“You’re such a tease.” Vince sits up and grabs my forearms with his hands, pulling me up to him.
“You think so?” I say, lowering my chin and looking up at him.
“I do,” he says, moving his mouth a breath away from mine. “I do,” he repeats and then kisses me like the starter pistol of a race. But we aren’t in any hurry. I move my lips down from his mouth, over the thick stubble on his chin and throat with gentle kisses that eventually reach all the way down to his neck. He moans deeply so I know I’m doing a good job. The hair on his body starts just beneath his shoulders on the front so it’s almost like a knight’s breastplate but covered in this thick fur that I have to admit turns me on more than I thought something could. I start kissing him at the top of his chest, switching between kissing, licking and playful nibble. I move my head lower and decide to take an express route past his very compelling nipples and down to his dick. I’m just at his waist when he stops me gently with his hand. I look up, willing to do whatever he wants.
“It’s my turn,” he says. Without skipping a beat his mouth goes right for my cock and starts sucking. I go to put my hands on his head or play with his nipples and he stops me. His force is more significant in his touch. This isn’t the gentle brush of his hand. This energy says that he is in charge and I don’t mind letting him.
His mouth gets faster and then slower on my cock. He’s an expert at making me feel a range of sexual experiences. I can’t help but reach out for him again and this time he takes my dick out of his mouth but keeps his face right next to it. He looks up at me and says, “Your only job right now is to sit back and enjoy this.”
“I just want to...” I’m about to tell him some of the nasty things I want to do and but the pleasure I am experiencing takes over. I do as I’m told and lie on my back. His mouth and his hands are focused on my cock. The connection between his mouth and my dick is the only thing that exists in the world in that moment. It’s incredibly hot and makes me want to shoot but I want to feel him as I orgasm.
I go to touch him and he pushes my hand away, exerting his role as Dom. I like to play this way sometimes, I guess, but right now I want to just touch him, feel him, let him know that he is sending me into a state of uncontrollable...
He suddenly goes for it, working my shaft so intensely that I have absolutely no control over the experience.
“Vince, yes, yes, yes,” I scream from a place deep inside me.
I shoot hard into his mouth like bullets at a firing range that are many times stronger than they need to be to pierce their paper targets.
I look down and he is smiling and I can see his arm ricocheting as he finishes himself off. He shoots his load all over the floor next to the bed while our eyes stay focused on each other, conscious of the fact that we are sharing this moment together. Vince looks me up and down and a deep smile crosses his face. It’s clear he is proud of what he has done.
He lies next to me on the bed and I put my arms around him. Immediately I start playing with the hair on his chest. I stroke it calmly and feel his breathing become deeper and more relaxed. I fall asleep next to him and dream about the key chain I lost years ago. I had carried that key chain around for years, rubbing the smooth surface with my fingers whenever I was stressed and nervous. It was a part of me but one day it was suddenly gone. I got new keys for my truck but I never found the key chain. Tonight, in my dream, I see it. Dangling just behind Axel’s steering wheel is the smooth glass marble key chain with blue and brown swirls that I thought I’d never see again. I reach out for it assuming it will disappear like vapor but it doesn’t. It’s right there in my hand, exactly where it should be.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“The food editor at Philadelphia Magazine and the editor of Edible Philly both confirmed. Still waiting on a few of the New York people,” Anita tells me at our afternoon meeting between cafe and dinner service. After a day of rain the sun has made a spectacular return so we meet on the deck of the inn and try to focus on work and not watch the water and occasional boat or tuber float past.
Even though the media event is scheduled for just a week or so before Labor Day, Tack and Anita were able to score a full roster of some big names. I review the final list and see that some of the smaller gay and lesbian bloggers and local papers have already confirmed.
“Excellent, Anita, glad to see so many queer voices on this list,” I say.
“Look at you embracing the community,” she says, teasing me. “What happened to the guy who took down the old pride flags?” she asks, wheeling over to the other side of the deck to cross-check the list of attendees.
“I told you already. They were faded, old and falling apart.”
“I hope you aren’t talking about my peach upside-down cake?” Tack asks as he joins us on the deck.
“How did your big final in Restaurant Operations go this morning?” I’m hoping the big smile on his face is an indication.
“I never thought I’d be able to pass this class but I have to say I felt good about it this morning. None of the questions stumped me and when I got to the cash flow statement it all made sense.”
“That’s great,” Anita says then she wheels over to where Tack and I are standing. “I have to make a deposit at the bank but I think we are all set for tomorrow.” She looks us both up and down. “You make sure those dimples are firmly in place, Tack, and a few extra minutes with your beloved kettle bells wouldn’t kill you, Vince.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, flexing my bicep to show her the goods and, if I’m being honest, to turn Tack on also.
“Does nothing for me,” she says flatly. “But I know eye candy when I see it and you two are a Hershey bar and a bag of Skittles,” she says, rolling down the ramp to the street.
“Wait,” Tack says, calling after. “Which one is the Skittles?” Anita ignores him and continues on her errand.
“Well, obviously, I’m the Hershey bar. Dark, thick, melts in your mouth.” I stand up and flex my muscles again.
“Take a breather, Candyman,” he tells me. “Actually, stay seated. I want to give you something.”
“Sure,” I say, assuming he is going to be on his knees presenting me with his mouth but instead he runs back into the building and returns holding the most hideously wrapped package I have ever seen in my entire life.
“This is for you,” he says.
“It looks like it broke off a rogue pride float,” I say, examining the explosion of ribbons that decorate the box.
“Yeah, I kind of went overboard but I wanted to get you something to thank you for helping me with my class. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Of course you could have, but thanks. I have no idea what this could be,” I say as I begin to tear through the wrapping. Once most of it is gone and I open the shoebox I see...shoes. But not oxfords or wingtips or even penny loafers. I pull out a pair of the largest red patent leather pumps that I have ever seen.
“I hope they fit,” Tack says as I try to figure out who the hell he intends these for.
“Fit who? Me?”
I’m a smart guy. But with every synapse firing I cannot figure out what would make Tack think I would want a pair of high-heeled shoes. I wear suits and jockstraps and belts. The things people who identify as male wear. I don’t dress up in women’s clothes and I’ve never given him any indication that I want to do drag in any way.
“Try them on,” he says.
“I’m not trying them on.” I push the box away from me like a plate of seafood that has gone bad. I’ll just pretend this was a gag gift that went sideways.
“You’ll never learn to run in them if you don’t start practicing,” he says and takes them out of the box. He puts them on his hands and mimics running.
“Tack, what the serious fuck are you talking about?”
He laughs but he is the only one in on t
he joke. “I take it you don’t remember how New Hope celebrates fall.”
“No, I don’t,” I say plainly.
“All of the business owners and community leaders race down Main Street in high heels carrying a pumpkin. The first person across the finish line gets to keep the trophy for the year. Well, it’s actually not a trophy. It’s a rubber chicken dressed as Joan Collins in Dynasty but same idea as a trophy. I thought you would remember,” he says. Serilda had definitely described the event, come to think.
“Tack, I think that’s a great fundraiser but not for me. We can donate food or space or whatever but I’m not going in drag.” I respect anyone who needs to express their gender in any way they want. It’s great and I’d fight hard for anyone’s right to do it, but I’ve done my share of expressing. For me the scars from it are too deep to ever fade completely. I’m not the kid who got beat up for wearing eyeliner but I won’t ever let myself be that vulnerable again. It’s a line I won’t cross. I can’t. Not even for Tack. I put the lid back on the box. “Just return them.”
“What’s the big deal? Everyone participates and has a great time. Mario Luis, the fire chief, does it. His wife makes a dress for him that looks like a dalmatian every year. It’s hysterical.”
“Well, maybe I’ve had my fill of being laughed at in this town. So thanks, but no thanks.” I’m growing more frustrated by the second. I can feel the blood racing through my heart building toward a panic but I try to keep it under the surface.
“No one would be laughing at you. They would be laughing with you.”
The laughter sounds the same to me. “No thanks, I said.”
“Vince, come on. What are you so scared of?”
“I’m not scared of anything,” I say, making sure I sound confident and in charge. I thought I was done covering up my deeper feelings with bravado but the process comes back so effortlessly I wonder if I’ve only taken a hiatus.
“You can’t be yourself for one day? For one race down Main Street. It’s a charity fundraiser.” He takes the rainbow wrapping paper and starts crumpling it into small balls.
I know I’ve been slipping lately, letting my guard down around him and no one is more surprised about that than I am. Being with him has an effect on me that makes me want to slip. But he’s hammering at the very foundation of who I have worked so hard to become and I don’t like it. “Enough, Tack. Leave it alone, please. Just accept that I don’t want to do it,” I say but the look in his eyes tells me he is in too deep. He’s as hurt and confused as I am.
“I thought you could be yourself and not care what anyone else thinks. Apparently you’re more interested in this person you created, this hyper-masculine stand-in for some action movie, rather than the guy who I have been falling...”
He stops.
I don’t say anything. I wait for him to finish. I need to hear him say it in this moment. Maybe he’s about to, maybe not, but the waiting and the silence are too much for me to bear. I find a way out.
“Tomorrow is a big day,” I say in my best calm-neutral. “Let’s just get through the dinner service and the media event,” I say as calmly as I can. I’m taking big breaths through my nose to stop from crying and screaming.
“Fine,” he says, grabbing the box from the table and stomping off the deck like a child.
I sit down at the table and try to focus my thoughts. But I can’t help asking myself—if I’ve spent so long making sure there isn’t anything in the world I’m afraid of then why am I sitting alone with my head in my hands feeling so scared?
Chapter Thirty
Tack
I was sure by the time I started prepping dinner service I would have forgotten about my fight with Vince but when I get to the kitchen it’s still on my mind. It’s not about him rejecting the present. That’s not the point. It’s the fact that Vince still feels he can’t be himself around me and that maybe he never will.
I grab the sharpening stone I borrowed from a restaurant down the street where the sous chef is an alum of my cooking school. I run the stone under some cool water and plan to take my frustration out on the knives at The Hideaway. Our kitchen seems to be a refuge for the dullest, oldest knives in Pennsylvania. For a second I miss the knife set I sold at the beginning of the summer but then I think about how happy Jules is at the Chapman Creek camp and I don’t mind taking some time each week to sharpen dull spatulas, masquerading as knives, at the inn. The repetitive motion of the blades helps me not think about Vince.
Doesn’t Vince see that I want to build something with him here? Nothing has ever felt as right as being with him does. I never thought he would return. I thought that door was closed but if it’s going to open again it needs to be real. It can’t be based on some idea Vince has of himself because the whole thing will fall apart again and I know I won’t be able to handle that.
I grab the next knife and slowly run the blade against the stone, feeling the sleek surface of the metal connect with the grit of the stone—two opposites coming together to make something stronger.
There is a knock at the door but I don’t get up. I just yell, “Come in,” and stay focused on my work. A woman in a blue suit carrying a briefcase walks in. I’ve never seen her before.
“I’m looking for Mr. Vincent Amato. He is the owner, correct?”
“Yes, but he’s not here. I’m the chef. Can I help you?”
“I did want to see him in person to go over the numbers with him.”
“Is this about a supplier? We only use local vendors.”
“Not for long,” she says and lets out an irritated sigh. “I have a meeting in Philly I have to make. I’m passing through on my way from New York and wanted to go over some of this to expedite the sale. I know Mr. Amato is eager to unload this place.”
“Unload?” I can feel the blood drain from my face. This must be some kind of mistake. “I didn’t know the inn was for sale.”
“Everything is always for sale.” She laughs like she is about to purchase a sack of dalmatians. “Mr. Amato knew what he was doing when he bought this place. Great location. The interior is bit shabby but that can all be torn out. Your boss does have an eye for flipping properties.”
“Flipping properties?” I echo. I can hear the words coming out of my mouth like someone else is saying them. It feels like I’m trying to stop something from happening even though the spring is already wound.
“Oh sorry, shop talk. It means taking an old, worn-out property nobody wants and selling it for a profit.”
“I know what it means,” I tell her sharply but the words old, worn-out and nobody wants ring so loudly in my ear I can barely see straight. “You mean he just bought this place to flip? He had no intention of staying in New Hope?” I ask, swallowing hard.
“No way. From what I’ve heard, once he signs this contract he’ll be out of here before the ink is dry.” She opens her briefcase and takes out a large envelope.
My vision blurs and my head starts to pound. Vince never had any intention of staying with me. We were never building anything together. It was never the two of us turning the place around. I can’t believe I thought we were a team. I’ve been planning on building a life with him and he’s been thinking about the tax liability of a quick sale. How could I have been so stupid?
Then the bottom really drops out.
Jules has grown so close to Vince this summer. How am I going to tell my child that the one man who made their father feel complete was only using him? The very thought of having that conversation with Jules makes me almost vomit.
“I’m sure your boss will be very pleased with the offer from FunTyme,” she says, completely unaware that she has just destroyed me.
“FunTyme?” I know that name from culinary school. They have a terrible reputation in the hospitality business. I didn’t think this news could get any worse. “You guys bought out all the small
taco shops at the beaches around San Diego. Turned them into TacoTyme. Right?”
“Yes! You heard about that deal? I worked on that. We bought those shacks for pennies on the dollar. A lot of those shacks were just teardowns. It was cheaper to build prefab.” She looks at her watch. “I have to run.” She drops the envelope on the table next to me. “Can you make sure Vincent gets this offer? I think he’ll be pleased with the number. This is going to make a fabulous RiverTyme property.” She walks out the door.
I look down at the sharpening stone. I’m trying to remain calm and focus on what’s in front of me even though my world is falling apart. All the water that provided lubricant for the blade has dried out. I shouldn’t, but I grab the next knife, hold it to the dry stone and push it against the surface hoping the blade won’t resist the stone. I use too much force and the knife slips. The blade slices the side of my finger. It’s only a superficial slice but I try to focus on the physical pain instead of letting my mind take in what I’ve just heard. A tear falls onto the cut sending an acute sting through my hand. My finger is fine but the damage is worse than I thought.
Chapter Thirty-One
After our fight about the high heels, I run some errands and by the time I’m back dinner service has started. We manage to make it through the entire night without speaking a word to each other. I work on some last-minute details for the media event the next day while he finishes in the kitchen but by the time I get up to the apartment he has turned out the lights and his door is shut. Maybe I overreacted a bit, but I was hoping we could talk about it. Tack’s closed door shows me that he has zero interest in working this out.
The next day by the time I’m up he’s out of the apartment. As I’m getting dressed I keep thinking I hear him come up the stairs and my heart races. I’m disappointed when I don’t see his face at the doorway.
By the time I get downstairs Anita has everything set up perfectly for the media event. As soon as she sees me she turns towards the kitchen door and yells out. “Tack, he’s down you can go up now.” Tack darts through the kitchen up the stairs without so much as a nod in my direction.
The Hideaway Inn Page 16