Well. That settled what to talk about while he prepared dinner.
As they walked in through the automatic doors, Timur gave his surroundings a sweeping glance, and his expression was half-amused, half what the fuck? Not that Marcus could blame him—the store employees had arranged about two hundred cases of soda into a giant semicircle with some baseball-themed decorations hanging off it. He guessed they were aiming for a backstop or a dugout or something. The end result was something more like Soda-henge.
Welcome to America, Timur…
Marcus picked up a basket from beside the door. “Just need to grab a few things. We’ll be out of here in a minute.”
Timur shrugged, as if to say no rush.
Though he didn’t know this particular store’s layout, they were all pretty much the same, and it didn’t take Marcus long to find everything he needed. Ground beef that he inspected closely, much to the meat-counter employee’s subtle annoyance. Two bottles of Malbec—oh hell, make it three. They didn’t have the hamburger buns he preferred, but he supposed he could slum it just this once with the generic store-brand version. After all, he wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
The mozzarella, though, was just not going to cut it. He sighed as he put a lump of subpar cheese back on the rack. “Looks like we’ll have to make one more stop.”
“One more?” Timur tilted his head. “For?”
“Cheese.” Marcus waved a hand at the display. “They don’t have what I need.”
Timur’s eyebrows jumped, and he scanned the shelves. Marcus cringed inwardly—for all he knew, this place was the picture of abundance for Timur, and the idea of turning up his nose at what appeared to be perfectly good cheese…
Marcus cleared his throat. “There’s, um, another place near my house. The stuff they have isn’t quite so expensive.”
Dude. Really?
“Oh.” Timur shrugged. “All right.”
Right. Because nearly eight dollars a fucking pound wasn’t “quite so expensive”. He glanced at the shelf. Was this stuff really that bad?
Oh hell. He grabbed the brand he recognized most, dropped it in the basket and started toward the cash registers. “This will work. Shall we?”
Timur followed without a word.
The lines were short, thank God, and Marcus quickly checked out, paid for everything and scooped up the three plastic bags.
“Ready to go?”
Timur smiled. “Wherever you go.”
“Okay.” Marcus nodded toward the car. “Traffic is lighter now, so we should be home soon.”
Timur remained quiet on the way—he wasn’t really one for small talk—and that was fine with Marcus. Though he was curious about Timur’s background. Possibly inevitable, considering he kept returning to him for sex and, okay, to hang out and cook for him too. But Timur was easy company—no demands, no criticism and no bickering. And that was…relaxing. In the last few years, Ray had always kept him on edge, with low-level irritation sometimes escalating into all-out fighting, and, more often than not, tracking the cause had been impossible.
He parked the car, grabbed the shopping and ushered Timur up toward his apartment. Opening the door, he noticed the stronger-than-usual smell of citrus fragrance, but if Timur did, he didn’t comment on it.
He dropped the bags off in the kitchen and did a quick tour of the apartment—living room, bathroom, bedroom. Quite a bit of furniture was still in flat-packs, but dusted and stacked properly; at least he could deny that they’d been in the exact same position for months. So, yes, he could have assembled the TV stand—the flat screen sat on its carton—but somehow he’d never found the time.
“I just moved in.” Just could legitimately cover three and a half months, right? “Back to the kitchen…”
Timur sat down on the couch, looking around, then tilted his head to read the spines of the four hip-high stacks of paperbacks that were leaning against the wall near to where he sat. The bookcase for that was still neatly packed.
“Right. Food should be done in twenty to thirty minutes.” Marcus retreated to the kitchen, where, at least, everything was in perfect order. He unpacked the bags, rustled up bowls, spices and pans and started with mixing the mince and spices. He fell easily into the routine of chopping up salad and cherry tomatoes and mixing a simple oil-and-vinegar dressing, then tore up half the mozzarella ball for the salad and sliced the rest to stuff the beef burgers with. He formed the patties gently, not to compress the meat too much, then tossed them into the pan while he toasted the buns. It was a simple crowd-pleaser of a meal—mustard, tomato, onions and lots of salad. If he’d had a little more time to prepare, he’d have tried his hand at a tiramisu to round off his Italian take on classic burgers, but he wouldn’t be able to do the dish justice on such short notice. He did like to bake his own biscuit layers from scratch.
Well then, next time.
Seemed that four-night stand was upgrading to five.
He prodded the burgers to check how cooked they were, then served them on half the bun, with the other half askew on top. He spooned the salad on the free space on the plates. He’d been good at presentation if he bothered, but just the perfectly cooked dark meat between the golden toasted buns and the vibrant Italian salad did it. No need to mess around with fresh, well-matched ingredients. He grabbed cutlery and plates and stepped into the living room.
Where Timur was just standing up the near-completed bookcase. “A lot of books.”
Marcus nodded. “Yeah, I’ve accumulated a few. You read?”
Of course he does, idiot. He said he has books in his bag…
“Not…” Timur gestured at the stack, “…not English.”
Marcus set the plates on the coffee table—he really needed to get the dining room furniture together—and took a seat. “Wine?”
“Da.” Timur paused. “Yes.”
“It’s okay. I do know that word.” Their eyes met, and they both smiled before Marcus stepped back into the kitchen to grab a couple of glasses of wine. When he returned, he handed one to Timur and sat down again. “Bon appétit.”
Timur’s eyebrow arched. “You speak French?”
“What? No. No, just… Americans use that phrase.”
“I see.” Timur eyed the burger in front of him as if he wasn’t quite sure what the customary method was for consuming such a thing. Fork and knife in some places, pick it up and shove it in your face in others.
Tonight, Marcus was totally on board with the more informal approach, and picked up his own burger. “Like this.”
Timur glanced at him, nodded and then did the same. The instant he took a bite, Marcus’s heart fluttered—how long had it been since he’d seen that kind of sheer ecstasy on someone’s face? Well, outside the bedroom, anyway. Cooking was his passion, and he lived for the “oh my God, this is amazing” moments.
Timur swallowed it and took a sip of wine. “This is…is good.”
“Glad you like it.”
“Never had it.”
“They don’t serve that in the field?”
Timur laughed. “No.” He took another bite, and the two of them ate in silence for a little while.
Halfway through his burger, Marcus set it down and sat back, cradling his glass of wine. “So I’m curious. Where did you learn English?”
“Julien.”
“Really?”
“Da.” Timur drained his wineglass and set it aside. “He thought he’d forget. Taught me to practice.”
“He taught you well.”
Timur just smiled.
Marcus finished his own wine and raised the glass. “More?”
“Da.”
“Might as well bring the bottle in here. Be right back.” He left both of their glasses on the coffee table and retrieved the bottle—hell, both bottles—from the kitchen. After he’d topped off th
eir glasses, he sat back again.
Timur sipped his. “Is good wine. Always heard American wine is…” He wrinkled his nose.
Marcus laughed. “It can be. I refuse to drink the shitty stuff.”
Timur raised his glass in a mock toast. “Life is too short.” He furrowed his brow. “Did I… Is right? The phrase?”
“Yes, yes, it’s right.” Marcus cocked his head. “Julien teach you that one?”
“Da. Was what he said before he came back to find Chris.”
“I’m curious.” Marcus took a sip himself. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
“Sure.” Timur met his gaze.
“You and Julien—you were close. You’re still close friends. How…do you feel about him getting married?”
Timur nodded, as if to confirm he’d understood the question. He impaled a couple of cherry tomatoes and ate them, chewing thoughtfully for a few moments. He swallowed. “Was surprised.”
“About?”
“That he married a man. He told me about Chris, but I didn’t think he was more than a friend.” He lifted an eyebrow in an aren’t I stupid expression.
“Were you jealous?”
Timur frowned and looked down at his plate. “Was just strange. Didn’t know he was homosexual.” He sounded a little sheepish. Marcus couldn’t quite grasp what was going on here—embarrassment for the oversight, or a straight guy shocked that his opportunistic fuck buddy was actually gay instead of occasionally gay.
And that lay at the core of it, didn’t it? Regardless of how enthusiastic Timur was with a guy in bed, he’d never referred to himself as gay. Was he playing it safe, or maybe he didn’t even have a gay identity at all. Maybe the closest category he fit in was “man who had sex with other men”.
“You never guessed?”
Timur shook his head. “Didn’t…care. He’s my comrade.” That word seemed to hold a lot more meaning than buddy or friend. Seemed the closest thing to blood brother.
“And Chris?” Marcus asked softly. “What do you think of him?”
At that, Timur smiled. “He is good. For Julien. Good man, but very good for him.”
“How do you mean?”
Timur absently swirled his wine, eyes unfocused. “He is, for Julien, peace.”
“Peace?”
“Da. Since he came back to America, Julien is happy. But with Chris, he has peace. Always wanted peace, never found before.”
Marcus stared into his own wine. Who the hell did he have to sell his soul to for a man who could make him feel at peace the way Julien apparently did with Chris? Because for Marcus, relationships had been the polar opposite. Conflict. Frustration. Tension. Peace? Like hell.
“That’s good,” Marcus whispered, bringing his wine up to his lips. “It’s good he found him.”
“Yes,” Timur said with a nod. “Is good.”
Marcus smiled a little. That phrase of Timur’s wasn’t grammatically perfect, but it worked. And it was so…him. Whenever Timur said it, Marcus couldn’t help thinking he sounded adorable, just like he’d looked adorable this morning with the cat perched on his back. The big man who was so tender with little animals, and who struggled with English but could still find a way to express how he felt about his best friend’s marriage. Is good.
“What about you?” Timur’s question jarred Marcus out of his thoughts.
“Hmm?”
“You like Julien? And Chris? Together, I mean?”
“I don’t know Julien that well.” Marcus set his glass down again. “I’ve worked with Chris for a little while. They both seem like good guys.”
“Why do you work in bar?” Timur gestured at the food. “Should be cooking.” The comment was obviously meant to be a compliment, so Marcus smiled through the pang of sadness in his gut.
“I was.” He topped off his glass, because if they were going down that road, he needed a little help. “Head chef and sort of owner of a Michelin-starred restaurant in Seattle.”
“But now…a bar?” Timur lifted his eyebrows. “Why?”
Marcus could’ve sworn this wine was fairly sweet, but it suddenly tasted dry. No, not dry. Bitter. That’s what it was. Thank you, Ray—you can even ruin a good bottle of wine without being in the same fucking room.
“The owner of the restaurant was my husband,” he said through his teeth. “When we divorced, he got the restaurant and I got a brand-new job slinging booze.”
“Needed distance?”
“Yeah. Recalibrate my head. I needed to get him out of my head so I couldn’t hear him criticizing how I do things, how I cook, what I do in which order…” Marcus waved it off. “Two perfectionists work out as long as you’re on the same page. Move just a step to the side, and it’s hell. We should have seen it coming. And I’m not innocent. Far from it.”
“And is he out of your head now?”
“Almost, I think. We can have a conversation without shouting at each other, but I don’t think either of us will ever forget…” or forgive, “…what hell it was. Divorce is done now, though.” He shook his head. “It’s done.” And he was moving on. Or maybe he was a bit stuck in between things, not quite sure what the next thing would be, but he still needed the time to figure it out. But for the first time in months, it felt like the next thing was just around the corner—and like he was willing to turn that corner. Considering he’d declined all offers of help and wasn’t actively looking for a job outside of Wilde’s, that sense that something would soon happen was a little disconcerting.
Timur watched him, then, seemingly happy with whatever he’d seen, went back to demolishing the burger and salad, looking blissed out with every bite. Marcus was touched, again, at the way Timur embraced the simple pleasures without reservation.
“You’ll go back to the Legion after the month is over?”
Timur nodded. “Fifteen years for pension. Have ten.”
“Seen a lot of action?”
Timur nodded. “Africa. Afghanistan.”
Clearly no war stories coming forth, though Marcus was almost glad for it. He was one of those civilians who preferred not to know too much about warfare, mostly because he couldn’t influence it or help anyway. And Timur seemed pretty well adjusted and not broken at all. He’d done ten years; what were another five? “And once you’ve done the full fifteen?”
Timur placed the plate down. “I’ll build things.” He nodded at the bookcase that only needed the actual shelves fitted in now. “Repair things.”
“Like an engineer?”
Timur nodded. “Yes.”
“Where?” Marcus picked at his salad. “I mean, are you staying in France? Going back to…”
“Ukraine?” Timur shook his head. “Don’t know. Things are…not always good there.”
“Hmm, yes. I’ve seen that on the news. Russia and Crimea and all that.”
Timur blinked. “Oh yes. That. No, I mean my home. Family is…” He waved a hand and then reached for the wine bottle. “Is not home anymore.” There was a note of finality in the statement, as if he’d said as much as he was going to on the subject, and the discussion was over.
“I see,” Marcus said.
Timur added some wine to his glass and offered some to Marcus. Oh hell, why not? Marcus nodded and slid the glass closer. Timur poured it carefully, and as he tipped the bottle back up, twisted it slightly to keep it from dripping. Just like a skilled bartender, or at least someone who’d been taught how to pour wine. Not a skill Marcus had ever associated with a soldier, but he was quickly learning how little he really knew about men like Timur. Especially since he’d never met a man like Timur. Soldiers? Yes. Guys from various parts of Eastern Europe? Sure. A French Foreign legionnaire? Well, Julien counted.
But someone like Timur? Nyet.
Three-almost-four-night stand be damned, he was intri
gued by this guy. And it wasn’t like Timur was staying in the area for any length of time.
“So.” He swirled his wine slowly. “What are your plans before going back?”
Timur shrugged, watching Marcus over the rim of his own glass. “No plans. Take care of cats. See the city.” Another shrug. “Nothing else.”
“Hmm.” Marcus took a sip of wine and rolled it around on his tongue. He was about to swallow it and suggest they spend the next month or so together—sex, food and tourism, why not?—when he realized Timur was watching his mouth. When Marcus swallowed, Timur gulped and then lowered his gaze and took a sip from his own glass.
Marcus cleared his throat. “I work a lot of evenings, but…I could show you around the city.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Cook for you.”
“Yes. I like your cooking.”
“Good.” Marcus laughed softly. “I can’t promise I’m the best tour guide in the world, but I’ll try.”
“Okay.” Timur set his glass down, and when he slid his hand over the top of Marcus’s thigh, Marcus’s pulse skyrocketed. “Sightsee. Food.” His grin made Marcus’s breath catch. “Nights.”
“Yeah.” The word was barely audible, so Marcus cleared his throat and tried again. “Food, sightseeing and all the sex either of us can handle.”
“Da.” Timur’s fingers twitched on Marcus’s leg. “Is good.”
Marcus finished his wine. “Should we take it to the bedroom, then?”
Timur just nodded. The only thing Marcus did was take the plates and glasses into the kitchen and dump them in the dishwasher, before he led the way to the bedroom.
Chapter Eight
No touristy outing in Seattle was complete without going up into the Space Needle. It was a nice, clear day, perfect for spending a little time on the observation deck.
But first, lunch in the rotating restaurant. The food in there had never impressed Marcus—to be fair, Gordon Ramsay would’ve had to work at it to impress him—but it was kind of cool to sit at a table and get a rotating view of the city. So he called ahead and made a lunch reservation, and at a little before eleven, they stepped into one of the yellow elevators that climbed up from the ground to the observation deck.
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