle the area and keep it peaceful. I thought of the county’s current sheriff, a gay man who’d been voted into office amid a fuckton of animosity. I’d heard that nearly everyone in the queer community had voted in the election, pissing off all the complacent stay-at-home contingent. I wondered how many of these men in the photos with determined faces and grim looks had been gay and closeted. I couldn’t remember hearing of any prominent gay men in the county’s past, but then I hadn’t asked if there were any, either. They certainly hadn’t been mentioned in our history classes in school.
“I found this huge metal badge that probably hung over the front door of some jail or sheriff’s office or something during the late 1800s.” David flipped to another black and white shot. The badge was gigantic.
“How big is it?” Fredi asked.
“Maybe four feet tall. Maybe a little bigger.” David shrugged. “Anyway, I thought it would look good either hanging outside with the restaurant name on it or embedded in the entryway floor. What do you think?”
“Okay. Sounds like a plan. Now all I need is a name for this place.” I was impressed. He’d come up with something I could live with.
“Uh, yeah. I was thinking it could be the Silver Star.” His eyes shone uneasily, as if he thought I might be about to stomp all over his ideas.
“Yeah. Okay.” I was already planning the menu. Something mixing downhome Western fare—grilled meat, beans, potato salad, real cowboy fare—with California cuisine. Asparagus comfit, artichoke soup, dried mixed-berry rice. Yeah, it could work.
When I surfaced from thoughts of food, Fredi and David were debating the particulars of the plan. Waitstaff dressed in striped shirts with arm garters and bow ties. Heavy linens and dinnerware in plain designs, maybe even pottery.
As I thought about it, I remembered how close I’d skated with going to jail when I was a teen. I had to laugh that I now owned one. In fact, I’d be cooking in one. Fucking kidding me? Life sure does find a way to surprise the shit out of me sometimes.
“Okay, you’re on,” I told David. “Get with Abe and find out what he thinks about the badge and the window bars. The bars would help prevent vandalism as well as be historic.”
While David was stacking his photos and Fredi was chattering away about tables and chairs, I decided it was time to go shopping for the front of the house, the kitchen, and my apartment. The lull provided by the snowstorm was over, and it was time to get busy. I had diners to feed.
WE BROKE for lunch and agreed to meet at Monique’s Bakery. I called LJ to join us there. We needed to talk about a road trip to the kitchen supply house.
As we entered, a bunch of heads turned our way, which led to recognition, which led to an autograph parade, the compliments, the promise to eat at the downtown restaurant, and Monique’s son coming out of the kitchen to shake my hand. I’d known Eugene for years, even went to high school with him. His mother was a saint, putting up with a bunch of us when we invaded her kitchen and made a mess.
It took about a half an hour to get all the celebrity crap out of the way and us settled in a table back in a corner, me out of the line of fire. By this time, David was grinning at me and nudging me with his shoulder like he used to do in the Bay Area when we first moved there. His nearness and touch could always calm me down when I got upset and transformed into the Thug Chef who couldn’t be civil when the pressure got too tight.
“Hey, thanks,” I muttered.
“What?” He sounded completely shocked.
“Thanks for, you know, being so calm. It always helped before, and it still does.”
He stared at me for a long couple of moments. “Do you know that’s the first time you’ve ever thanked me.”
“Naw.” I shook my head. He was wrong. I thanked him all the time when we were together. Hadn’t I?
“No, you didn’t.” He looked down at his hand and my free hand over his. “No. Never. I think that’s why I started using at the beginning. I could feel the anger and frustration boiling up in you, and it upset me because I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I’d panic. Then you’d walk away from me. I’d feel so impotent I couldn’t think. The drugs smoothed it out. Helped.”
“Oh shit,” I whispered. “I knew it was all my fault.”
“No. No. I should have been able to handle it. To be able to understand. But I….” He sighed. “I just couldn’t. Guess I was too young or something.” He shook his head suddenly and looked up. “This isn’t the time or place. We have to order.”
He was right. Not here. Not in front of LJ. We needed to be alone to hammer this out.
I let Eugene fix us food and then complimented him after I ate whatever it was. David’s words haunted me through the meal. We did need to talk.
THE NEXT day was the first of two big shopping trips and the first I was excited about. Hot damn. I planned to wallow in the Foothills Kitchen Supply Warehouse. Nothing like a huge room of cooking equipment to put bliss on my face.
When Fredi, Abe, and I first talked, I’d ordered all the big appliances, the stove, fridges, freezers, and everything else that needed to be built in or needed extra space. So the shopping spree was for pots, pans, utensils, and other kitchen paraphernalia. I was leaving the Bistro stuff up there because I fully intended to go back in the late spring and open for the summer as usual.
LJ and I took Xavier along as a learning experience, something Les stressed when he gave me the mentor orientation. School was still out thanks to a fluke busted water main that occurred during the snowstorm. The halls had
been flooded, so now that the thaw had set in, the custodians and repair people were working to get the place back in working order. While the first few days out of school were exciting, Xavier told us he was now bored and thought the trip would be exciting.
A few hours later, after LJ and I’d ticked everything off the list, Xavier pronounced it the most boringest time he’d ever spent alive. LJ and I looked at each other and started laughing so hard we couldn’t respond to Xavier’s “What’s so funny?”
Finally, LJ gasped, “What’s the most boringest time you spent dead?” And we were off laughing again as Xavier sulked.
He was walking ahead of us, ignoring the tail end of our laughter. Suddenly he brightened and turned to me.
“Hey, chef! You know what I need? I need a knife of my own.” He had turned away and was now fondling a display of Henckels.
LJ and I exchanged a glance.
“Do you know how sharp you have to keep those things to work in my kitchen?” I asked.
He shook his head, looking between me and LJ.
“Razor sharp, able to cut easily through bone.” His eyes grew large as I continued. “You know what happens if you drop one or accidentally cut too close to one of your fingers?”
LJ studied Xavier mournfully. “You just hope the emergency room can sew the finger back on okay. Lot of chefs only have three or four fingers on one hand.”
Xavier pulled his fingers away from the knives.
“Lot of guys who wanna be chefs get maimed for life just learning.” LJ’s tone was respectfully sad. “Hate to see that happen to you.”
“Yeah. Look at my hands, at LJ’s.” We held out our hands with their scars and scorch marks. “But if you want a set of your own, I’ll think about it.”
Xavier stood still, staring at me. “Is that how you got…?” He gestured toward the scar on my face.
The past swooped down over me, and I wobbled.
“Naw. That’s a whole ’nother story,” I muttered, banishing my memories. The story was one only between me and David.
After another glance at our hands and my face, then the knives, Xavier turned away. LJ and I all but high-fived in relief. I had no damned clue how I would ever explain to Les that I’d been talked into buying Xavier a knife set.
THE NEXT day the trip to the furniture store was completely different.
Fredi, David, and I met at the Star. Fredi hustled up to David and was filling him in on our day’s plans as I looked at my old lover. My dick was more than ready to make the transition to the next level. My head was the stumbling block. I fucking didn’t want to get hurt again. Was that so wrong?
As he seemed to listen to Fredi, David gave me what looked like the once-over. His gaze traveled down my body, stopping at my chest, then my groin. A little smile played on his lips, and his eyes were brighter when they met mine after the return trip. I knew my bulge was noticeable, and so was his.
Given the hint, I studied his body. He wasn’t sinking-rat skinny, and he didn’t stand like he was waiting for the next blow. He stood straight and tall, throwing back wide shoulders topping a trim torso. His blue eyes were so clear, so promising. It was as if Pretty Boy had suddenly come into focus.
We were still doing the eye-fuck tango when Fredi hustled us out to my truck.
The outlet was located in the outskirts of Sacramento, an hour or so away on dry roads. God knew how long it’d take with the slush and mud. During the drive, Fredi talked on and on about the different styles of tables and chairs I should consider. David and I were silent. What I had to say to David wasn’t for public consumption, and definitely not for Fredi’s ears. While I liked and respected the guy and he often made me laugh, I didn’t know him well enough for us to be intimate friends. I didn’t need him up in my personal business, especially since I knew he’d offer advice. I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone’s advice except Stone’s.
Shopping for tables and chairs was fucking boring, if you asked me. But as the owner of the Silver Star, I was expected to give my okay for whatever Fredi and David chose. They also expected me to be enthusiastic. When I wasn’t, they wondered what was wrong with me.
“Wrong?” The place was quiet as a frigging church, so I kept my voice to a loud whisper. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Then the saleswoman squealed like a pig spying food.
“Oh. My. God! Oh. My. God! You’re the Thug Chef!”
She attacked me, her arms spread out, and I was afraid we’d collide. Fredi stood looking stunned. David nudged me with his shoulder. He had a huge smile and sparkling eyes. He winked at me.
She stopped a few inches away from us and twirled to Fredi.
“You didn’t tell me the client was the Thug Chef,” she yelped at him.
He blinked at her a couple of times. “Julie, love, calm down. Adam, this is Julie. She’s new. Taking over for Alicia. You know, the one who helped with the Bistro.” Fredi was eyeing Julie like she was about to bite.
A silence filtered over us, then Julie’s smile rivaled David’s.
“Oh, man! I’ve loved your cooking show, like, forever.” Fortunately, she stepped back, maybe because I was frowning at her. She wasn’t too daunted since she grinned up at me. “So I gotta ask. What do you think makes your wheat bread taste more wheaty than other people’s?”
“Mace. And cardamom.” I answered her foodie question by rote.
She thrust her netbook toward me. “Can I have your autograph?”
“Uh, look. I don’t sign blank order forms.” I stared down at the netbook screen and not in her eyes, which were raping my face.
Fredi put his hand on the netbook and pushed it away from me.
“Julie, I swear! I’m calling Mavis and getting her to take our order if you don’t behave.”
She threw him a scathing look, and he hustled her off to the side, where they had a sharp whispered conference.
“This still happens to you.” David sounded sad and a little apologetic.
I nodded. This was pretty much why I mostly stayed home and didn’t go to Tahoe or to downtown Stone Acres. It took only one person recognizing me for a hive to form, fans and critics buzzing all around me. I hated it. I fucking itched for days afterward.
Once Fredi got Julie corralled, the shopping part went quickly. Fredi’d already done preliminary sorting and had a group of tables and chairs pulled off to the side for me and David to look at. I agreed the distressed tables and the plain wooden chairs would be best in the old jail.
While Julie and Fredi quibbled about the price, I spaced out, going over possible menus and trying to decide what I was going to keep from what I served at the Bistro to go with an entirely new menu. I did like the Old West cowboys meet modern California….
“You’re a million miles away.” David was now standing in front of me. I almost walked into him. “Where’s your head?”
“We done here?” I asked Fredi.
David and Fredi exchanged a long look.
“Sure. I guess.” Fredi leaned on one foot with a hand on his hip. “Is there something else you’d like to look at?”
“Yeah. Help me find stuff for my apartment.”
You would have thought I’d told him to go wild. Suddenly we were off to the couches and chairs section where he had me sit on almost everything he saw. If it was a couch, he had me sit, stretch out, and then had David sit on it with me.
I’d spent so much mental time resisting David that I was damned tired of doing it. Fuck it. Feeling his heat next to me sent my dick into overdrive. Dammit. I didn’t just want to buy a couch. I wanted a warm human male, someone shaped exactly like David, to rest his head in my lap when I was there.
Picking out a bed was even more torture. Fredi wanted me to lie down on every California king. I mean, what the hell was memory foam, anyway? What was it remembering? And how could it come in soft or hard? Was a hard memory better than a soft memory? I could tell the mattresses a thing or two about memories, and my memories had nothing to do with f
oam and a lot to do with different beds and one lover.
Fredi even lay down next to me and then had David lie down too. With Fredi I felt fuck no. With David? Electrocharged. Fucking not fair. Instead of memory foam, I had memory body. And now it was a hard memory body.
“Hey, you two! Move around. How can you tell if you like it if you lay there like statues?” Fredi barked at us.
I couldn’t look at David. I fucking couldn’t. I did a little shimmy. Nice firm mattress. Nice firm boner I was desperately trying to hide. The only thing sorta saving me was David’s obvious boner. Fuck.
Yeah, well, fuck wasn’t on the menu. Not here at any rate.
I’d had enough.
“This is the one.” I put my hands in my jeans pockets after pulling down my sweater.
Yup, this was the one, all right.
8
WE’D JUST gotten back to the Silver Star and were going over various table layouts, considering the new furniture. We were standing in the middle of the dining area when I looked up to see Chad Thompson, one of Tommy Thompson’s distant relatives, peering through the front door window at us. He was a couple of years younger than the rest of us in school, but I remembered him vividly as the same kind of homophobic troublemaker as Tommy. David and I looked at each other. Now what?
“Hey, Adam, long time no see!” Chad greeted me. Grudgingly I shook his hand and grunted. It had been a long time.
After a quick handshake and an awkward stand-off, he looked around the Star, a smirk firmly etched on his face. I remembered the smirk and knew if he’d changed at all, it was for the worse.
“Yeah, what can I do for you?”