by Tara Lain
Bo sighed, turned, and walked back into the bedroom. Jeremy leaned against the doorframe since he needed to wash the dirt off his feet. Bo said, “It really could have been anyone, Jeremy. Why do you think they were spying on us in some way?”
“I don’t know exactly. Jumpy over all Ottersen’s dirty tricks, I guess.” That was close enough to the truth.
In the near darkness, Bo’s inhale sounded shaky. “Maybe somebody, like some horny teenager, heard us having sex and came to check it out.”
That was actually a possibility. “I don’t think it was a kid. The steps were too heavy, and there was no giddiness. This felt focused and stealthy.”
“Maybe it was someone who hates gays and tried to spy on us so they could call a cop or something.”
“Cop? Come on. Gay sex isn’t illegal.”
“Never stopped them before.” Bo looked pretty worried.
He pushed away from the doorjamb. “Seriously, Bo. Nobody in California wine country is going to try to get a gay couple put in jail for sodomy, although I guess there could be some crazed born-againer wanting to break in and shoot us.” He jerked his chin toward the bed. “Get under the covers before you freeze. I’m going to wash the dirt off my feet.” He turned, then looked over his shoulder with a grin. “After I’m done, let’s give them something to talk about, shall we?”
Trying to keep his steps jaunty, he walked to the bathroom. This thing didn’t make sense. Would Ottersen go so far as to have them followed? If so, who told him where they were going? If it was someone from his family—hell, it couldn’t be. No way they’d just watch. What the fuck is going on?
Chapter Eighteen
BO DROVE up the hill toward the parking lot at Strausburg. Jeremy hadn’t been kidding about the “something to talk about” part. Lordy, they’d sucked and rubbed and rolled so far on the bed they fell off, laughing in a heap on the floor. Whatever had spooked Jeremy—and that seemed considerable—he’d thrown caution to the proverbial winds after he came back into the cabin. But Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, had he overreacted much to a little flashlight in the dark? Damn, he’d even had Bo scared. Sitting there naked with a deadly remote in his hands, staring at the door as if a velociraptor was coming through at any moment—it’d be funny if it weren’t so flaming stupid.
“Wow, this is pretty.”
Bo blinked himself out of his worried reverie and glanced around at the beautiful vineyards and grounds. Strausburg was one of his favorite wineries. “Yeah. America’s champagne maker.” Not really, since nothing made outside of the Champagne region of France could legitimately be called champagne, but Strausburg used authentic methods and got as close to the original style as any “sparkling wine” could. He found a space and parked.
As they walked toward the side entrance to the offices, Jeremy said, “I’m surprised they agreed to see us. I thought they used only their own grapes.”
Bo nodded. “I was a little surprised too, but I’d heard a rumor that they sometimes buy a small amount of specialty grapes or blends for a few of their second-label wines.” He smiled. “I mostly wanted an excuse to see the caves.”
“Can’t wait.” Jeremy smiled back.
Inside the bright, modern offices, a receptionist greeted them with an efficient smile. “Yes, gentlemen, Mr. Fieldstone had an emergency meeting. He said you should go ahead with your cave tour, and he should be ready to speak with you right after. I’ve asked Peter, Mr. Fieldstone’s assistant, to be your guide.”
An older man, short with white hair, rose from a nearby desk. Not at all what Bo had thought of when he heard the word assistant. He walked forward, hand extended to Bo. “Peter Fieldstone.”
“Oh, hello. I’m Bo Marchand, and this is Jeremy Aames.”
“Marchand. Sounds like we might have a Southern influence.” He smiled charmingly.
Jeremy gave a little snort, since talking to Bo was like a lesson in speaking with cornpone in your mouth. They all laughed as Peter led them out of the offices toward the entrance to the caves. They bypassed a group of tourists milling about waiting for the next guided adventure and stepped into the relative dark of the caves.
Peter said, “Not sure how much you know about the winery, but these caves were built in the 1880s, and there are over 35,000 square feet of them. The caves maintain a constant temperature and humidity for our fermenting wine. We keep a couple million bottles in here, in various stages, for two to seven years.”
Jeremy stared around, his eyes wide. “What an amazing amenity to have for your winery.”
Peter smiled, obviously proud of the company. “We’re the oldest winery in Napa, so the original founder had a lot of land to choose from. It’s a perfect environment for sparkling wine.”
They walked farther into the long, rounded caves, most with smooth, finished stone walls, but a few still boasted the rough-hewn rock.
They entered a big cavern with rack after rack of bare bottles, their necks slanting slightly downward. Bo nudged Jeremy. “This is what I told you about.”
Peter nodded. “Yep. People seem to remember the fact that we hand riddle better than anything.” He walked over and looked at a schedule on the wall. “Sorry, no riddling is planned in the next few minutes, but the bottles each get turned according to a specified schedule. A lot of wineries do it by machine, but we’re proud of our hand riddling that gives us more control.”
Jeremy bent down and looked at the rack full of bottles. “Do they always get turned the same amount?”
“Nope. Different amounts and shifting from clockwise to counterclockwise. It helps us impart a unique flavor to the wine.” His cell rang, and he pulled his phone from his pocket. “Excuse me.” Holding it to his ear, he said, “Yes? Oh right. Be there in a sec.” He clicked off. “Would you excuse me a couple of minutes? Best not to wander far. You can actually get lost in here. I’ll be back in five.” He strode away.
When Peter turned a corner at the end of the hall, Jeremy grabbed Bo’s hand and pulled him backward into the passage at the rear of the cavern, where some rough stone gave Bo an archeological explorer feel. Like there could be cave paintings any minute.
Jeremy wasn’t spelunking, however. He backed into the rough wall and pulled Bo after him. “Need a coffee break.” Wrapping both hands around Bo’s cheeks, he cocked Bo’s head and came in for a deep, exploring kiss.
Umm, maybe he was spelunking after all.
Bo was happy to participate, wrapping his arms around Jeremy’s lean body and pulling him tight so he didn’t scrape his back on the unfinished wall. Oh Lordy, what a great mouth. Unlike some men who kind of nipped and nibbled but never got down to it, as if kissing were just an hors d’oeuvre, Jeremy made kissing a serious meal. His lips enfolded Bo’s, sealing their mouths together; then his tongue went to work, caressing its opposite number as well as delving deep into Bo’s mouth. Whoa! He even slid between Bo’s teeth and lip in that super sensitive spot that no one ever seemed to give any attention.
Bo’s lips responded, but so did all the other erogenous zones, and his cock hardened so fast it robbed his brain of blood. That was the only explanation for his hand that unfastened Jeremy’s fly all on its own and dug into the folds of shirt and briefs to grasp an equally swollen playmate. Ripping his mouth away, he reached in his pocket for a handkerchief—old-fashioned as it was—pulled his own dick from his pants, and squeezed the two together, pumping like a madman. They likely only had minutes. Maybe seconds, and he had to come or he’d die. Here. Now. With Jeremy.
Jeremy caught the fire, wrapped his own hand around the package, and helped with the rhythm, staring wide and glassy-eyed into Bo’s soul. “Oh shit. Hurry. Hurry!”
Both their bodies jerked up and down to help their hands. Bo gritted his teeth and saw the tendons in Jeremy’s jaw standing out as they jacked like madmen. “Close. Close.”
“M-me too.”
“Sorry to take so long. Be right there.” Peter’s voice echoed through the caves.
Bo tightened his grip and upped the pace. “Oh. Oh Lord. Yes, yes.”
Jeremy nodded frantically, then his eyes literally rolled up in his head, his mouth opened in a silent scream, and cum gushed into Bo’s hand, lubricating his last jerk that brought his own orgasm racing down on him. “Shit. Shit!” The words came out in a hissing whisper.
“Mr. Marchand?”
Jeremy grinned as Bo wiped their dicks and his hand. He tucked himself in and zipped up so fast he caught his shirt but quickly righted it. “This is amazing in here. It looks like there should be cave paintings.” He walked away from Bo toward the cavern, giving Bo an extra second to finish wiping.
Peter said, “Yes, aren’t they remarkable? A lot of the walls were still like that when the current owners, the Seatons, took over back in the sixties.”
Bo stashed the handkerchief in a crevice of the wall to cut down the smell of sex surrounding him. He grinned. Glad it’s not monogrammed.
He backed out from his hiding place, staring at the truly amazing details of the cave. “I could explore these caves forever.”
Peter smiled. “I’m glad you got to look around, because Henry’s ready to see you now.”
As they walked out of the caves, Jeremy glanced at Bo and gave him a wink. Funny. Jeremy made him want to do crazy things. Crazy, but they felt more authentic than the life he lived every day.
Jeremy was saying, “I can’t help but notice the same last name. Are you and Henry related?”
Peter chuckled. “Yes, I’m his father. I used to do his job, but I wanted to semiretire, so I became his assistant.”
“How’s that working out for you?” Jeremy shared his big smile.
For an instant a frown washed over Peter’s face like one of those illusions in a funhouse. Then he showed his teeth. “Great. I get to share my wisdom—” He coughed loudly, and Jeremy laughed. “—without working all those hours.” But something about the frown gave Bo a shudder.
When they got to the office again, they were met by a man slightly taller, substantially less silver-haired, but otherwise the image of Peter—if you didn’t count some quality in the eyes. Not mean, exactly. More like afraid, cornered. Odd. Nonetheless, he smiled and shook their hands. “Henry Fieldstone. Hope you enjoyed the tour. Sorry I wasn’t ready when you got here.”
Bo displayed the dimples. “We enjoyed it very much.” He had to work to keep from laughing. “No problem at all.”
After they thanked Peter, the younger Fieldstone led the way into an inner office and asked them to sit. He stepped behind a big desk, glanced down at a sheet of paper, and crinkled his brow. “I’m sure you know that we buy very little bulk.” He slapped on a phony smile. “I guess it’s not right to call it bulk, then, is it?” He laughed at his own joke, and Bo and Jeremy forced smiles. “However, since you have your dry farming product available in small quantities, I think we would be interested in arranging a contract.”
Bo really smiled that time. “Thank you. We’d be honored to supply Strausburg. We have some unique blends between the two of us and—”
Fieldstone held up a hand. “By us are you referring to you and your associates at Marchand Wineries?”
Bo frowned. “No. I mean Jeremy and me, of course. What we’re offering is a package of our unique wines and blends in bulk. I thought that was clear from my emails to you.”
“Well, it was.” He gave an indulgent smile. “But I assumed you’d be interested in selling us your wines, Bo, separate from Mr. Aames, because—” His eyes flicked to Jeremy and then away. “—we’re not interested in his wines at all.”
Bo’s brain scrambled. He’d give a fucking lot to be able to say he sold bulk wines to Strausburg. It would be an amazing implied endorsement. But they’d started out together, they’d crafted their contract to include bulk from both vineyards, and no way he could just abandon Jeremy, who sat there looking blank. Bo could feel the anger seething. He said, “Uh, I’m sorry, but—”
Jeremy leaned forward. “Of course it can be set up that way. I totally understand that the dry-farmed grapes have that hard-to-duplicate flavor. I know Bo would be honored to be your supplier. Who wouldn’t?” He stood. “Perhaps I’ll just step out while you two discuss the contract.”
“Jeremy—” Bo reached out to touch him, but he stepped back, shook Fieldstone’s hand—although how he got the balls to do it, Bo could barely understand—and Jeremy was out the door.
DON’T FREAK. Don’t cry. Jeremy clenched and unclenched his fists. He smiled at the receptionist with practiced slickness, pushed open the door to the parking lot, and started breathing in air the moment he felt the sun on his face. The bastard. The bloody, stinking bastard. He didn’t really mean Henry Fieldstone, but he’d include him in the bloody, stinking package.
He stopped walking when he got away from the building and under some trees. Shelter from the storm—as if. Maybe it’s time to quit. Damn, I hate to let Ottersen win, but I could end up taking Bo down with me, and that would be a tragedy. Breathe. Heat pressed behind his eyes, which was so fucking stupid, but even thinking about all the good shit Bo had tried to do for him made him feel warm, fuzzy—and guilty. God, I should lie down and become his concubine to try to pay him back, because the way things are going, I’ll never pay him back any other way. At least not and survive.
“I’m really sorry.”
Jeremy’s head snapped up, but it wasn’t Bo. Peter leaned against a tree trunk.
“Uh, thanks, I guess.” He inhaled. “So you knew.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. He doesn’t do much without consulting me. Usually he’ll listen to my advice, but this time he was determined to make this stupid decision.” He pushed away from the tree, crossed his arms, and shook his head. “If it’s any consolation, I think your blends are brilliant and would be good for us.”
“Wish you still held the position.” He turned his lips up.
“Well, if I did, I’d be getting the pressure Henry is, and, of course, I’d refuse to be coerced, which means I’d lose my job and we’d be right back where we are now, right?” He smiled ruefully.
“Ottersen?”
“Who?”
“Ernest Ottersen. The dude who’s pressuring your son.”
Peter scrunched his eyebrows. “I don’t think that was the name.” He shrugged. “But it could have been, I guess. Or maybe he’s got a go-between. Anyway, son, I’m sorry. I think you’ve done an amazing job, and when I met you and saw how young both you and Marchand are, I was doubly impressed.”
“Thank you, Peter. I’m grateful.”
“Wish I could put some money where my mouth is.”
“Me too.”
Bo came out of the office door, frowning ferociously, looked around, then powered over to where Jeremy stood.
As Bo approached, Peter shook Jeremy’s hand. “Sorry again.”
Jeremy nodded but tried to put on a happy face for Bo.
Bo walked up. “Stupid bastard.”
Peter nodded and chuckled mirthlessly. “Amen to that.”
“Excuse me, sir.”
Jeremy said, “At least you got a contract. Some good came of this pooch screw.”
“I told him to shove that contract where the sun don’t shine.”
“No way!”
Peter pumped a fist. “Well done.”
Jeremy felt like his mind was at war. Half a brain crowed that Bo had stood up for him. The other half cringed from the idea. My fault. My fault.
“That whole thing was a crock of horseshit,” Bo snarled. “I made it very clear what we had to offer. That little twerp wants to see if he can turn us against each other. Well, he can take his sparkling wine and drown in it.” He glanced at Peter. “Sorry for speaking ill of your family member, but he’s an idiot.”
Peter nodded. “Sadly, that’s sometimes true.”
Jeremy said, “I wonder how Ottersen got to him?”
“
Yes. I wondered at first why he wouldn’t have just refused us both, but I’m guessing this was a way to point out that you were being discriminated against. It wasn’t just that he didn’t have a use for our wines.”
Peter scratched at his cheek. “You know, I still don’t think Ottersen’s the name I heard.”
Jeremy sighed. “Not we, Bo. Me. He’s discriminating against me. He’s trying to put me out of business.”
Bo shook his head. “I just don’t understand why.” He waved an arm toward the business office. “And I don’t even know how he learned we were going to be at Strausburg, for Lord’s sake.”
“I don’t know how the fucker knows anything he does.”
Peter put a hand on Jeremy’s arm. “I’m terribly sorry this has occurred and that my son has been a pawn in this crap. If I hear anything useful, I’ll call you, okay? And if I remember who Henry said he spoke to.” He shook Bo’s hand and walked away.
Jeremy looked up at Bo. “Tell me the truth. Do you think tomorrow’s appointments are going to be any different?”
The crease between those beautiful eyes got deeper. “Let’s get back to the motel and I’ll make some calls.”
“Thanks, Bo.” Jeremy started walking toward the Prius. “Thank you for everything.”
Chapter Nineteen
JEREMY STARED out the window as the miles of highway sped under the wheels of the Prius. Last chance. Last effort. Shot. Fuck. True to his word, Bo had called each winery with which he’d made an appointment. Oh yes, Mr. Marchand, we look forward to seeing you. Yes, we’re interested. What? Oh no. We assumed we could rewrite the contracts to exclude Hill Top wines. Surely you’re not inflexible on this point? Oh, you are? Sadly, then, we have nothing to talk about. Sorry to waste your time.
Jeremy tried to convince Bo to relent. He couldn’t do this to himself. Bo had a chance to prevail against Ottersen and make some much-needed sales. He couldn’t afford to stand on principle. But of course, this was Bo. Mr. Principle. Except for one or two little staying-in-the-closet details, but still.