The Peppermint Schnapps Predicament

by Clare London

  Yes. Giggles. But this time I find I’m laughing in return. I don’t have to worry about disciplining an insolent employee: he isn’t criticizing or mocking me. And let’s face it, that innuendo came from me to start with.

  Odd… but what a relief.

  “Made you laugh,” he says, a little slyly.

  “Yeah. Haven’t done that for a while.”

  He nods. “It’s a stressful time of year. I get that.”

  We’re quiet for a moment, but it’s comfortable. Frankie’s finishing off his third, maybe fourth, Santa as he shifts another couple of boxes from the stack behind. He gulps, and Santa’s chocolate boots vanish inside him.

  I can’t stop staring. There’s a smear of chocolate on Frankie’s mouth. In the corner. Just in that little crease under his top lip….

  “You want one?” he asks softly. His eyes are on mine. He must have seen me staring. “Um. A Santa, I mean?”

  I clear my throat before answering. “What other options do I have?” And didn’t that come out ambiguous.

  “Here.” He breaks off a generous piece of the gingerbread house’s front door. “You’ll need to eat to keep the strength in those muscles.”

  When I lean forward to take it, he pops it in my mouth. He looks startled, as if he didn’t expect to do that—I suspect I look just as surprised. And he’s right. It’s the most boring treat I’ve had this year. When I grimace, he smiles.

  “I don’t, you know,” I say.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Have a lot of expense-account meals. That’s mostly Dad’s domain.”

  He nudges me in the ribs like any mate would do. “Well, make the most of it. It’s the boringbread, candy canes, or the chocolate Santas, crispy bits ’n’ all.”

  I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. It’s the way he says “crispy bits”—savors the sound, then pouts it out, just like he’s sharing the sensual way he’s been eating them….

  Good God. The claustrophobia is really morphing oddly.

  “We need water,” I say, wishing my voice sounded stronger. “It’s more important than food.”

  “I saw some flavored drinks at the back,” Frankie says. “Looked like overstocks from fall season.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, but I know he knows—I was responsible for that inventory mess-up as well. Might as well make it work for us, though. The two of us shift boxes about in the search, barely enough room for us both to stretch out, but it doesn’t feel as intrusive as before. Is it because I’m getting used to the small confines of this room?

  We can only find a six-pack of water. Otherwise there’s nothing but peppermint schnapps. Packs and packs of it. Looks like that was another of my botched bargains.

  “We should go easy on the water,” I warn him. “Make it last. The liquor’s not going to quench our thirst.”

  “Thank you,” Frankie says.

  His genuine gratitude catches me unawares. “What for?”

  “For caring. For thinking of us both.” His gaze lingers on the bottles. “Of course, I don’t drink. Well, except on special occasions.”

  Then the lights suddenly click off and we’re plunged into darkness.

  FRANKIE

  I CAN’T stop myself. Every time I move, I shake the crate we’re sitting on, the shadows bounce about, and I imagine all sorts of hideous things. I hiss at Bill, “If it’s on a timer, shouldn’t it come back on?”

  “The light? Well, yeah, but only if there’s movement to trigger it. And the sensor is by the outside door.”

  Oh God. Oh God.

  “Frankie?”

  “It’s the dark,” I mutter. The plunge into ghastly gloom is a big deal for me, okay? “I’m not my brightest and best in the dark. It’s like you and your panic in closed spaces—”

  “Which isn’t!”

  “Whatever.” Actually, Bill has been better since the light went off. Reckon he doesn’t panic if he can’t see how close the walls are. Whereas I….

  “Frankie, nothing can get in here with us. Stop jumping about.”

  “Rats,” I say. “Snakes. Feral cats.” I daren’t even mention the fear of ghosts, zombies, and creatures of the night.

  “Jesus, Frankie. A spider would be lucky to creep in under that damn door, let alone a rabid werewolf.”

  I didn’t say that thing about creatures of the night aloud, did I? God. Way to impress, Frankie. “Right. Sorry.”

  I crunch through another couple of Santas. There aren’t many left in the box now. I may be consuming purely to keep my nerve. Which it patently appears I’m not.

  “Frankie?” Bill’s voice is much gentler. “You’re shaking. Shit. I was a prick. I’m the one who’s sorry. You can’t help your fears. At least you own up to them. Those shaky moments I had? You were right—they were almost-panic attacks.”

  I’m about to make a soothing response to Mr. Self-Denial’s brave confession, when—Oh, my fricking God of Tender Gestures!—Bill Mason puts his arm around me. Bill Mason. Burly Bill. Bill of the super-strong arms. Around me!

  And it’s just then that—horror of horrors—I burp right into his face.

  “Shit,” he grunts. “You smell like toothpaste. What the hell have you been eating? No, wait. What have you been drinking?” His hand is quite firm on my chin, holding my face to him in the dark. “I thought you said you don’t drink?”

  “I got thirsty. It was all I could find in the dark. Good for my nerves.”

  “Peppermint schnapps?” Bill laughs. “It’s disgusting stuff! Jesus, I haven’t got drunk on that since I was in high school.”

  “So I’m a late developer.” I’m wondering why my tongue feels thicker than usual. “I never thought I mush—much liked alco-hoho….” I decide to leave that word to fend for itself. “But this is very palatable. Very pleasant b-bouquet.”

  “You mean the taste of toothpaste?”

  “Yes, indeed. I h-happen to like it.”

  “Are you drunk already, you lightweight?”

  “No, of course not!” Maybe there was a sudden rush to my head when I took that long—too long—slurp. But I can handle it. Pas de you-know-what.

  Bill laughs again, but he doesn’t let go of me. At least, not until I have another of my brainwaves and spring up from our love seat.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Your turn to hammer on the door,” I answer smartly. “I’s… I’sh… I’ve got an idea for lighting.”

  Bill stumbles off to the door with a grumble and starts banging again. Meanwhile, I snap my woozy wits back to attention and grope my way to a plastic container I remember by the left wall—and there’s my quarry! Of course, some total moron has packed it away tangled, as I advise so many inept seasonal shoppers not to do, to no avail, but within a minute, I have a cable fixed across the top of the shelf units, and the satisfaction of flicking the switch to find—

  There is light!

  “Tree lights?”

  I turn at the sound of Bill’s voice and barely bite back a shriek. An odd pattern of green and red dances across his face and neck, making him look like an extra from a zombie movie, frightening me despite myself. Then I get the mode adjusted, and we’re treated to a pale but refreshing white and pale gold display. Much better for his coloring, though I say so myself.

  “Battery powered,” I say with some smugness.

  “Good for you.”

  I shuffle back to the makeshift seat through a scattering of foil Santa wrappers on the floor, at the same time as Bill returns. Unaccustomed as I am to the new lighting, I bump into him. That’s my story, anyway. Unfortunately, I also manage to kick over the open half-full bottle of peppermint schnapps. It tumbles and rolls away, ending with a thud against the door. There’s a glugging sound. Then the pungent smell of liquor spilling out slowly all over the floor.

  “Fuck,” I groan. And, “Damn!” I’ve managed four days this week without swearing aloud, and now it’s all flooding back. I blame the rush of endorphins from t
oo much chocolate.

  Until I burp again.

  Bill sighs and runs a thick hand through his glorious head of well-groomed hair. Well, maybe not so well-groomed after a few hours in this black hole, though still gorgeous to my poor, addled, unrequited devotion.

  “Never mind,” he says. “There’s gonna be a hell of a lot to clean up when we get out, anyway.”

  “When we get out?” I echo bleakly. “Not if?”

  “Stop that.” He’s barking again. “Don’t go weak on me now, Frankie. We’ve got enough to contend with.”

  But that’s what I am, isn’t it? Nothing but a flake; a burden.

  “You know something? You’re….” Bill’s looking up at the gently flickering lights in something like amazement.

  You’re…. Is he reading my mind? What’s the word he’s searching for? Stupid? Annoying? Fired? I open my mouth to apologize for whatever and everything, when he speaks over me.

  “You’re not the airhead I thought you were. After all, you’ve found us light, food, and drink.” His smile is small but almost fond. “Different types of drink too.”

  “I….” What?

  “And entertained me.” His cheeks look an odd gray color, which may be the effect of LED lights on top of a blush. A blush.

  So, faced with this surprising development, I—yes, you guessed it—belch again.

  Bill winces.

  “You should burp me.” Who said that? Me?

  Bill blinks hard. “I should… what?”

  “Put me over your shoulder and burp me. Get rid of my trapped wind. You’re strong enough.” I stand, somewhat shakily, and drape myself over his lap.

  It’s like watching an out-of-body experience. What the hell am I doing? I nuzzle my mouth against the pulse in his neck. It’s a very fast pulse.

  “Are you… hitting on the boss, Frankie?”

  Shock! It’s like instant sobriety. They should patent it, sell it like a morning-after pill, but to take before the event, not after making a total fool of oneself. “Oh my good God, I’m sorry! Blame the schnapps, blame… I don’t know, my basic flakiness. I can’t believe it. I’m the old cliché, hitting on the straight man.” I’m struggling to get off his lap, hot with humiliation, frantic to find a box to hide in, to wait for a punch on the nose—

  But Bill isn’t letting me go.

  “Who says I’m straight?” he says quite mildly, considering.

  I stare at the lights twinkling on his perfect, expensive dental work, feel the grip in his muscles as he holds me on his lap, watch the smile growing on his face and the sly look in his eye.

  I can’t stop the next hiccup, or the waft of mint that hits us both. But this time we both giggle.

  “Of course,” he says, “we ought to remember our relative places in the organization.”

  “You’re the boss,” I reply very sweetly.

  “And you’re—what did you call it?—a minor minion.”

  It doesn’t sound too bad, accompanied by his grin. “That’s me,” I say.

  And what of it?

  The kiss happens almost without prompting. He tugs me to him with a strong gentleness I can only admire. My mouth is mashed up against his before I know it, my arms hugging around his tremendous torso, and my legs gripping either side of his equally tremendous thighs. Well, they’ve got me all a-quiver. Bliss.

  “Call me Bill,” he says, when we come up for air.

  And you can’t say fairer than that to someone whose tonsils you just tried to taste. Can you?

  BILL

  “CALL ME Bill,” I repeat after we find some cloth sacking and fold it on the floor as a cushion. We sit propped up against the wall together, shoulders close, arms linked. Until we resume the kissing, when of course we need to get even closer for the full benefit. God, but Frankie’s a fine kisser. He’s skinny and wriggly and just damn perfect to hold close; he kind of melts into me. Those few guys I’ve dated in the past? They all kind of… bounced off.

  “I will,” he says, all breathily. “Despite you being the boss and all.”

  “You know what? I never wanted the job.” Snuggled against me, Frankie blinks his eyes a couple of times, as if I’ve startled him again. Though the previous startling led to kissing and… well, that went pretty well.

  “I don’t understand. Bill,” he adds at the end, as if trying my name on for size. Aloud, anyway. Then giggles.

  Can giggling be contagious? I’m tempted to try it again for myself. I feel like I’m finally letting go—of what, I’m not sure, but I’m not afraid of doing it. “I never wanted to manage the store. I didn’t want to be Dad’s heir. My younger brother, Henry—now, he’s a much better prospect. Dad should choose him to take over.” Frankie opens his mouth as if to ask something, but I’m on a roll now. “In fact, I totally hate retail. I mean, individually the people are fine, even the products are fine.”

  “Some of them,” Frankie murmurs.

  “Yes, okay, some of them.” Mainly the ones I haven’t stocked up myself. I get his point, and I’m not offended by it. “But I just don’t get it.”

  “It?”

  I struggle to express my feelings, but I dearly want to. Why haven’t I tried harder before? “I don’t understand why and how people shop. I can’t seem to master inventory or cost management. I feel bad every time Dad beats down my suggestions for a staff pay raise or cutting the opening hours on holidays. People complain, get upset, need your attention all the time.”

  “That’s retail, Bill. That’s the fun, as well!”

  No, I still don’t get it. Another deep breath. “So, maybe I gotta admit it’s not for me. I don’t cope well with it. It’s nothing but stress from morning to night.”

  Frankie’s cute alphabet mouth has made another O, for Wow, I suspect. Gonna kiss that away right now. That’ll distract his attention, and also my shame at even thinking that way about my job, let alone telling someone.

  “You’re a very honest man, Bill.”

  Frankie’s breathless—which is flattering—but not so breathless my plan has worked.

  “You have your family. I’m sure if you’d just talk to them—”

  “Honestly?” I snort. “If I tried to have this conversation with Dad, he’d just yell at me to shut the fuck up and get on with it. He always has in the past.” Poor Frankie—he’s blinking hard again. Probably wondering what his Aunt Veronica would have thought of that gentlemanly behavior. And I’ve been living with that two-faced attitude for all of my thirty years.

  Frankie snuggles closer. He’s either speechless—yeah, I know, pretty unlikely—or he’s trying to comfort me.

  “What did you really want to do, Bill? When you were a kid. A fireman? A cop? Maybe one of those survival explorers. I bet you trek the mountains and forests in your spare time. You have the build.”

  “I do?” For a moment, pride washes over me. I work hard to look like this, even though, on a normal work day, it’s all hidden under tailored suits. “It’s all from gym work, though. And Dad always tells me I need to lay off the red meat.” What the hell possessed me to share that? “I always wanted… no, I can’t say.”

  An extra squeeze from Frankie’s slim arms. More kisses. Jesus, he’d never need waterboarding for interrogation; he’s worn me down already.

  “I wanted to work with flowers. You know, like, arranging. Floristry.”

  Frankie nods. I’m hot with embarrassment. But he’s not laughing.

  “It’s very creative, Bill. More design skills than horticulture, I believe. In fact, I heard Elton John spends tens of thousands on flower arrangements in a week.”

  “And he shops at Mason’s Emporium?”

  Frankie frowns at my sarcastic tone. “There’s nothing to stop you opening a floristry department in store. It sounds a brilliant idea to me! All the fresh flowers from the market, plus craft supplies. Add on professional services for events like weddings and birthdays.”

  It sounds… really exciting, at least in Frankie�
�s telling.

  It’s getting quite warm in here now, so I shrug off my flannel shirt. Frankie seems fascinated by my T-shirt, and I don’t think he’s checking for stray creases. Okay, so I give in to the temptation and flex my pecs for a moment.

  Frankie sucks in his breath.

  I find I’m doing the same, just from the glimmer in his eyes.

  “Anyway,” I mutter, folding my shirt on the floor beside us. “Who knows if that’ll ever happen? As far as I can see, Dad’s got the rest on my working life planned out for me. This whole holiday season is a nightmare, and I’m dreading Christmas dinner with the family. I’ve got Henry snapping at my heels, wanting more responsibility, your supervisors complaining they’ve got the wrong stock, the press trying to pair me off with some underwear model—”

  “For Andrew Christian?”

  “No. Victoria’s Secret, unfortunately.”

  Frankie tenses up. “Wait. Are you still in the closet?”

  “No. Not really. Just, Dad… well, he asks me to keep it on the down-low.” My face hurts; I’m scowling hard.

  “That’s harsh,” Frankie says softly. “And unfair.”

  I shrug. “It is what it is. My life, that is. But it’s good just to talk to you about it. Without any pretension, without worrying about my professional persona, without trying to spot any dirty corporate tricks, or in fear of making stupid mistakes.”

  “It’s always good to have someone to listen,” he says, still quiet. I’m reminded of that story of him chatting to the furry reindeer. “You must be brave, Bill.”

  “I… what?”

  “Tell him. Tell your father.”

  “That I’m gay? He knows—”

  Frankie tuts. “Tell him who you are, what you want. That’s just as important.”

  Easier said than done, right? Frankie hasn’t sat through a formal meal with my father.

  “And I reckon I am still in the closet, right?” When Frankie frowns at me, I thump him on the shoulder—it takes him a moment to scrabble back upright. “I mean, we both are. Here in a storeroom.”

  Frankie starts laughing. “A joke, Bill! Well done. That’ll help you relax.”