by L. A. Witt
Timur chuckled, a hint of pink appearing in his cheeks. “Marcus cooks. Is good.”
Is good. Shiver.
“Anyway.” Liam gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Timur was just telling us you have a wardrobe that still needs to be assembled. If you want, we can put it together. An extra set of hands might help.”
“Oh no. That’s okay.” Marcus shook his head. “You don’t have to work while you’re visiting.”
“Don’t argue with him.” Jon patted Liam’s arm. “He sees a chance to play carpenter and put something together, you’re not going to talk him out of it.”
“Hey!” Liam shot him a playful glare, but then they both laughed. He turned to Marcus again. “And anyway, I don’t want you fucking up your hands. You need them to pour drinks.”
“I could help,” Jon said.
“No.” Liam kissed his cheek. “I don’t want your hands fucked up either.”
Jon was cute to begin with, but that shade of red was absolutely adorable.
“Well, if you really want to put it together, I won’t try to stop you,” Marcus said. “But I should get started in the kitchen if we want to eat before midnight.”
“I’ll join you,” Jon said. “If that’s okay, of course.”
“Absolutely. A little conversation helps pass the time.” To Timur, he said, “Are you sure? You’ve already built every piece of furniture in this house.” And had he ever—after he’d spent a few hours here one afternoon, the apartment looked like an IKEA showroom.
“Is all right,” Timur said. “I like to build.” He gestured for Liam to follow him. “This way.”
Timur and Liam disappeared into the bedroom—wouldn’t that have been the start of a hot porno?—and Marcus led Jon into the kitchen.
Jon picked up the bottle of wine he and Liam had brought over. “Well, as long as they’re busy, there’s no reason we can’t crack this open.”
Marcus laughed. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” He pulled a corkscrew out of a drawer and handed it to him.
Jon eyed the corkscrew. “Damn, you don’t do anything halfway in the kitchen, do you?”
“Hmm?”
“I have a cheap-ass, plastic-handled corkscrew. Something tells me this”—he held up the brushed titanium one Marcus had given him—“didn’t come from the dollar store.”
“No, not that one. It’s the one I used to use when I still…” He hesitated, his heart sinking a little at the memory. Clearing his throat, he turned to pull the tuna steaks from the fridge. “You have to have something good and sturdy when you’re doing wine presentations all night.”
“This a little souvenir from a place you used to work?” Jon asked as he worked at the cork. “Like swiping office supplies when you leave?”
Marcus laughed. “No, it wasn’t like that.” He laid the tuna out on the counter. “I bought it when I was working downtown. Before my ex and I opened our place.” He glanced at the corkscrew Jon was using. “It was kind of a reward to myself for moving up to a five-star place instead of that shithole in South Seattle. I could afford a nice one, so…I bought it.”
Jon pulled the cork free, twisted it off the screw and handed the expensive piece back to Marcus. “I thought you were a chef, though. Not a server.”
“I am. But I did a little of both. And for whatever reason, my boss thought I was really good at wine presentations, so this”—he held it up just before setting it back in its drawer—“got a lot of mileage. Before I became a full-time chef, anyway.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Being a server?” Marcus wrinkled his nose. “Fuck no.”
“No, I meant being a chef.” Jon glanced around. “Glasses?”
“Oh. Right. Those would be helpful.” Marcus pulled a couple of glasses down from the cabinet. “To answer your question, I do miss being a chef. I don’t…” He hesitated, not quite sure how to say it. “Let’s just say I don’t miss the environment of my last job.”
Jon poured them each a glass of Malbec and handed one to Marcus. They clinked the glasses together, glancing down the hall as if to make sure Liam and Timur didn’t come in to polish off the freshly opened bottle.
Marcus took a sip from his glass, then set it down and started coating the tuna in black sesame seeds.
As Jon slowly swirled his wine, he said, “Is bartending a permanent thing for you, then?”
The knife stopped midchop, and Marcus hesitated.
“I’m sorry.” Jon set the glass down with a quiet clink. “I don’t mean to pry. We barely know each other.”
“No, it’s okay.” Marcus forced a tight smile. “You’re not the first person to ask about a five-star chef downgrading to bartending.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it downgrading.” Jon shrugged. “Sometimes you just have to change directions to maintain your sanity. I left a management position last year to go back into actual tech support. The paycheck is definitely smaller, but the job isn’t killing me like the last one was.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “People can look down their noses all they want, but at the end of the day, you’re the one who has to go to that job every morning and try not to hang yourself with a power cord by lunch.”
Marcus laughed. “Yeah, exactly.” He set the knife down and reached for his wine again. “I think I just needed a change of scenery for a little while. The last year or two at the restaurant were…” Fraught. Miserable. Excruciating. He sighed into his glass. “Should’ve listened to people who said working with your spouse was a bad idea.”
Jon’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t press the issue. The conversation had probably reached the line where it wouldn’t be appropriate or comfortable for a couple of near strangers to dig any deeper.
In the other room, something banged. Liam swore, and Timur said something, but Marcus couldn’t make out the words, only the sound of his voice.
“Okay, let’s try it this way,” Liam said and something clattered.
Jon snorted. “Let’s definitely keep them out of the wine until they’re done.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Oh, not really.” He chuckled and then took a sip. “He actually does know what he’s doing, but I’ve never heard him put something together without a little bit of cursing.”
“Well, he’s working with someone who has the patience of a saint.” Marcus couldn’t help smiling a little. “I swear, Timur never complains. About anything.”
“Yeah, he seems pretty mellow.”
“If he were any more mellow, I don’t think he’d be conscious.”
“Is that…a good thing?”
“After the guy I was married to?” Marcus faced him. “It’s a very good thing.”
“Gotcha.” Jon swirled his wine again. “It does a number on the stress level, doesn’t it? Being with someone who’s that chill.”
“Liam seems kind of intense, though.”
“Nah.” Jon shook his head. “He has his moments, but he’s pretty relaxed. Compared to me, at least.”
“Seems like you two are a good match.”
Jon smiled fondly. “We are. After the d-bags we both had before? I couldn’t imagine finding anyone better than Liam.”
“Good. Good for both of you.” Marcus picked up the knife again and resumed chopping his vegetables.
“Is that… I didn’t step on a nerve, did I?”
You couldn’t have known.
“No, it’s fine. I’m just still sort of, you know, adapting. After my divorce.”
He glanced at Jon, who glanced down the hall, and Marcus could almost see the question in his eyes.
He shifted his attention to scraping shallots from the cutting board into a bowl. “Timur’s leaving in a couple of weeks. Going back to the Legion.”
“Oh.”
&
nbsp; Marcus hadn’t had nearly enough wine to deal with an awkward silence, and definitely not for any conversation about Timur going away, so he glanced up and asked, “How’s the new job going?”
Jon’s eyebrow flicked up, as if the conspicuously abrupt subject change hadn’t gone unnoticed, but he didn’t press the issue. “It’s going well. Though you wouldn’t believe some of the calls we get…”
Timur and Liam had impeccable timing—they finished the wardrobe right as Marcus was pulling the coq au vin out of the oven.
“Damn, now I want to go take a look.”
Timur patted his shoulder. “Can wait. Is not going to change while we eat.”
Marcus wrapped his arm around Timur’s waist. “Is that a nice way of saying you don’t want to wait to eat?”
Timur just grinned.
He’d marinated the chicken well in advance, and that preparation paid off now. He hadn’t been able to get his hands on the kinds of boiling fowl he normally preferred, but this organic, free-range, properly fed chicken was a decent stand-in. But first, he’d served the tuna tartare—a simple dish and a crisp, clean-tasting teaser for the palate before it got smothered in the thick, rich tastes of the main dish.
“Oh my God.” Jon tilted his wineglass toward Marcus. “This food is fucking amazing. I don’t know who bought your soul in exchange for teaching you, but damn.”
Marcus laughed quietly. “Give me a year or so to find my footing, and maybe I’ll go back to doing this for money.”
“Oh no.” Liam shook his head. “No way. Don’t you dare get the people at Wilde’s addicted to the drinks you make and then leave.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “Please. If Kieran left, yeah, people might riot. But—”
“But nothing.” Liam waved a hand as if to say end of discussion. “We actually had to order a case of absinthe after you got everyone hooked on those Green Beasts.”
“I’ll teach the other guys how to make it.”
“Mmhmm. And you’ll also teach them whatever voodoo goes into your hurricanes?” Liam turned to Jon. “Don’t ever try one of his Liquid Cocaines. I’m pretty sure they actually contain cocaine.”
Jon’s lips quirked. “Well, now you have me intrigued.”
“No.”
Marcus pointed at the kitchen. “You know, I have everything here to make—”
“No.”
Marcus snickered. Across the table, he caught Timur’s eye, and the man gave a quiet laugh. Marcus wasn’t entirely certain if Timur was able to follow the whole conversation, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable. Then again, he was also working his way through a plate of coq au vin, and no one seemed to enjoy good food the way Timur did.
In fact, Timur wasn’t the kind of guy to eat while he did something else—no, he devoted most of his attention to whatever he was eating, and he also still practiced the art of chewing properly and not rushing through the courses. Few things irritated Marcus like businessmen just kind of eating while they were actually discussing something they considered far more important, giving almost no regard and even less respect to the fine ingredients or the skill and attention that had gone into transforming and enhancing them.
Considering how much food cost at Le Chien Bleu, they’d gotten quite a lot more of that type of customer than Marcus considered healthy, and during the last months of his tenure, a strong hipster contingent had muscled in on the foodies’ territory, leading to too many foodies moving on in the face of such bald-faced ignorance.
Thankfully, Marcus hadn’t been forced to see this deterioration from up close, sequestered away in the kitchen as he’d been, but still, it had grated on him. Ray had assured him that it didn’t really matter who paid the bills, as long as they were paid, and besides, no restaurant could really choose its patrons—much of it was driven by word of mouth or reviews that nobody could control, but Marcus had dreamed of a slightly simpler way of life. Just good food for good people, with nothing to prove, no reviewer to impress and, ideally, totally different stress levels. It was probably something of a dream, and considering his own ambition and perfectionism, it was even something of an irreconcilable conflict, but that was roughly the shape of the next cooking-based job he’d be looking for. Simpler, cheaper, but by no means worse. Less dicking around with presentation, though obviously still attractive. Not all that different from whipping up something like this in his own kitchen, and Timur was the ideal customer—who appreciated it in a quiet, nonhipstery, nonfoodie kind of way and wouldn’t run out there into the world and tweet photos and bite-by-bite updates on fucking social media.
Ideal customer? Jesus, Marcus.
Maybe Timur’s pleasure compensated for Marcus’s ruined enjoyment of food. He couldn’t eat anything these days without running an inner critique of it—the meat too cooked, the dressing too vinegary, maybe he should have introduced another texture here or left out an ingredient that proved a distraction. If he gave himself an eight out of ten, he considered it a success. Less than that and he returned the recipe to the drawing board. In some ways, he envied Timur the easy pleasure he got from decent food. Hell, the easy pleasure he got from everything, it seemed.
Marcus took a sip of wine, wondering how much better it tasted to Timur than to everyone else at the table.
I could learn a thing or two from him.
Chapter Twelve
Jon and Liam stayed well into the evening, until they were sober enough to make it safely home. Not that they had to go far, or even had drunk enough to really get inebriated, but it did seem prudent to make sure they were both coherent and balanced before getting on Liam’s motorcycle.
On their way out, the guys shook hands with Marcus and Timur. As Liam shook Timur’s hand, he said, “We’ll have to do this again. Before you go back to Europe.”
And just like that, he might as well have hit Marcus in the gut. After a relaxed evening of enjoying good food and good company, there it was—the reminder that at least some of this was temporary at best.
But Marcus kept a happy face painted on until after they’d left. He gestured for Timur to follow him into the kitchen, and as he started that way, said, “Let me clean things up from dinner, and we can turn in for the night.”
Strong hands on his hips stopped him in his tracks.
“Can wait.” Timur kissed the side of his neck, and suddenly Marcus’s head was lighter than it had been all night.
The chef wanted to pry himself free and make sure his kitchen was immaculate. The man who only had so much time left with Timur…suddenly didn’t care about dishes and countertops.
“Bedroom,” Marcus whispered.
“Da.”
The wine and a good meal had subdued them both, kept them from throwing each other around and fucking each other violently like they often did. Instead, they just kissed and touched, hands roaming all over naked bodies pressed close together on top of cool sheets.
Like no one else, Timur could make the rest of the world—even a kitchen that still needed to be cleaned—vanish. Marcus was aware of everything else, but he didn’t care about anything except the way Timur’s lips moved against his, how hot Timur’s skin was and how turned on they both were as their hard cocks rubbed together between their bodies.
His orgasm built slowly, a pot of water taking its sweet time boiling, and Marcus didn’t mind at all. He wanted this to last. Judging by the blissed-out, little moans and shivers and goose bumps, Timur was very much on the same page.
Timur rolled onto his back, pulling Marcus with him, and he ran his calloused hands all over Marcus’s torso as they kissed and rubbed against each other. Marcus’s head spun—he couldn’t be all that drunk, not if he was this hard and this close to coming, so it must be Timur who made him dizzy.
When was the last time a man had that effect on him? He had no idea. He didn’t care. Timur made him feel this way now, and Marcu
s surrendered completely to it, and he didn’t want this to ever, ever end, but every touch brought him closer to the edge, and every gasp told him Timur was right there with him, and Marcus just…let go. He held on to Timur but didn’t hold back anymore, and as he arched his back and came on Timur’s cock and both their stomachs, he thought he heard Timur whisper a few curses before he too lost it.
Marcus collapsed on top of him. Both panting and trembling, they kissed lazily. Timur stroked Marcus’s hair, the gesture as tender as it was unsteady.
I could get used to this.
Marcus quickly banished that thought. He kissed Timur once more and pushed himself up. “Stay here. I’ll get some tissues.”
After they’d cleaned off the semen and sweat, they dropped onto the bed together. Timur wrapped his arm around Marcus’s shoulders, and Marcus rested his head on Timur’s chest, their fingers laced together on top of Timur’s flat abs. Lying like this, Marcus didn’t want to move. Like, ever. Even his not so clean kitchen couldn’t drag him out of this room.
After a while, Timur broke the silence. “Your friends. They’re…husbands?”
“Mmhmm. They got married at city hall the first day it was legal.”
“Hmm.”
Marcus shifted a little so he could look up at him. “Why?”
“Curious.” Timur absently rubbed his thumb along the back of Marcus’s. “Men as husbands to each other…is…” He stared up at the ceiling, then shook his head. “Don’t understand.”
“What about Chris and Julien? You were there when they got married.”
“Of course. For Julien, anything.”
Jealousy flared in Marcus’s chest, but he quickly tamped it down. “But you don’t understand?”
Timur shook his head. “Is all very strange, men getting married.”
Marcus shifted, propping himself up on his arm so he could see Timur’s face, though he kept his other hand loosely clasped with Timur’s. “What’s not to understand? Two men fall in love, and…”