by Lee Brazil
Sighing, he moved over to the room. Somehow, knowing the perfect specimen of manhood who’d left here an hour ago looking all GQ and sexy was in reality a slob, who apparently would rather buy new clothes than launder his old ones, melted his heart a little more. Scooping up piles and walking back and forth up and down the stairs, he wondered if those new plans for the modifications to the house included the addition of a laundry chute upstairs.
Having dragged everything downstairs, he began working on what all the websites agreed was the most important factor in correctly doing laundry. He sorted it into piles by color and weight of fabric. A large pile of colored t-shirts and sleep pants made the first load, and he added carefully measured laundry detergent and fabric softener in the appropriate places.
While the machine whirred and thumped away, he headed back upstairs and gathered up a large quantity of suit jackets, dress pants, and white and blue dress shirts. No way was he going to wash these. These things were going to a dry cleaner and get the professional treatment.
He placed the dry cleaning in the back seat of the Toyota, and shut the door. Staring at the fugly paint job on the car, he realized that Donovan really had come a long way from hippie commune to upscale neighborhood. He had to respect the other man’s accomplishments and his home.
A bit lighter of heart, he headed back into the house to his room. He swiped up the ebony and bone box from the table and hurried out to the car. There he shoved the box under the front seat. Issue satisfactorily resolved. He’d take the box over to Bella’s and only indulge while visiting his friends.
As he switched the t-shirts and sleep pants to the dryer, he realized he’d only smoked in the first place because it would piss Terry off to smell it on him every Wednesday night. Sacrificing this act of rebellion for Donovan’s peace of mind didn’t bother him a bit. How odd was that?
He straightened, tossed a dryer sheet in the dryer, and started the machine. Turning back to the mountain of laundry left to be washed, he sighed. He would be careful to keep on top of this chore in the future. He threw in a load of whites this time, and added the bleach to the running water and detergent and waited a while for the two to mix before adding piles of white towels and t-shirts.
In the kitchen he closed the laundry sites on his computer and pulled up some recipe sites he’d bookmarked previously. Dinner tonight was going to be all his own work, not necessarily gourmet, but definitely homemade.
Washing, peeling and dicing vegetables was a little more difficult than the how-to video made it seem, but once he got the hang of the strange device for scraping the skins off the veggies it went faster. Didn’t say much for his knife skills that it took him an hour to prepare a diced cucumber, bell pepper, and pineapple salad. To be completely fair though, a good portion of that time had been spent on an onion. He’d become teary eyed before he’d progressed very far on the thing, and crying had made it even more difficult to make the precise cuts he wanted for the salad.
Crying had brought back to mind the little boy Donovan had been, raised in poverty by hippie drug addicts on a school bus in the desert, and before he knew it, he cried for Donovan, the little boy he had been, and the man he’d grown into.
Eventually, he’d calmed down enough to toss some gorgonzola cheese crumbles in the salad, add the juice of a lemon and a handful of mint leaves. With the salad in the refrigerator, thankfully cleared of moldy science experiments, it was time to check the laundry.
He shifted the first load on the counter to fold, and had headed back to the laundry room to move the whites over before washing a load of Donovan’s jeans.
When he opened the washer and peered in, he gasped in shock. Somehow, despite all his research something had gone wrong. He pulled out a t-shirt and held it up to the light. Yep. It was pink, so were the towels, sleep pants, and underwear in the load. The whole load was a dainty seashell pink. How the hell had that happened?
Fuck. Donovan was so going to fire him. He couldn’t fucking believe this. Everything had been going so well, too. He dropped to the floor and thumped his head against the washer. Why? Why? Why? The urge to run out to the garage and calm himself with a little smoke sobered him up quickly. Shit. Maybe he was worse off than he thought.
No. No smoking. He stood shakily and turned resolutely from the temptation in the garage. Figure out what made it happen, then figure out how to undo it. He began removing articles from the washer one by one and eventually found it, a slightly faded shirt that he clearly remembered putting in with the first load of laundry. Somehow, he’d left it in the machine when he’d loaded the whites. He tossed it aside and reloaded the whites, now pinks.
A quick visit to Google and he decided to try running the load of laundry through again. Hopefully since he hadn’t dried it, the dye would wash out. If not, all he could do was confess the accident and offer to replace the items from his paycheck.
By six that evening, the dry cleaning had been dropped off, the black box resided in its new home at Bella’s place, and the rest of the laundry had been washed, folded and put away as best he could manage. Fortunately, running the whites through the wash again with bleach had resolved the coloring issue.
He’d cleaned the bathroom, stripped and remade Donovan’s bed and finished the simple dinner preparations. Steaks stood marinating on the counter, ready to be thrown on the grill as soon as Donovan was ready to eat, and baked potatoes sat waiting in the warm oven.
Mischa paced back and forth, anxiously assessing and reassessing the table setting. He added a centerpiece of fall leaves and scented candles to the table, and then worried that it created too romantic an atmosphere, and took it away again. He’d made the same series of actions three times before the rumble of the garage door announced Donovan’s presence.
He snapped to attention and dropped the centerpiece back into the middle of the table. The snick of the door opening behind him drew his attention like a magnet to Donovan’s sexy presence. Something inside him calmed at that moment. Donovan was home, and the rest of it really didn’t matter. Laundry, cleaning, cooking, learning new things at a rapid pace, and giving up his recreational drug of choice were all worthwhile to see the warm delight of Donovan’s smile as he met Mischa’s eyes.
“I quit.” He blurted it out, wanting to get it out before Donovan could speak.
The devastation on Donovan’s face confused him. So did the man’s fumbling words. “You don’t have to. I was wrong. Really, I can live with it. I need you to be here.”
Light dawned, and with it came a burst of pleasure. “No. I don’t mean I quit working for you. I mean I quit smoking, today. I gave it up. It’s important to you, and I respect that.”
He’d scarcely finished speaking before Donovan swept him into an embrace and the man’s lips crushed down on his own, tongue demanding entrance. Wow. That was more than nice. Eagerly he opened up and thrust his tongue into Donovan’s mouth in response, hungrily seeking the sensitive places inside. He rubbed his piercing against Donovan’s tongue and shivered in delight at the groans of desire. Donovan reached down with one hand and pulled him close, urging him against the hard muscles of his taut thighs and flat stomach.
Mischa whimpered in pleasure as his cock swelled and thrust against the zipper of his jeans in an eager bid to capture some of Donovan’s attention for itself. Kissing Donovan was unlike any kiss he’d ever shared, and he owed some of that delicious pleasure to the fact that he could be one hundred percent certain that Donovan wanted him, Mischa, unlike past lovers who enjoyed the perks of dating and fucking a wealthy man.
Mischa couldn’t really claim to be surprised when Donovan pushed him gently away, having endured the same ending to Donovan’s passionate kisses twice before. Panting heavily, Donovan bent and rested his forehead against Mischa’s. His hand traced a slow path from the nape of Mischa’s neck down the knobs of his spine to the waist of his jeans and back up again. Mischa held still, hoping that if he didn’t call Donovan’s attention to his hands
actions, the other man wouldn’t notice.
Slowly Donovan’s breathing returned to normal. He straightened and his hands dropped to cup Mischa’s buttocks and squeeze gently before falling back to his own sides.
“What’s for dinner?” The conversation said back to business, but a latent, molten heat threatened to turn his brown eyes to liquid honey again any moment, so Mischa smiled and stepped back. Let Donovan have his space. There would be time for them.
“Steak, baked potato, and salad, just a simple meal, but I managed it all on my own, without the help of Boston Market, so I hope you like it.” Proud of his accomplishment, Mischa didn’t mind hinting that a little approval and appreciation would be welcome.
Chapter Seven
Poker Night with the Blake Boys
The new ringtone he’d programmed into his phone for Terry blared out during the middle of dinner Wednesday night. Donovan stopped speaking and looked at him curiously. The meal he prepared had been a success, candied sweet potatoes from the crock-pot he’d finally purchased, a juicy pork loin roast, and garlic green beans.
“Sorry,” he muttered, as the notes of Dire Straits’ Money for Nothing continued to blare. “I have to take this.”
Donovan nodded understandingly and continued eating his dinner.
“Hi, Terry, what’s up?” Cursing Terry for interrupting his dinner with Donovan, Mischa smiled at the gorgeous man eating across the table from him.
“I’m leaving the studio now and heading to the house for the poker game. I can pick you up on my way, since you don’t have a car right now.”
Terry was nothing if not relentless in his need to poke into his brother’s business. “That’s all right. I think I can get access to a car. You don’t need to pick me up.”
Fulminating silence met his declaration, and he noticed he had Donovan’s attention now, too. He smiled reassuringly at the other man and gestured for him to continue eating. “I know what you’re up to Terry. I’m not giving you my address so you can come over here and check up on me. I’ll see you at the poker game in an hour. I love you, dickhead.” He hung up without giving Terry the opportunity to protest or respond.
“So, I’m um, off tonight, and I need to go to a game over on the other side of town. Do you think I could borrow the car?” His brothers would die laughing when they saw the Toyota, but knowing now that it showed where Donovan had come from, he didn’t mind the fugly paint job, and found something gallant in the ancient beast’s continued existence.
Donavan’s disappointed expression tugged at his heart, but he had told the man that he had to have Wednesday evening off when he was hired. Failing to show up for the weekly poker game on the first week after starting his job would bring the wrath of the Blakes down on his head with a fury that would put the hounds of hell to shame. He couldn’t do that to Donovan, really he couldn’t, better to leave the man he’d come so quickly to love to his own devices for an evening than witness the bloodshed if his brothers had to come looking for him.
“Yeah, sure, you can borrow the car.” Donovan’s face had gone distant, and he resumed eating mechanically.
Guiltily, Mischa added, “Umm, could I get a cash advance on my wages? I wouldn’t ask, but I used the last of mine to pick up your dry cleaning this morning and I need a cash stake for the game.”
Startled, Donovan met his eyes again, a considering look in his own. “Okay. I have some cash. How much do you need to buy in?”
“Usually it’s a thousand.”
Donovan’s nostrils flared and his eyes widened in shock. Damn, the Blakes really did live a different lifestyle than other people.
Donovan reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He rifled through it and removed a handful of bills. “This is all I have, if you put the receipt for the dry cleaning and any other expenses you’ve paid cash for on my desk with the accounts on Friday, I’ll reimburse you for them with your pay check. Have a nice night.”
Dropping the bills on the table, he pushed his plate away and stalked off down the hall to his office. Troubled, Mischa stared at the money on the table as he cleared the table, rinsed the dishes, and loaded the dishwasher. He left it there as he packaged the leftovers, making a boxed lunch for Donovan to take to work the next day and storing the rest for his own lunch the next day. Something was wrong with Donovan, but he couldn’t decide what. Should he go down and tell him he was leaving? A single glance told him the office door normally left open had been shut. Shaking his head, he scooped up the cash and put it in his own wallet. He’d talk to Donovan and clear the air when he got back from the game.
An hour later, he pulled the hippie car into his usual parking place in the twelve car garage on the family estate, still worried that he’d made the wrong choice. Maybe he should have gone to Donovan’s office and cleared the air, at the very least claimed a kiss before he left for the night. His brothers’ cars were already in their places in the garage, but his own Porsche was missing. What the fuck had happened to his car? Terry was supposed to have rescued it from repossession and stored it here on the property.
Temper boiling, on edge from the uncertainty of not knowing where he stood with Donovan, he slammed aggressively through the house to the game room and dropped into his seat. He stared defiantly into each brother’s familiar green eyes one by one. Terry cleared his throat and shoved a handful of hundred dollar bills across to Mischa from his stack.
“Fuck you, Terry.” He snarled pushing the money back and pulled the handful of cash Donovan had given him from his own wallet. Lip curling he turned to Dan. “Deal.”
Brandon started to speak, but Mischa glared him down, and the other man shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth snapping together. They played a few hands in testy silence. Slowly Mischa relaxed. The others, sensing his more even keel, began the ribbing and teasing that usually accompanied their games.
Brandon never could leave well enough alone. He paused in discarding a card to address Mischa. “So, you found a job?”
Wary, Mischa rearranged his cards and nodded. “I found a job.”
“Well, are you going to tell us about it?” Terry chimed in.
Mischa slammed his hand of cards down on the table. Fucking assholes couldn’t let anything go. “I got a job as a housekeeper for a busy executive.”
The shocked looks on his brothers’ faces drained the anger from him and he laughed aloud. That right there, a trio of handsome men gaping like trout made the admission worthwhile. He had the distinct impression they wouldn’t have been more shocked if he’d told them he’d become a pole dancer in a fetish club.
“You’re a housekeeper?” Terry seemed to be recovering more slowly than the other two. “You—you—actually cook and clean?”
Laughing again, Mischa picked up his cards. “I do. I cook, clean, do laundry and am working on the gardens. You’re up.”
Brandon seemed bewildered. “Seriously? You’d rather slave away doing housework than work at the studio? Be elbows deep in dirty dishes rather than go to college and make something of yourself? I don’t understand you, brother, I really don’t.”
“Then again, Brandon, you never have understood me.” Mischa looked around the table; his brothers were great people, each in his own way, but none of them really understood Mischa’s wants and desires. They all had their own ideas about what he should do and how he should live his life. He sighed. “I’m out. And I need to get back home.” He scooped up his winnings, pleased to see he had more than enough to pay back Donovan for staking him to the game and turned to leave ignoring his brothers’ protests.
Outside the door, he paused to put the cash into his wallet and caught his name.
“Mischa’s different. Something about him, it wasn’t the same.” That was Brandon, nitpicking and criticizing as usual.
“I can tell you one thing that’s different,” Terry drawled. “He didn’t stink of booze and pot for a change. That’s a difference I can get behind and support one hundr
ed percent.”
“And he didn’t borrow money, or ask for money,” Dan noted.
“Still, keeping house is no career for a Blake! What the hell are we going to do with that kid?” Brandon, still pushing his control issues.
Fuck Brandon. He was going home to a man who appreciated him as he was.
“Oh, please. He’ll get bored with that gig long before….”
On that note he headed off. He had no desire to listen to his brothers analyze his personality and plan his future. He was pretty damn certain that he loved Donovan and would never get bored with taking care of the other man.
Pulling into the drive and seeing the lights on in the living area of the house, he decided to enter through the front door. Deeply pleased that Donovan had chosen to use the living room he’d unpacked and arranged just that morning.
He strolled over and dropped onto the leather sofa near Donovan. Donovan turned toward him, face troubled.
“Mischa, I don’t know how to say this, so please, don’t get angry with me, okay?”
Fuck. What the hell had happened while he’d been gone? Things had been awkward, but this went beyond awkward to holy shit serious. “Okay. What’s the problem?”
“I’m worried about this money issue. I can tell you’re used to having money, and I’m worried that you’re just a gold digger interested in being with me only because I have money.” The intent look in the other man’s eyes as he stared at Mischa told him how serious this was.
It made Mischa uncomfortable to say the least, that he probably spent more money last year than Donovan had made. “Donovan, I am used to having money, but wanting money isn’t why I’m with you. If all I wanted was money, I could just cave in to Terry’s demands and move back home, then I’d have access to more money than you could conceive of. I’m here, with you, because that is not the life I want to lead.”