by Layla Reyne
In and out of another bar with no sign of him, Clancy texted Greg an update. They’d traded numbers outside Port of Call before heading in opposite directions around the French Quarter, promising text updates. A reply came right back. No sign of Miller on Greg’s side of the Quarter either.
“Fuck.” On to the next bar, then.
Clancy pocketed his phone and jogged across the street to one that looked like the Alamo from the outside. He waited in line to get in, and mercifully, once he reached the front, the bouncer didn’t haggle with him. Inside, the space was long and narrow—a blues band playing on the stage at the far end, a big open area in front of the stage packed with dancers, and in the back, where Clancy had walked in, a bar and a smattering of high-top pub tables. Clancy scanned the stage and crowd. No sign of Miller or his purple jacket. He turned his attention to the bar next, and finally he could breathe, unencumbered. At the far end, a familiar form sat hunched over a cocktail glass. Miller’s coat was gone, his tattoos on display, his hair was run through, the curls coming loose, and his eyes were closed, lashes fluttering as he sipped his drink and swayed to the music.
Clancy shot Greg a text, letting him know he’d found Miller and that he’d text again when they were safely back at the hotel. He sensed Miller didn’t need or want another confrontation with his friend tonight; he certainly hadn’t wanted the first one at all. And if peace was what Miller needed, Clancy would try to give it to him. He wove his way through the crowd toward Miller’s end of the bar and claimed the stool that opened up next to him.
The bartender picked up the previous patron’s tip and asked, “What’ll it be?”
“Whatever he’s having.”
Miller’s eyes popped open, and he swung his face toward Clancy. “What are you—”
Clancy cut him off, not giving Miller the chance to tell him to leave. “What did I just order?” Miller’s cocktail tonight was reddish-brown; not his usual Campari-red Negroni.
“Vieux Carré.”
Clancy scrunched his nose in a look that had drawn a laugh from Miller before. “English that up for me.”
He didn’t get a laugh, but Miller did release a big breath, easing some of the tension in the air around them. Miller propped an elbow on the bar and began ticking off ingredients on his fingers. “Rye whiskey, cognac, sweet vermouth, Bénédictine, and both bitters.”
“So, pure alcohol?”
The bartender set the cocktail down in front of him. “Pretty much.”
Clancy sniffed and reared back, nostrils stinging. He was supposed to pour that down his gullet? At least his reluctance drew the laugh out of Miller he’d been after. Clancy bumped his shoulder. “Good to hear that.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Why this drink?” Clancy asked, determined to hold on to the easier mood, to hold on to Miller here with him. “From what I’ve seen, you’re a Negroni guy. Why the changeup?”
Miller held his gaze, probably assessing if there was an ulterior motive in Clancy’s question. Clancy didn’t look away.
After a moment, Miller broke the stare down and sipped his drink. Clancy was afraid he’d lost him, but then Miller lowered his glass and swirled its contents. “The French translation is ‘French Quarter.’ It was created here in New Orleans, and it’s as much New Orleans in a glass as a Hurricane, maybe more so. It’s a melting pot of flavors—the spiciness of the rye, the sweetness of the vermouth, the herbal notes of the Bénédictine, the fermented fruits of the cognac, and the bite of the bitters. Like all good New Orleans creations, it’s a mix of things, a flavor meld that’s rich and decadent, and if you can find it barrel-aged, all the better.”
Clancy took a cautious swallow, digging into the complexity of the drink and detecting all the flavors Miller mentioned. “You can’t order these at home?”
“You can, but you order it here—” he rapped the bar with his knuckles “—in New Orleans, because you can always get it made with Sazerac. The distillery releases limited barrels out of state. Most bars where we are just use whatever rye whiskey they have in the well, unless you specifically ask for Sazerac.”
Clancy held his glass out for a clink, then took another sip, the meld of flavors in the drink growing on him. “And Port of Call?” Clancy raised his voice to be heard over the band’s increasing volume. “We didn’t get to have our usual conversation. I know we’re yelling, but the night feels incomplete without it.”
Miller scooted his stool closer. “It’s the way they make the burger. It used to be a steak place, but they got famous for grinding the meat—steak quality—and making burgers out of it. And they don’t smash the patty or gussy it up much. Grilled mushrooms and freshly shredded sharp cheddar. Add in the loaded baked potato as a side, as opposed to the usual fries, and it’s original, simple, and delicious. They don’t try to do too much.”
“Do a few things really well.”
“Exactly, like these guys.” Miller jutted a thumb toward the stage. “Four instruments, classic R & B, and pretty damn good, albeit loud.”
“What are you really good at?” Clancy asked. “In the kitchen.”
Miller’s laugh was bitter, stealing the heat Clancy was enjoying, from the cocktail and Miller’s nearness. “I don’t even know.” Miller threw back the rest of his drink in one go. “If you asked me that question a year ago, I would’ve known the answer, or thought I had. Now...”
Clancy shifted closer. “Surely some things haven’t changed. Name one thing, then I’ll tell you one.”
Miller contemplated his giant ice cube. “Fairly certain I can still out-sauce anyone in the kitchen.”
“Greg sure thought so.”
Miller’s frame tensed, and Clancy immediately regretted the mention. Before he could apologize, Miller asked, “And you? I’m sure it’s some medical marvel.”
Sure, those were up there, no doubt. Well, not marvel level yet, but he was really good at what he did. But talk of medicine, of cancer especially, wouldn’t salvage this night. No, Clancy had something else in mind. Something that would work out the awkward tension around them and make them both forget the gray clouds, at least for a little while. Something he’d become very good at living in WeHo since undergrad. While he’d steered clear of relationships, Clancy hadn’t been a monk. There was always at least one guy in the crowd who loved a twink who could shake his ass. And Clancy was fairly certain he knew who that guy was tonight.
* * *
Clancy downed the rest of his drink, a mischievous glint in his eyes that Miller hadn’t seen there before. He liked it way too much. Combined with the flush working its way up Clancy’s long, slender neck, and the smirk hitching up one corner of his mouth, the whole package was sexy as hell. He slid off his stool toward Miller, putting himself right between Miller’s spread knees. Miller could feel the heat radiating off him.
“I’ll show you,” Clancy whispered hotly before slipping out of Miller’s reach.
“Doc,” Miller called after him, mortified that his voice sounded so strangled. “Where are you going?”
“To do what I’m really good at.” He threw a devilish grin over his shoulder and shook his ass.
Fuck me.
The torture worsened as Clancy hit the dance floor. If Miller was Clancy’s type, Clancy was his. No question. The attraction that had sparked at first sight, that had simmered all week long, was swiftly heating to a boil. Miller couldn’t tear his gaze away from the long lithe limbs, tight tone body, and firm round ass, moving perfectly in time with the music. LA boy had moves, like he felt the music in his soul. Color continued to rise on Clancy’s cheeks, the tip ends of his hair dampened with sweat, and through three songs, his eyes didn’t stray from Miller’s. The black-rimmed glasses he repeatedly had to adjust put just enough nerd on the picture to make Clancy as endearing as he was sexy.
Miller wasn’t the only person noti
cing. Clancy attracted attention from multiple directions, including from a man in a red velour jacket and matching Santa hat. An inch or so shorter than Miller, he had wide shoulders, a barrel chest, and thighs that strained the seams of his jeans. Big and built, Clancy’s type, and moving closer to dance with him, instead of around him.
Seventies Santa laid a hand on Clancy’s hip, and the connection between Miller and Clancy snapped, the latter’s attention drawn to the interloper. Miller was off his stool the next instant. If he thought too hard on it, he’d reverse course and walk out the door instead of onto the dance floor. Let Clancy pursue things with the attractive man who was clearly interested in him. Who wouldn’t be? And why shouldn’t it be Santa? It sure as hell shouldn’t be Miller, who had a death sentence hanging over his head.
He had no business making any sort of claim on Clancy. No business getting more involved with him, even if only for the week they had left together. No business shoving his body between Santa’s and Clancy’s, knocking Santa’s hands off him, and grasping Clancy’s hips. No business, when Clancy grinned and stepped forward, coasting his hands over Clancy’s hips and splaying his fingers across the curve of that perfect ass.
Santa ceased to exist, Clancy’s attention totally on him.
“Dancing,” Miller shouted over the music. “Wouldn’t have figured.”
Clancy leaned forward, speaking right into Miller’s ear. “Did you miss the part where I like dick and live in WeHo?”
Laughter bubbled out of Miller, and Clancy’s goofy smile made him impossibly sexier. That body, those moves, and still the irrepressible brightness. Miller stepped closer, swiping back Clancy’s damp hair and letting his fingers drift slowly through it. “Fuck, you’re stunning.”
Smile wide, Clancy draped his arms over Miller’s shoulders and brought their bodies into brushing contact. “Dance with me, Chef.”
Miller didn’t even care about the slip, not when it was uttered in that low, sexy voice, seducing him into movement.
Song after song, they swayed and writhed in sync, their bodies like magnets inching closer and closer. Miller couldn’t say how many songs it was before his forehead fell against Clancy’s and the last bit of distance between their bodies vanished. The instinct was there to close the distance between their mouths too, but almost as strong was the profound relief rushing through Miller. He’d needed this release, needed to let go and forget about everything except moving his body in time with the gorgeous man in his arms. Clancy had known that, had recognized it while they’d sat at the bar, and had made it happen. He’d been exactly what and who Miller needed tonight.
“Thank you,” Miller whispered.
“You’re welcome.” Clancy’s warm breath tickled his lips. “But this is ninety-five percent selfish on my part.”
“It’s one hundred percent selfish on mine.”
Clancy looked up with dilated eyes, only a thin ring of dark green visible. He licked his lips, and if he hadn’t spoken, Miller would have claimed them. “I’m more than okay with that.”
Unhooking his arms from behind Miller’s neck, Clancy ran his hands over Miller’s shoulders and down his arms, tracing the ink. They traveled back up, then down his chest, fingers curling in Miller’s T-shirt. Clancy dragged them backward until his back hit the wall. Miller tried to slam on the brakes, not wanting to crush Clancy, not wanting to eat him alive in public, but Clancy kept hauling him forward. Cheek to cheek, chest to chest, Clancy slid a knee between Miller’s legs and pressed his thigh up against Miller’s straining cock. Clancy canted his hips, revealing his own need, and Miller couldn’t stop himself from rocking forward. He shoved a hand between the wall and Clancy’s ass and grabbed a handful of cheek, holding Clancy and his dick tight to him, chasing after this feeling. Heat, relief, life, desire, all driving him higher. He snuck his other hand under the hem of Clancy’s shirt, dragging his fingertips through the sweat at the small of his back. A shiver raced through Clancy, and Miller thrust his hips again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this turned on, had felt so wanted while also wanting so much.
Clancy nipped his earlobe. “Be selfish a little longer.” He dragged his lips along the line of Miller’s beard and over his cheek, angling toward his mouth.
Miller wanted to taste him, more than he’d ever wanted to taste anything. Wanted to taste the hot, flushed skin behind Clancy’s ear, the sweat from his back that slicked Miller’s fingers, and the softly curving lips that had tempted Miller every time they’d closed around a damn fork. He wanted to know how the bitter, spicy sweetness of the Vieux Carré mixed with Clancy’s own unique flavor.
But then Clancy skirted a hand up, over the knot in Miller’s throat, and reality came crashing back down. No bigger than an acorn, the tumor might as well have been a fucking boulder, crushing him under its weight. Miller couldn’t have a taste of Clancy. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to walk away from this—from him—at the end of next week. It’d be like the truffles; one taste and he’d be addicted for life. The life Clancy promised and Miller couldn’t have.
Miller ripped himself out of Clancy’s arms. “I’m going back to the hotel,” he said, avoiding those too expressive eyes and what would no doubt be a hurricane of lust-filled confusion. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Chapter Seven
Clancy was left in the dust again, a heaving, turned-on mess, and after the roller coaster of a day already, he didn’t have it in him to search the French Quarter’s streets again for Miller. He’d said he was going back to the hotel. Clancy would check there first. Sure enough, when Clancy made it back to their suite, Miller’s bedroom door was closed and a shadow moved in the light visible under the door. A light that went out a moment later.
Texting Greg as he retreated to his own room, Clancy closed the door and fell back against it, pocketing his phone and wiping a hand down his face. A million thoughts, regrets, and questions raced through his head. None of which he could do anything about with Miller shutting him out. He could go over there, knock on his door until he answered, and demand some answers, but Clancy hadn’t done that earlier at the club and he wouldn’t do that now. Miller had enough to deal with. Clancy had gone too far already, he’d overstepped, and he couldn’t blame the cocktail either. After that huge burger and baked potato, the alcohol hadn’t even made him tipsy. All he’d aimed to do was make Miller feel better, make him forget, and he had, for a few minutes.
Until his fingers had run over the unmistakable lump on his neck.
Confirming Clancy’s diagnosis.
Cancer.
And Miller was bound and determined not to talk about it.
His determination didn’t waver the next morning either. Clancy woke to coffee and beignets, but no Miller. He’d left a note saying he’d gone to breakfast with Greg. Clancy hoped Miller would talk to his friend and tell him the truth. Even if he didn’t, hopefully they’d make peace.
Not in the cards, judging by Miller’s sour mood when he returned, minutes before they were scheduled to catch their car to the airport. Both rides, on land and in air, were silent affairs. Miller kept his sunglasses on and his earphones in whenever they were alone, as if they were strangers, farther from friends than when they’d begun the tour. And since Miller couldn’t exactly get away from him, given said tour, Clancy respected his need for privacy. It was none of Clancy’s business, even if he wanted it to be. As a doctor. As a friend. As—
No. Clancy shook off the thoughts, leaving them in New Orleans. Not carrying them with him as they deplaned in Boston, not with him as they diverted to a rental car counter instead of a town car, not with him as they drove out of Logan. And not with him over the next ninety minutes as they drove away from Boston, including through three massive roundabouts during which Clancy closed his eyes and tried not to lose his collective shit. Clearly he carried the thoughts with him. What else was he supposed to
think about during those harrowing minutes in the circles of doom?
By the time they were on the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard, all of Clancy’s thoughts and words were fighting to get out. He watched through the windshield as Miller stood by the ferry’s rail, a lone figure seemingly oblivious to the blowing snow flurries as he stared straight ahead.
To the island where they would be stuck together for the weekend.
Fuck. Clancy had to say something or else this was going to be the most awkward Christmas Eve weekend ever.
He tossed his empty coffee cup aside, grabbed his scarf from the back seat, wrapped it around his neck, zipped up his hoodie, and buttoned his coat over everything. Bundled, as well as an LA boy could be, he shoved open the car door, took one step out, and had to cling to the door to avoid wiping out. Steadying himself, he carefully made his way to the rail where Miller stood. And just as carefully, he approached the conversation, starting with something easy. “Thank you for the coffee and beignets this morning.”
“I promised you,” Miller answered flatly, not giving him a glance.
Careful and easy took a flying leap off the side of the boat. “Do you still want to be here?” The next second, Clancy registered how that question could be taken, beyond just this trip, and he wanted to jump over the rail himself. “On this trip,” he clarified. “Because if you’re just here because you promised, we can call it off. You can keep the money—”
“It’s not about the money.”
“Fine, but Miller...” He leaned a hip and hand against the rail, trying to get Miller to look his way, to no avail. “If this trip is making you miserable, if you don’t want to be around me, if you—”
Miller’s hand over his silenced the rest of Clancy’s words. “I want to continue, and I don’t want to do it alone.”
“But do you want to do it with me?”
Miller finally gave Clancy his eyes, and they were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Clancy sucked in a sharp breath, fearing the worst.