Keeping House

by Lee Brazil

  Mischa untied the silken rope around the neck of a velvet bag, opened the plastic baggie inside, and extracted a generous pinch of the fragrant contents. He tamped the herb down into the bowl of the glass pipe and Bella leaned forward for Trick to light it. After inhaling deeply she pressed the pipe into Mischa’s hand and curled back around into his lap. With a sigh of contentment, Mischa rested one hand on her silky black hair and brought the pipe to his own lips with the other.

  Almost instantly, the tension and stress of the day drifted away. He held in his breath as long as he could before gently letting it out and passing the pipe along. Dex quickly inhaled then turned to press his lips to Trick’s, exhaling into his brother’s mouth in a long steady stream. His eyes drifted shut and he smiled contentedly, shifting slightly in the cozy nest of pillows, blankets, and warm bodies.

  Chapter Three

  How Hard Can It Be?

  Tiny chirping noises from the onyx face of his wristwatch dragged Mischa from a cocoon of warmth. He struggled to pull his arm closer to his face and peered at the dial. Yeah. It was four am, time to make the coffee and get Donovan’s breakfast ready.

  He carefully extricated himself from the tangle of arms and legs and anxiously checked to see that he hadn’t wakened his friends as they lay coiled together in a heap like puppies on his daybed. He met Dex’s clear blue eyes as they blinked sleepily open, pressed a finger to the other man’s lips, and backed away from the bed. It was so very tempting to crawl back into that warm haven, but Mischa was determined to meet every one of Donovan’s demands and prove to him and his brothers that he was capable of doing something.

  He grabbed a change of clothing from a box on the floor near the closet door and his laptop from the coffee table then left the room tiptoeing quietly so as not to wake anyone. Halfway down the hall he stopped. What the fuck was he doing? Who was he going to wake up? Donovan was upstairs, and the others would sleep like the dead until noon after the night they’d had. It was four o’clock in the fucking morning and the last time he’d seen this time of day he’d been crawling into bed not out of it.

  He slipped into the bathroom to brush his teeth and scramble quickly into the clean clothes before heading back to the kitchen. Setting up his laptop on the marble breakfast bar he turned to survey the mess. Clearly, with cooking comprising a large part of his duties this was the place to start. First thing, though, he needed to find the coffee pot.

  On the counter near the sink, he found it. Unfortunately, it looked as though Donovan had been conducting some kind of science experiment in the thing. Murky brown liquid that retained only the faintest remnants of the smell of coffee half-filled the glass carafe, and little quarter sized islands of mold floated across the top. Disgusting. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Mischa picked up the carafe and carried it the few steps to the sink. There he was momentarily stymied by the fact that both stainless steel basins were full of dirty dishes. No time to waste. He shrugged and dumped the contents of the pot over the dishes in one sink. He returned to the coffee pot and accidentally discovered the flip-top lid to reveal the filter.

  That was even more disgusting than the contents of the carafe itself. A soggy white paper filter packed full of moldy soggy grounds gave off an unpleasant odor. Gross. Gingerly he reached in, pinched the damp edges of the filter together, and lifted it out. He held the offensive object as far in front of his body as he could while he searched for the trash can. Spying it, he moved quickly across the room to the back door to unload it as soon as possible. In the middle of the kitchen, a soft soggy thump failed to capture his attention soon enough, and he slid a few feet across the floor as he stepped into the mess of soggy coffee grounds that had broken through the wet filter.

  “Fuck!” he snarled under his breath, remembering at the last moment to keep his voice low. He slammed the remains of the disgusting mess into the ridiculously overfull trashcan before turning back to his laptop.

  As long as he had the internet, there wasn’t a chore Donovan could throw his way that he couldn’t handle. He might barf while doing it, but he could handle it. He typed into the Google search box—How do you make a pot of coffee? Six million plus results. Wow. Surely not. How many ways could there possibly be to make coffee? He randomly clicked on a likely looking link and turned back to the coffee pot. If the coffee pot were on the counter there, logic dictated that coffee beans, cups, and stuff must be nearby.

  Naturally, they weren’t. Apparently all the coffee cups were in the sinks, and who knew where the coffee itself was?

  Skimming the first article proved helpful, as he’d hoped, when he discovered that many people store their coffee beans in the refrigerator to help keep them fresh. A search of the huge three-door refrigerator revealed a few more science experiments and not much else. A fluttery panic began edging into his consciousness. He did not want to fail at his first task on his new job. The panic increased when he heard the unmistakable sounds of Donovan stirring upstairs.

  “Fuck it.” Whirling about he dashed through the laundry room into the garage and searched frantically for the keys to the Toyota Donovan had said he could drive. A quick trip to the nearest Starbucks and breakfast would be taken care of. A little calmer with a plan in place, he snagged the keys off the hook by the door only to come to complete stop at the sight of the car he was expected to drive.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” This was Donovan’s old Toyota? A vision of his beautiful black Porsche brought tears to his eyes as he approached the monstrosity parked in the garage. The little Toyota was painted a puke green color and liberally decorated with large white peace signs and purple daisies. It was an offense against God, nature and the engineers who designed the vehicle. Not even the most flaming homosexual would be caught dead driving that car. “Fuck you, Terry! I want my damn Porsche back!”

  Cursing brothers, coffee pots and working for a living all at once, he slammed into the vehicle and pealed out of the garage.

  As he puttered down the streets in the hippie car, missing the smooth handling and quiet purr of his Porsche, he figured the amount of money he had left in his account and added to that the contents of his pockets. It would be impossible to pay what he owed on the Porsche even if Donovan advanced him six months’ salary. Resigned, he ignored the mocking stares he was sure he was receiving from the other drivers on the road and pulled into the Starbucks’s drive-through lane.

  When Donovan strolled into the kitchen at six o’clock on the dot, Mischa had managed to unearth a clean place setting and silverware from one of the boxes. The breakfast tray he’d bought at the coffee shop had contained a croissant, cut fruit and a yogurt cup, so he’d arranged the items on the plate. The gallon of coffee he’d purchased sat in an insulated carton on the table along with a handful of packets of sweeteners and creamers.

  Mischa couldn’t take his eyes off the fine figure of a man in his navy blue suit and crisp white dress shirt. How come the same outfit on Terry made him want to rail against conformity? On Donovan the effect was just plain hot.

  “Do I smell coffee? I wasn’t expecting breakfast this morning, because I know you didn’t have the chance to shop yesterday.”

  Mischa noticed that not expecting breakfast didn’t stop Donovan from seating himself at the table and pouring a cup of coffee. He surveyed the food on his plate and picked up his fork to start eating. “Have a seat.” He gestured Mischa to the adjoining chair. “Aren’t you eating?”

  Mischa couldn’t hold back the shudder that racked his thin frame. “Eat at this time of the morning? No. Thanks. I’ll eat later. Right now, the whole idea of eating in here makes me nauseous.”

  Donovan nodded understandingly. “I see what you mean. This place is kind of unappetizing, isn’t it? That’s why I need you. I can’t keep up with it and the new job.”

  “But it doesn’t bother you?” Mischa asked, wondering if that was too rude for his first day of work.

  “I grew up eating meals in places that wo
uld make this look like a castle, so no, it doesn’t bother me. Anyway, here’s the debit card I told you about. Your first priority should be buying cleaning supplies and food. Don’t worry,” he added,”I don’t expect miracles. I know it’ll take a few days for you to get this place together.”

  Mischa accepted the debit card dubiously. Closer inspection revealed that it resembled the credit cards he had turned over to Terry as part of the dare to live within his means. He’d honestly never used one before. “Okay.”

  He’d learned during his first few interviews that when you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about it was better to keep quiet. Bella, Dex, or Trick could tell him how to use this thing, no doubt.

  Donovan was speaking again, tapping the card. He produced a white business card from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and handed it over as well. “My cell number, the house phone number, and the pin number for the debit card are on the back, but call the office number first if you have any questions. Probably my secretary can help you with most of what might come up.”

  Donovan was up and out the door before Mischa had assimilated all the information the man had crammed onto one flimsy business card.

  Daunted and unsure where to start, Mischa surveyed the mess of the kitchen. Unpack first, he decided, then shop, then clean, then cook. Rising, he peered into the first box and grimaced. A few minutes at the computer had soothing jazz music playing in the background and the tension once again eased from his body. He dragged all the boxes into a row on the side of the room opposite the cabinets and cut them all open with a grimy knife he’d found near the sink. Once the contents of all the boxes were visible, he studied the layout of the cabinets and appliances. Plan in place, he dove into the first box and began item by item organizing the kitchen.

  He’d made quite a bit of progress when the others slipped out of his room and joined him. It lightened his heart that they didn’t even ask if he needed help, just took in what he was doing, and pitched in immediately. Soon the boxes were empty and all of them were hungry.

  “Let’s go. I have to get cleaning supplies and I’m starved.” Dex, Trick and Bella swung as one to face him. Of course they knew he no longer had the Porsche. A twinge of momentary concern made him pause. Would his friends mock the Toyota? He pulled the keys to the monster out of his pocket and jingled them in his hand. “Donovan left me the keys to his other car.”

  Quietly they trooped after him through the laundry room and into the garage. That newly familiar warmth spread through his chest again as Bella whispered, “Cool,” and Trick’s seldom heard mellow giggle was muffled by Dex. None of them protested or disdained to ride in the humble vehicle, and Mischa smiled. If asked a month ago who his best friends were, these wouldn’t have been the three he named, but here they were now, helping him hold his head above the water and openly accepting everything about him. Including the fugly car he was driving them around in.

  By the time Bella had explained the purpose of the necessary cleaning supplies to him and he’d made his purchases, including a few sacks of foodstuffs that she promised him would be easy to prepare, it was too late to get home in time to prepare a meal for Donovan by six.

  As he dropped his three friends off at Bella’s apartment, Trick turned back and leaned in his open window—the fugly car had no air conditioning—a factor he hadn’t noticed at six in the morning was now unmistakable at three in the afternoon.

  “Stop at Boston Market,” Trick suggested shyly. “Get a family meal and reheat it when he comes home. We do it all the time.”

  “Thanks, Trick. That’s a great idea.” Tingling tremors of shock and pleasure zipped through him as Trick leaned closer and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. His gaze jerked up the sidewalk seeking Dex. As he suspected Dex had halted on the path and was looking back at the car, waiting for his brother to rejoin him. His blue eyes glinted with approval and he lifted his hand in a silent farewell as Trick jogged up the path.

  Chapter Four

  Finding Phillip Henderson

  In the late evening light, Donovan passed the welcoming glow of his neighbors’ homes, porch lights on and windows glowing. Shadowy figures moved about inside. The tight muscles at the back of his neck loosened a bit, and a niggling smile pushed at his mouth. Tonight, he’d be coming home to a lit house, with figures moving about inside, a home instead of a house.

  The smile became full-blown when his mind turned to that someone he was coming home to. Mischa. Damn. The sexiest housekeeper on the block! Remembering the aborted kiss from the night before, for the hundredth time, he kicked his own mental ass for pushing the man away.

  Pulling into the drive with a sense of letdown, he noticed all the windows were dark and no welcoming figure moved around in the house. On the plus side, the porch light glowed and the trash cans sat at the curb. The U-Haul was missing, and a momentary disquiet crept through his soul as he wondered if it had departed jammed full of his own hard-earned possessions. Recalling the amazing collection of antique furniture, fine art, and expensive electronics he had helped Mischa and his friends move into the housekeeper’s room last night, he highly doubted that any of his belongings equaled his housekeeper’s in fiscal value.

  Unsure what to expect, Donovan unlocked the door and entered his home. The faint notes of a light jazzy instrumental drifted from the kitchen and soothed his troubled emotions. He smiled as he stepped into his office to drop off his leather briefcase before seeking his errant housekeeper.

  There wasn’t much difference in the front of the house that he could see on his way back to the kitchen. The packing boxes still lined the walls, furniture was jumbled in any which way. The light from the kitchen and the soothing jazz beckoned and he wandered on down to the kitchen where he found exactly what Mischa had been doing all day. The room smelled enticingly of cinnamon and apples, with a faint underlying odor of bleach and lemon. Every surface gleamed and the packing boxes had disappeared.

  Unlike this morning, the small kitchen table was set with service for two, and Mischa sat in one chair, his laptop open in front of him. The jazz came from the laptop, and Mischa hummed along in spots as he worked diligently typing something. Yesterday Donovan had found the young man to be physically appealing, edgy, and intriguing. Tonight, there was soft vulnerability in the tired eyes, the troubled frown. Mischa in skinny jeans and a tight black t-shirt had sent his heart racing and his blood pumping. Mischa in black silk pajama pants and a gauzy white peasant style shirt melted his heart into a puddle of goo. An unexpected desire to embrace, soothe, and cuddle the younger man rippled through him.

  “Hi.” Damn. That was scintillating conversation at its best. So seductive, sexy, and appealing was the image before him that his brain reverted to yesterday’s inability to come up with a single topic of conversation. “So, I see you cleaned the kitchen?” Argh, again with question-statements.

  “Yeah, when do you want to eat?” Mischa met his intent gaze wearily.

  “Umm, is now good?” Wow. At least this time the question was an actual question.

  “Yeah, it’s all ready, just keeping warm in the oven.” Mischa rose and retrieved a tray from the oven with covered serving dishes on it.

  When the covers were removed, Donovan, long accustomed to take out cuisine, recognized the smell of Boston Market roast chicken and stifled his smile. “It looks great, Mischa.” Would the kid have the integrity to admit that he’d bought the food, or would he claim to have made it himself? Donovan began serving himself as he waited for Mischa to comment.

  Mischa sat indecisively for moment, and then shrugged. “It was Trick’s suggestion. I didn’t have time to prepare a meal, so I picked up Boston Market after doing the shopping.”

  And if that wasn’t just the cutest thing. Mischa’s cheeks flushed and he looked down at his plate as he put a spoonful of green beans on the white china.

  Mischa’s good looks and integrity drew him to the boy even more than before.

  “I need to
talk to you about this job.” Mischa had recovered from whatever embarrassment had created the flush and was meeting his eyes challengingly.

  “Yes? What about it?” Donovan wondered if he was going to give up so soon and quit. He found himself surprised by the degree of disappointment the notion of Mischa leaving his home created. Employ. You are surprised that he wants to quit working for you, not that he won’t be living with you. His disappointment today almost matched his reluctance to hire the boy yesterday.

  “You need to hold off on scheduling the decorators and all until after I get the house cleaned up. This kitchen took me all day, and that’s without preparing any meals, or doing any laundry. I’m going to need at least three weeks to get the unpacking and organizing done. The yard has to wait until the house is habitable, and I don’t want to do the yard while people are traipsing all over the place building and painting and such. They’d just tear up anything I put in.”

  Chewing his chicken carefully, Donovan nodded. His relief that his new housekeeper planned to hang in there and actually seemed to have a sensible grasp on what needed to be done seemed a bit out of proportion. He wouldn’t complain as long as he got what he wanted. Apparently his heart and his cock were outvoting his head on the issue of Mischa.

  “Just tell me when it’s ready. Anything else?” Please let there not be anything else, he prayed to a God whom prior to Mischa’s advent into his life he’d never suspected of having a sense of humor. Mischa licked the chicken grease from his lips and Donovan found his gaze focused on the tip of that pink tongue as it traced the full lower lip, and then paused to toy with the little silver ring there. When the plump pink curve dropped and more tongue became visible, he shifted awkwardly on his chair for a moment. He’d suspected that Mischa had more piercings than were immediately visible, and that suspicion had just been confirmed. If he’d accepted Mischa’s kiss the night before it would have been an experience he hadn’t had in a long time.