by Kelly Jensen
Mal ordered a complicated confection of coffee and cream, and a slice of pound cake, with cream and strawberries.
“You like cream,” Brian observed after the server had left.
“I do. And if I have to endure the torture of physical therapy for another three months, I’m going to eat it every day.”
Brian indulged in a quick fantasy of Mal licking cream from his lips. Licking cream from his skin. Licking something creamy from his lips.
“You have to stop looking at my mouth like that.”
Brian flicked his gaze upward to Mal’s smiling eyes. “Ahh, but I know what those lips taste like. It’s only natural that I would want to look at them.” He did remember Mal’s taste, too. Hops, peanuts, and man. Mal. He’d tasted warm and altogether too cozy—like long mornings tangled in down comforters.
“I was hit by a car,” Mal said.
“What?”
“You asked what happened.” Mal glanced at the table, under which his knee was propped on a chair.
“Oh, right. Jesus. Also, that’s a hell of a subject change.”
“Not really. Just reminding you why we’re here.”
“You think that because this is coffee and it’s still light outside”—barely—“that you’re safe from any advance?”
Mal shifted in his seat.
Brian grinned. Leaning forward, he murmured, “Do you remember what I taste like?”
Cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink, one that couldn’t be hidden with a smile, Mal muttered inaudibly.
“What was that?”
Their server arrived back with coffee and cake.
Brian considered pressing for an answer, but decided to let Mal enjoy his coffee and cream and cake and cream until Mal rolled his eyes and put down his fork. He licked his lips, which were not coated with cream, and reached into the satchel-type bag he’d put on the side of their table. “So, the GSA.”
Inwardly, Brian groaned. He hadn’t mentioned the group to Josh and he hadn’t given any thought to joining himself. What would be the point if his nephew wasn’t there?
“Basically, the aim of the club is to provide a safe space for kids to express themselves. The teacher who started the club is moving, and I’ll be heading it up from now on. I’d like more parents and teachers to get involved, but this late in the school year, most teachers already have full schedules. So I’m asking parents. I’ve talked to the mother of one of my students, and she said she’ll try to make it. She’ll be encouraging her son to join too, which is great, as he’s well-liked by the other students. He’ll probably bring his girlfriend. Did you ask Josh about it?”
“Ah . . .”
Mal put his folder down. “Is he gay?”
Brian felt his brow furrow. “Are you allowed to ask that?”
“Technically, no. Not to Josh, anyway. But I’m asking you. Is that why he’s living with you?”
“For the time being.” Brian tried to appear happier about it, or at least content. Mal’s eyebrows lifted in question, but before Mal could voice whatever he was thinking, Brian returned to their earlier conversation. “What happened with the car?”
“What car?”
“The one that hit you?”
Mal swallowed. Licked his lips. Shuffled his papers. He leaned forward, as though preparing to ask a question, then leaned back again.
“I was out running,” he said. “It was late, I’d gotten a late start, and it was dark by the time I turned back toward home, but most of the path is in parkland, except where it crosses roads. The car caught me on Lake Road, just as I tried to jump out of the way, hitting both of my legs and throwing me nearly twenty feet. I broke my collarbone, wrenched my shoulder, hit my head, vomited everywhere, broke one leg, and tore all the ligaments in the other. I had a severe concussion and couldn’t hear out of one ear for three months. It still fuzzes now and again. One of my bones was poking through my skin. That’s what they tell me.” Mal’s gaze had taken on a faraway aspect as he added, “They also tell me that I nearly died. On the operating table. I lost a lot of blood and my brain was swollen.”
Brian’s tongue was dry. He closed his mouth, rewetting it. “Holy crap, are you freaking kidding me?”
“No.”
“And this was when?”
“August last year.”
“And you’re already walking?”
Mal’s jaw tightened. “Not well enough, but . . . yeah. I . . .”
Brian could see it then, the pain beneath the more rested expression, and that not all of Mal’s hurt was physical.
“What happened with the driver of the car?” he asked.
Mal shook his head, his eyebrows bunched together. “He left the scene.”
The date that wasn’t a date wasn’t going as planned. Brian wore a pinched expression and Mal felt sick. His four or five mouthfuls of cake and cream swirled in his stomach. Why on this good Earth had he given so much detail? Fewer facts would have been better, judging by the pallor of Brian’s face. And the “I could have died” bit? What the ever loving—
“Do they know anything? Are there any suspicions?” Brian asked.
“What do you mean?”
“About the car and the driver.”
“Probably someone from out of town.”
“On Lake Road?”
“You could cut through there from 202 to Sussex.”
Brian shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. Were they speeding?”
Swallowing, Mal pushed his plate away. “Can we talk about something else?”
To his surprise, Brian immediately nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry you were in such a terrible accident.”
Mal shrugged. Brian wasn’t the first person to apologize for things that weren’t his fault. Mal had received a lot of the same attention back in college, and understood that it was reflex to offer an apology when you couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Brian reached across the table then, suddenly enough to catch Mal by surprise. He grasped Mal’s wrist. “I saw the photo of you next door. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to be so limited right now.”
“Photo?” Brian’s hand was warm.
“The football one. You winning some award.”
“Oh, that picture at the Colonial.” Cue another gut swirl. God, why had he ordered everything with cream? “Yeah, football isn’t exactly my thing anymore. I wrecked that in college. Another spectacular accident.”
“Sounds like you need a guardian angel.”
Are you applying for the job?
Even though Mal didn’t say the words, Brian obviously heard them. Smiling, he stroked Mal’s wrist. “I’ve seen you at the Pig. Why haven’t you ever introduced yourself?”
“Why haven’t you?”
Brian frowned. “That’s . . . a good question.”
Mal withdrew his hand. “Listen, Brian—”
“Hmm?”
“What are we doing here? No, don’t answer that. What are you doing here?”
“In Morristown or in this café?”
“Sitting across the table from me pretending you’re interested in my life story.”
“Ouch.”
Mal shrugged.
Brian leaned back and folded his arms. “You asked me if I wanted to help out with this GSC—”
“GSA.”
“Right, that. So I’m here.”
“You don’t really want to help, though. Do you?”
Discomfort tugged at Brian’s easy smile. “Are you always this direct?”
“No, actually. But . . . I’m tired and in pain and . . . I don’t know where you think this is going, but it’s probably not where you think it is.”
“But you don’t know where I think this is going.”
“Brian.”
“I do like the way you say my name.”
“Brian!”
Brian held up his hands. “Okay. I’ll state the obvious. I want to get to know you.”
“In
a biblical sense.”
“In every sense.”
Heat suffused Mal’s cheeks before shooting southward. “I’m not a Thursday night kinda guy.”
“I know.”
“Then . . .”
Brian’s throat moved as he swallowed, and the idea he seemed to be taking time to choose his next words filled Mal with a combination of excitement and consternation. Uncrossing his arms, Brian leaned forward, lips quirking up on one side. “When was the last time you let go, Mal? Just went with a feeling and did something you really wanted to do?”
“Seconds before the car hit me.”
“Not what I’m talking about and you know it.”
“So, what, you think my love life needs a little shaking up and you’re offering to do the shaking?” A combination of yes and no rolled through Mal’s middle. Hadn’t he been thinking this exact thing?
“Why not?”
“Putting aside the fact that I can barely walk, you could choose any of a dozen other guys.” Mal tapped his wrist. “It’s Thursday. You could go next door tonight and get what you need.”
“You’re not there on Thursday nights.”
“Are you always this direct?” Mal asked, echoing Brian’s earlier question.
Brian smiled. “When I see something I want, yes.”
Mal gave in to the urge to tug at his shorter hair. He had about an inch all over now, which was enough to push his fingers through, but he missed having it longer. Being able to hide behind it. Heck, even the warmth of it. Letting his hand drift back to the table, he aimed for the folder and pushed it forward. “Help me with this and I’ll think about it.”
“That’s not much of an offer. You could think and say no.”
“I could. I guess it depends on how much you”—he’d said want, hadn’t he?—“want me.”
Brian’s smile was slow and it did awful and wonderful things to Mal’s equilibrium. Competing urges stopped clashing and started aligning, making the warmth spreading through his middle and down his legs withdraw to a more central point. He could feel his cheeks flushing again and wanted to loosen his collar—though he wore no tie and the neckline of his sweater was not snug.
“What you’re feeling right now?” Brian said. “That’s why I’m going to say yes to your deal. I’ll show up to this club of yours and then you’ll show up to a date with me.”
“I didn’t say anything about a date.”
“You’d rather meet up and fuck?”
Oh God. Mal tapped his folder. “Meeting first.”
“Of course.” Brian’s grin said he knew Mal was only making that point for himself.
“And now we need to change the subject.”
“Did you know the hotel across the road was planning to knock down this entire row of buildings?”
Mal felt as though someone had opened a window and let a blizzard swirl into the center of the coffee shop. “What?”
“I was chatting with Leo on Monday, and he showed me the notice. I did a little research and discovered it’s not just his building, but this one and the one next door.”
“But the Colonial has been in Leo’s family forever!”
“Fifty-seven years. Before then, it was a café. Before then, a soda shop. I’m still digging into before then.”
“Wow.”
“I’ve been poking about in city records.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You wanted to change the subject.”
Mal glanced at the wall separating the café from the building next door and frowned. He couldn’t imagine the Colonial not being there. Here. It was his place. His bar. “My dad used to drink at the Colonial.”
“It’s a landmark and a tradition.”
“What can we do? Can you do anything? You have access to those sorts of records, so . . .”
“Anyone can look at public records. But I have a few connections in city hall, so . . . yeah, I’d like to do something. The Billings Group is citing age and bad repair as reasons to knock down the row.”
“Let me guess. Whatever they put here will probably be too expensive for the current tenants.”
“Probably.”
“Leo must be going crazy.”
“I imagine he is.”
An odd impulse had Mal stretching his hand across the table toward Brian’s. He patted the back of Brian’s fingers. “Thanks for telling me. The school principal is involved with the city council, I think. I’ll see what he knows and maybe between all of us, we’ll figure something out.”
“Maybe talk to your father as well. And encourage Leo to do the same. If we could get some history on the buildings, the Billings Group might be convinced to renovate instead of knocking them down.”
Mal nodded. “Okay. Done.”
Smiling, Brian angled his hand so that his fingers slid over the top of Mal’s. “Can we talk about our date now?”
It would be childish and somewhat ridiculous to extract his hand. Also, the stroke of Brian’s fingers was traveling up his arm and down his side and back to his middle. Yes and no were doing their thing in his gut again. Hope against fear. He missed being with someone, but a sumptuous feast was not the recommended way to end a starvation diet. “If I invite you to my house, are you going to immediately assume that means sex?”
“Of course.”
Inwardly, Mal groaned. In a good way. “Do you have any friends, Brian?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“What if I said I wanted to be friends?”
“You don’t.” Brian continued to stroke his hand. “Right now you’re imagining my fingers elsewhere. Friends don’t think like that.”
Their server appeared then. She didn’t frown at their joined hands, or the snippet of conversation she’d obviously overheard, but her cheeks flamed nonetheless. “Can I get you guys anything else?”
Extracting his hand—leaving Mal’s cold and alone—Brian opened his wallet and pulled out a card. “Can you give this to the owner? My associate and I are researching the history of these buildings in an effort to save them from the hotel’s refurbishment plan.”
Shrugging, the server took the card. “Sure.”
“Have them call me.”
“Okay.”
“And we’ll take the check, thanks.”
She peeled off a ticket and laid it on the table. “Up the front, when you’re ready.”
Brian glanced back at Mal and caught him staring. He raised his brows. “What?”
“You’re serious about this. About saving these buildings.”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I looked you up.” Mal’s last blush hadn’t faded yet. It was too warm in the café. “I know your business is mostly residential and that you’re more about building new than restoration. What’s your interest in this particular row of buildings? You could put in a bid for whatever they wanted to build next.”
“I could.”
“Then why try to save the row?”
Mal had a feeling Brian’s answer would be the key to unlocking a man who, on the surface, didn’t appear to have much mystery at all. Brian Kenway was as advertised. A flirt, a player. Someone who went after what he wanted and rarely took no for an answer. But something deeper lurked below the surface. Beneath that handsome façade lay a man who was currently acting as the guardian of a disaffected teenager, and perhaps a man who wanted something more.
He had done more.
Brian picked up the check. “This one’s on me. I never paid you back for the other night.”
Waving a hand, Mal waited for more. For the answer to his question.
Brian let out a soft sigh. “I’ve spent the past two years waiting for an opportunity to leave Morristown. I don’t hate this city, I just . . .” Was that sorrow reflected in his eyes? “Maybe this will be my last project. The first thing I did here was build a collection of condos near where I live. Maybe the last thing I do here will be to save something old.” His smile
was small and secretive. “It would be fitting, in a way.”
“You’re not planning to stay?”
“I’m not planning anything, Mal. I’m following my instincts, as I have always done. It’s an attitude that usually does well for me.”
“I can imagine,” Mal said, his tone dry. “And me?”
Brian’s smile widened. “See above.”
“Not sure if I like being categorized as a project.”
Brian laughed, and it wasn’t his usual laugh—short and sharp. This was more a chuckle. Soft, gentle, rueful. “Then stop thinking of yourself that way,” he said. “Simple as that.”
Brian nearly jumped off the couch as something exploded on the TV.
“How could you not see that coming?” Josh asked.
Tuning into the show, Brian tried to make sense of everything on the screen. “What?”
“Are you even watching?”
“Sure.”
Josh turned back to the blazing inferno, and Brian thought back over his knowledge of the plot that was about as confusing as the wreckage littering the . . . Were those zombies?
“What’s this called again?”
“The Walking Dead.”
“Right.” They’d elected not to watch a movie because jumping into a show at the beginning of the fifth season had made so much more sense. “You promised to catch me up. What exploded?”
“A gas tank. She shot a hole in it and then sent a Roman candle over there.”
“Uh-huh.”
Brian watched as the people he supposed were the good guys shot at the people he supposed were the bad guys, and why were they all shooting each other when there were zombies to kill? Then his mind wandered back toward the Colonial Tavern.
Would Mal be there tonight?
Would Brian be breaking their agreement if he stopped by for a drink and happened to flirt and maybe coax (gently, oh so gently) Mal into another kiss and then saw where the night went? Their last kiss had been going places. Oh, yeah.
Someone screamed and Brian startled back to reality.
Then the screen went black.
Josh tossed the remote onto the table and stood up. “I can watch upstairs.”
“What? Why? I was watching.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“What does it matter, anyway? I don’t even know what’s happening, Josh.”