Memories with The Breakfast Club: A Way with Words

by Lane Hayes

  “What about chocolate hazelnut?” I asked in a serious tone.

  “That too. But my specialty is bacon chocolate chip.” Karen winked and then grinned like she knew she had me at bacon.

  “You’re fu—” I winced when my aunt narrowed her gaze and held her hand up like she was ready to smack me upside the head if I dared curse in front of a guest at my grandmother’s house. “Sorry. You’re messin’ with me. That sounds too good to be true.”

  Karen snickered. “It’s true. I promise. Come by the bakery sometime and I’ll make you a special batch.”

  “Maybe I will. Where do you work again?”

  “Spinelli’s. It’s on 18th by the dry cleaners.”

  “Spinelli’s. I haven’t been there in a long time. I love that place. You work for Sal?”

  “Yeah, he’s my uncle.”

  “No way.”

  “Way,” she repeated, raising her water bottle in a mock toast.

  My aunt observed us intently before stepping aside with a lame excuse about helping in the kitchen when we all knew there wasn’t space for one more body in that room. I commended her reserve, though. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she fist-bumped everyone she passed on her way to find my mother to tell her she’d found a mate for Tony. I huffed good-naturedly at the thought. They’d never give up.

  “Does she do this often?” Karen asked, interrupting my reverie.

  “Every other Sunday.” I smiled and shook my head ruefully. “She and my mother take turns. They used to be more subtle, but I think they’ve given up on me.”

  “Yeah, I can see why,” she teased. “You’re practically an old man of—how old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine,” I deadpanned.

  “Ancient. But that means I’m a crypt-keeper. I’m thirty-one.”

  I let out a low whistle. “Damn. That is old.”

  She snorted and lifted her bottle again. “I won’t be offended if you want to go watch baseball in the living room. You don’t have to hang out with me for their sake.”

  “Sure, I do. But even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t go anywhere without hearing about what else you know how to make with bacon.”

  She beamed at me before launching into in-depth detail about some of her better-known desserts. Karen was a pleasant surprise. I liked the way she inclined her head and moved her hands as she spoke. She was entertaining, sweet company and as she listed an impressive array of bacon flavored treats, I wondered idly if she was the type of girl I might have fallen for if I wasn’t…me.

  Karen was easy to talk to and comfortable with my ginormous family—most of whom she seemed to know from the bakery. I didn’t mind hanging out with her or even sitting next to her at dinner. It wasn’t until my aunt suggested that I offer to drive her home that a familiar panicky feeling set in. A dinner with thirty-plus family members was one thing, but being in the close confines of my old pickup was another. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a nice way to refuse.

  “I live in Park Slope. Are you sure you don’t mind? I was planning on calling a car,” she said as I escorted her to my truck.

  “Nah. It’s cool. I don’t mind,” I lied.

  Of course I minded! This little detour was a forty-minute round trip from Bensonhurst. Twenty minutes of acting like someone I wasn’t, and another twenty beating myself up for being a fucking coward.

  It started out okay. We listened to the radio and rated some of the songs, which led to a brief conversation about favorite concerts and bands.

  “I love live music. There’s a great place on Delancey that hosts all kinds of up-and-coming artists. You never know what you’re going to get…jazz, reggae, samba. They had a flamenco guitarist last week and a banjo player is supposed to—”

  “Flamenco?”

  I was grateful for the darkened interior. My brow creased so hard it gave me a headache.

  “Yeah, he was good too. I usually picture flamenco dancers with brooding good looks, raven hair, wearing black and red, and lots of ruffles. I guess I thought the same about the guitarists. This one was a tall, skinny white guy with curly hair. Not what you’d expect at all. He was pretty hot though,” she assured me lasciviously.

  “What’d you say that club was called?” I asked as I turned left on Prospect.

  “I didn’t. But I think it was…Moonlight or Starlight. I don’t remember. Want to go sometime? That’s my street ahead. Make the next right.”

  I did as instructed and wracked my brain for a good excuse to say no. I came up blank. Worse, I started thinking about Remy. She said curly brown hair. Was he the guitarist she saw? I hadn’t had a chance to ask specifics about where he performed. It would have sounded stalker-ish anyway. All I knew was that he worked at The Night Owl.

  “Which one is yours?” I asked distractedly.

  “The red brick building at the end. Yeah, this one.” Karen turned to face me. She held her cell up and winked. “Give me your number. I’ll call you after I check out the new lineup at the club.”

  “The club?”

  “Yeah, Starlight. If anything looks interesting, we’ll make it a date.”

  “Um…uh…yeah, sure.”

  I probably looked calm and collected as I recited my contact info, but inside my gut churned with mixed emotions. The biggest of which was guilt. I had no business exchanging numbers with someone I was never going to call. It was misleading and dishonest. I was almost thirty fucking years old. This had to stop.

  “…I’m opening at the bakery every day this week, but I’ll have some free time next week if—”

  “Karen, I—I don’t know. I’m busy too and…” I let out a sigh and stared unseeing out my windshield.

  “No pressure, Tony. If it works out, great. If not, that’s okay. Either way, it was really nice meeting you tonight. Thanks for the ride.” She smiled sweetly then opened the door and hopped out of the truck. “Later!”

  I made sure she was safely inside her apartment building before I slowly drove away.

  I didn’t make it far. I pulled over to the curb on the next block then slammed on my brakes. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t seem to get my breathing under control. I cupped my hands over my nose and mouth and did my best to relax. This wasn’t my neighborhood, so I doubted I’d run into anyone I knew. But my pride insisted I pull it together. Fast.

  Macho-looking, muscular guys didn’t fall apart in their trucks when a girl put moves on them where I was from. Maybe those weren’t “moves,” but she was setting the groundwork, and she was considerate about it. She’d given me room to wiggle away if I wasn’t interested. And I wasn’t. I couldn’t act my way out of a paper bag anymore. Not long ago, I would have found a way to pretend I wanted things I didn’t. I might have kissed her or even touched her breasts if the kiss got hot. But I couldn’t do it anymore. It wasn’t her—it was me. Karen was attractive, sweet, and down-to-earth. I liked her. The problem was, she didn’t have a dick.

  Something was changing inside of me, insisting I shed the pretense and be real. I was like a turtle who’d outgrown his shell. I needed new shelter. A place to grow and stretch and be myself. My real self.

  And what my real self wanted right now was to be with people who felt the same way I did. A gay bar or a nightclub. Some place dark and out of the way so there was no chance of running into nosy friends or relatives. I’d recently overheard two guys at a Starbucks talking about a club called Sparks. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was a gay establishment, but the men were kinda fabulous and when they’d mentioned something about the sexy go-go boys, I figured it was a safe bet.

  Mikey had rolled his eyes and given me a knowing glance that seemed to ask, Are you listening to these two? The honest answer would have been, “Yes, I am and I’m soaking in every detail, so shut the hell up.” I wanted to hear the cadence of their speech, observe their hand gestures and the tilt of their chins. And if it hadn’t completely given me away or seemed downright lecherous, I would have loved to check out their asses
in their tight jeans. This was the problem. My capacity to play it straight was waning. I needed release. The sooner, the better.

  I looked up the address to Sparks on my phone then wiped my clammy palms on my jeans and put the truck in drive.

  Chapter 2

  My pulse raced as I crossed the Manhattan Bridge, but shame and anxiety soon gave way to anticipation. I clung to it desperately. I cranked up the volume to David Bowie’s “Young Americans” and drummed along on my steering wheel. My mind was whirling, but the frenzied feeling went well with the city lights and general metropolitan chaos. By the time I reached Bowery, I’d regained my cool and put the last vestiges of guilt behind me. This was good. This was what I needed. Anonymity laced with truth.

  What I didn’t need was traffic. Full-stop, not-moving-an-inch traffic. Fuck. I bit my lip and weighed my options. The longer I sat here, the faster I’d lose my nerve. I had to find a way out. Motion was key to staying on track. I honked my horn and veered right on Bowery then made another immediate right. Navigating Manhattan traffic on a Sunday night was a true test of patience. I couldn’t get over to make the next turn and the following street was a one-way going the wrong direction. I growled irritably as I glanced at the upcoming street sign. Essex.

  The Night Owl was on Essex.

  I didn’t think twice. I acted on instinct and adrenaline as I made the left turn and grabbed the first parking spot available. I didn’t know where the bar was exactly, but I didn’t want to google it. That would make The Night Owl feel like my destination. And it wasn’t. If I happened to see it as I walked by and decided to step inside for a drink…that was chance.

  I almost passed the bar. Remy’s description that it was small and unremarkable was spot-on. A picture of a wide-eyed owl on a black door and the word Bar was my clue I might have stumbled upon the right place. I slipped inside and gave myself a moment for my senses to adjust. Mick Jagger was singing about beasts of burden above the din of light chatter. A tall man built like a linebacker shifted sideways on his stool to give me a once-over before turning his attention back to the flat-screen TV over the bar.

  The Night Owl had the ambience of a sports bar stuck in the last century, complete with dark paneling, ancient brass lighting, and battered wood tables. It was nothing to look at but sometimes those were the best kinds of places, I thought as I made my way through the modest crowd to an empty stool against the far wall.

  I kept my gaze down as I traced the edges of the square napkin the bartender laid in front of me.

  “Be right back,” he said distractedly.

  I nodded then looked up to study the impressive array of alcohol. I pondered ordering gin and tonic instead of a beer before making my way to Sparks. Or a vodka soda or maybe a martini with—whoa. What the heck? I blinked as I leaned forward to focus on the tiny rainbow flag taped to the bottom shelf. This was a gay bar?

  I straightened my back and clandestinely turned to check out the clientele. Yep. All male. Holy crap. I licked my lips nervously and swallowed hard.

  This was fine. This was what I’d wanted, right? Except…no. What if Remy was here? Wait. He told me to come by. Did that mean he thought I was gay? Or was he trying to tell me he was gay and interested? Or was I seriously overthinking this because I was a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown?

  I glanced up when the bartender returned to greet me with a harried, “What can I get you?” and froze.

  He did too, but he recovered first.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Remy teased with a lopsided grin.

  I opened and closed my mouth twice. Nothing came out. I cleared my throat and then tried again. “Uh…yeah, hi.”

  Wow. I guess my family had reason to worry. I was either socially impaired or just awkward as fuck.

  “You look surprised to see me. I told you I worked here. And hey! I offered to buy you a drink. What’ll you have? It’s on the house.”

  His easy-going manners calmed me. I inclined my head and smiled, hoping it didn’t look pained.

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I can stay.”

  “Sure, you can. Let me get you a beer. What kind do you like?”

  “I—um. Whatever you have on tap is fine. You choose.”

  My words came out in a jumbled mess. I was nervous and tongue-tied. That dreaded combination usually rendered me silent but occasionally, the opposite occurred and I couldn’t seem to find my off switch. I bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself to shut up.

  Remy smiled kindly. “You got it.”

  I studied him as he moved behind the bar, graceful and sure. He set a glass of frothy amber ale on the square napkin in front of me a moment later with a fresh bowl of pretzels. Then he leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms. The twinkle in his eyes was reassuring. It gave me the kick I needed to act somewhat close to “normal.”

  “What brings you to these here parts on a Sunday evenin’, pardner?” he drawled in a faux Southern accent.

  I barked a half laugh and lifted my glass. “I was a mite thirsty.”

  Remy threw his head back and guffawed, causing more than a few heads to turn our way. “Ha! Brooklyn does Dallas.”

  “Sounds like a porn flick.”

  “You’ve got yourself a dirty mind there, Tony. I like it. Now, how’d you end up here tonight? Are you lost?”

  “Hmph. I was on my way somewhere else and stopped when I saw the street sign. I don’t know why I did, but whatever…here I am.”

  “So I see.” He sobered then fixed me with a look I couldn’t read but assumed was curiosity. “Where were you heading?”

  “Sparks,” I replied without thinking.

  Remy did a comical double-take and let out a low whistle. “Damn, just when you think you’re having the dullest night ever, a stranger walks in full of surprises and bam”—he slapped his hand on the bar for emphasis before continuing—“everything changes.”

  “Huh? What d’ya mean?”

  I set my glass aside and busied my fingers by plucking at the damp napkin while I let my gaze wander over him. He looked even hotter than usual in a tight black tee with dark jeans. I stared at the tattoo on his upper right bicep. It was a dark wing but I couldn’t tell if it was a bird or an angel. Not that it mattered, but it kept me from staring at his beautiful face like a lovesick creep. When the pull became too strong, I gave in and looked into his eyes. Fuck, they were pretty. They were green and brown and gold, like the best marbles in my prized collection when I was a kid. The special ones I wouldn’t share with my cousins ’cause I knew they’d want to trade and—

  “I mean…Sparks is a gay club and this is a gay bar.” Remy’s tone was matter-of-fact, not judgmental or accusing.

  “Oh. I didn’t know,” I lied.

  “Now that you do, are you gonna chug that beer and scamper out of here?”

  “Nah. I’ll take my chances.” I smiled then raised the glass in a mock toast. “Thanks for the beer. How late you workin’?”

  Remy narrowed his eyes. I could tell he wanted to return to the, “What’s up with the straight guy hopping from gay bar to gay club?” line of questioning, but he mercifully let it go.

  “Till ten. Just less than two hours. You gonna keep me company? The clubs aren’t happenin’ until after eleven, you know. Even on a Sunday. Have you been there before?”

  “Where?”

  “Sparks?”

  “Uh, no. Maybe I got the name wrong. I’m supposed to meet a friend. A not-gay friend,” I clarified.

  He set his hand over mine and squeezed. “Relax, Tony. You’re safe here. Be right back.”

  His warm touch sent a shiver up my spine. If I didn’t have a firestorm brewing in my head, it would have put me at ease. But I was feeling shaky and off-kilter. The funny thing was that in spite of my mixed up emotional state, I didn’t want to go anywhere. Not yet. I cast a surreptitious sideways glance as he collected credit cards from the men at the opposite end of the bar.

  Remy moved li
ke he played guitar. Smooth and sexy. It was harder than it should have been not to stare at him. I had a brief thought that I wasn’t the only who felt that way. I furrowed my brow and checked to make sure no one else was pervin’ on him. He was mi—no. He wasn’t mine. He was a stranger. A random guy I saw daily but only met once. The problem was, I couldn’t get him out of my head. If I had half a brain, I’d leave some cash on the counter, go home, and forget about him. Associating with this guy would only cause me trouble. Big trouble.

  “So…what did you do this weekend?” he asked breezily when he returned.

  “I—not much. I did some work at my cousin’s new house yesterday and spent most of today with my family. What about—”