Taking You Home

by Cooper Davis

  “No clue,” I half-grumble, aware that he’s too bright. Working too hard to be sure I’m really okay.

  “She planted it on my parents’ lawn.”

  “Huh.”

  “I was grounded for the rest of the holidays.”

  I just nod along with him, barely listening, because for some reason I’m remembering the tacky manger scene at Richman Brothers Funeral Home.

  “Hunter, are you all right?” he asks after a long silence falls between us. We’re walking around the park together, strolling aimlessly. It’s the kind of thing that would’ve made me feel really close to him normally. Made me feel like his lover, the way his elbow keeps brushing mine, the way he’s touching my arm in concern. We’re a hell of a lot closer than two macho guys out for a walk. We’re together, and anybody who looks our way can see it.

  But I’m not in that moment. I’m light years away, back in my past.

  “Fine, baby. Promise.” I turn to watch the children scampering around Santa’s village. A mother holds her small son’s hand. She’s pregnant, probably due in a month at the latest, and my heartbeat quickens painfully as I watch the boy touch her large belly.

  Max steps even closer into my space, clasping my forearm. “I’m worried about you.” He’s serious as a heart attack, and I can tell he’s not gonna mess around about my bad mood anymore.

  I scowl, feeling irritable with him that he won’t let it go. “Look, I don’t want to do some autopsy on my mental state, Maxwell,” I say. “Don’t push me like this. Told you that earlier.”

  “I’m not pushing.” His voice kind of breaks and I literally see hurt shadow his handsome features. “I love you and I’m worried, that’s all.” We fall silent for a long moment—me gazing anywhere but into his melancholy eyes, him trying hard to stare into my own.

  Finally he gives a weary sigh. “I just wish you’d talk to me, Hunter. It’s not like you to shut me out like this. You’ve never done that before.”

  “Shit, Max, don’t be such a goddamned girl,” I bark before I can stop myself. He looks like I’ve just slapped him hard across the face, as he takes two steps back from me.

  God, he was right earlier. I am such a first-class dick. I don’t deserve him, or my friends. No wonder I’ve spent most of my life alone.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I finally mutter into our shared silence, staggering past him.

  I move across the park, toward a covered picnic area. It’s far enough away that maybe I can breathe a little. Maybe I can regain my equilibrium instead of feeling like my life’s just been smashed all to hell.

  “How about Havana’s finest?” John asks. He’s standing on the edge of the picnic gazebo, extending two gorgeous looking Cuban cigars toward me. Yeah, it’s bribery, plain and simple. I wonder how Maxwell sent him home that fast.

  “Maxwell’s?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow as I lean back against the picnic bench. I’ve only had about ten minutes to sift through my wildly careening emotions, and so far I haven’t made much progress.

  “I brought them along in case we needed them. I hear you have a wicked appreciation for a good smoke.” He hands me a nicely trimmed cigar. “You want this? Or should I save it for Leah?”

  That actually manages to get a snort out of me. “She smoke these things very often?”

  “Oh, man, all the time. She’s worse than me,” he says. “But then again, she’s a Daniels. They’re all pretty intense, don’t you think?”

  Intense. Not a bad way to describe my sweetheart, even though Max seems to possess a more lighthearted side than his twin does.

  Then we kind of start gabbing about the loves of our lives, comparing notes like a pair of girlfriends. It would be comical if I weren’t so depressed.

  “Did Max send you over?” I finally ask, going on a strong hunch.

  White teeth flash against that very dark skin. “He’s concerned, that’s all.”

  “Did he send the cigars, too?”

  “No, those are all me.”

  “Cool,” I say, taking a long drag. God, nothing tastes better than a smoke on a cold, gray day like this one.

  I’m about to voice that thought, when Max says, “You love smoking when it’s cold.” He steps into the cabana, and I can tell he’s wondering if I even want him around me at the moment. My heart clenches tight, and I urge him closer. “Baby, you can share.”

  “Oh, I’ve got one for Max, too,” John volunteers. “I brought them along figuring we would need a decent Leah escape.”

  “God, I feel like I owe you both some huge cosmic apology for Leah’s Christmas mania,” Max says, dropping onto the picnic bench, close beside me. His jean-clad thigh brushes very close against mine, way closer than a mere friend. It’s so freaking cool that we can be real around John.

  “It makes her happy and that’s all that matters to me,” John says.

  Max glances at me, a heavy-lidded look into my very soul. “Yeah, when you’re in love, that’s all you want.” Bingo, the boy just nailed me good. “For them to be happy.”

  Max brushes his fingers against the back of my hand. He won’t actually reach to hold it with John here, no matter how open his brother-in-law is. But the subtle gesture tells me everything about how much Max wishes that he could.

  I take another long drag on the cigar, staring into the distance at the Santa village. The pregnant mother and little boy have finished with the pictures; now they’re walking across the park. She holds his tiny hand within her much larger one.

  Something about that sight just burns hard into my mind, like an afterimage from staring at the sun.

  Thing is, Maxwell needs to know the deeper places inside me. Otherwise our union won’t mean as much, because he won’t have come all the way in. After all, he’s made himself vulnerable as hell with me, trusting me with all his little broken pieces. Kind of makes me wonder why I’ve held out on him for so damned long with my own crazy shit.

  And I want him to know everything now, even the secrets I’ve fought so hard not to tell anyone. I want him to walk into those hidden chambers and smash them wide open with me.

  After all, who better to make that journey with than the love of my life?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thing is, once I decide to tell Maxwell the truth, my mood improves instantly. Secrets are like that. They weigh you down, burden you, shut you off from those you love the most. Just knowing I’ll tell my lover everything, that someone in my life other than Edna is gonna know exactly how it is, well it catapults me right into the holiday spirit. Even though I haven’t told Maxwell a damned thing just yet.

  That’s probably why I give him serious hell once he takes hold of Leah’s kitchen, because I’m feeling a little frisky now. Flour flies in every direction, the blender whirs. Kind of like our place most any night of the week, except to quote Max’s buddy Emeril, he’s “taking it up a notch”. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him labor quite so long over any one meal.

  I keep circling his way, poking my head into the kitchen. “What’re you making now?” I ask, brushing a dab of flour off his cheek.

  “Gravy.” He smiles at my questions, ’cause he loves it when I get interested in his cooking. “Trying something a little different this time,” he adds, and then I get a detailed explanation as to the benefit of a thinner sauce on the Yorkshire pudding he’s been slaving over. I nod dutifully, then wander back to the living room, sinking onto the sofa beside John. He and I are watching bowl games with Ben, while Leah helps her brother in the kitchen. It’s just us for now, because Louisa and Veronica have gone home to do the family drill until later, when the meal’s on deck.

  Frankly, it suits me to have some down time because I’m all worn out from Leah’s charity stuff. I’m telling you, it was more work than a typical day down at the lot. Thank God for John’s generous beer supply, which I dove into soon as we
returned from our rounds. I’ve been drinking and watching football ever since, which has definitely helped my season to be jolly. That, and seeing how relieved Max is that I’ve shaken off the darkness.

  And he’s definitely relieved, so much so that he’s kissed me about a dozen times since we got back from the park. In the powder room. In the hallway. Beside the refrigerator. That’s one thing you discover about being gay—so long as you’re clandestine about it, you can still get some serious ass.

  Max whistles as he moves around the kitchen, and although I’ve sunk way down into the sofa, my boots propped out in front of me, I’m still studying him. I’ve got a perfect view from the great room into the kitchen. What a beautiful man, I think, watching him scowl at the open cookbook propped on the bar ledge. He catches me and gives a shy smile that makes me blush unexpectedly. That only makes his smile grow much wider. Good, ’cause the last thing I wanted was to give him hell today, not when he was already dealing with his family shit. At least he hasn’t mentioned Phillip so far, and I can only take that as positive sign.

  For a while, I settle back into watching the game and chatting it up with John. I’m telling you, my future brother-in-law is a great conversationalist. We can talk about nothing much at all, and I’m still left feeling like I’ve made a true connection. That’s what I’m thinking when I glance up from the television again, only to find Max manhandling a blowtorch.

  Obviously it’s time for me to find out what the hell my boy’s doing, so I lope in there right as he powers the thing up, blue flame darting wildly. Leah’s watching from where she stands at the center island working on a casserole.

  “Whoa! Maxwell, what’s this?” I ask, and Leah makes a face over his shoulder, the kind that indicates she’s glad I’m butting in.

  “Making crème brulee. It’s our dessert later.”

  I nod at what he’s doing. “Yeah, well you don’t have a freaking clue how to use that thing.”

  “Thank you, Hunter,” Leah agrees, planting a hand on her hip. “Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

  Max lifts up a small soufflé dish toward the flame. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” he announces slowly. “Don’t be so overprotective.”

  “Hold up, Maxwell,” I blurt because he’s got the torch way too close to his face. “Let me do this.”

  “No.”

  “Baby.”

  “No.” This time he sounds really pissed about it, and I’m certain that familiar temper’s about to kick in.

  “Have you even operated one of these puppies before?” I ask, trying not to worry about how close he’s got the torch to his beautiful eyes.

  “I saw this on the Food Network.”

  “Well, Maxwell, I wouldn’t trade stocks based on reading the Wall Street Journal, either.” I reach for the torch again. “This is my thing. Come on, let me do this.”

  The golden eyes narrow and for a minute I think he’s going to give me hell. Then, the strangest thing happens. He starts laughing, as he shuts the torch off. “You realize how ridiculous this is? We’re fighting over power tools.”

  “In the kitchen, no less,” Leah agrees. “Talk about two worlds colliding. I mean, Max, you do realize they sell special gourmet torches, right?”

  “But they’re not as effective,” he explains in a patient voice. “The flame doesn’t distribute evenly or properly.”

  “Uh, huh,” I say, sounding as skeptical as I can manage when he looks so adorably befuddled, caught between us both this way.

  “It’s true!” he argues, smiling faintly. Yeah, he knows he’s whipped.

  “You gonna let me help with this thing or not?” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Or is the kitchen your sacred domain?”

  He stares down at the torch, and then back up into my eyes without saying a word. God, he’s gorgeous. The black cashmere turtleneck he’s wearing only makes him look even hotter than usual. I blink, aware that I’m blushing slightly because of how hungry I suddenly feel for him. Just like earlier, when he gave me that faint smile from the kitchen. I’m a goner for him when he wears black, no joke.

  “You do it,” he finally says with an offhanded shrug. “You’re good with a tool.”

  “Oh, God, I so did not hear that.” Leah steps past us, toward the oven.

  “Don’t mind our innuendo.” Max’s gaze never leaves my face. “We’re just two guys in love.”

  Okay, so now I’m blushing like a maniac, feeling embarrassed in front of his formerly homophobic twin sister.

  Except, she seems genuinely amused, and plays right along. “Wow, Max, I had no idea. Here I was thinking you and Hunter were just having a power tool moment.”

  “Have to hit Home Depot for that action,” Ben shouts from the living room, obviously having followed our exchange. “It’s gaydar central over there, guys!”

  Inspired, I take the blowtorch, kind of sticking it between my legs with an exaggerated flourish. Assuming my most effeminate voice I say, “Well, if you want to talk power tools, sweet pea, you can check mine out anytime over on aisle sixty-nine.” At that exact moment, I wriggle my wrist, allowing the torch to give a little thrust of flame for dramatic emphasis.

  Max bursts out laughing, raking a hand over his short hair in a sexy, jittery way. Hard to believe, but I think I’ve finally managed to unnerve him.

  Leah gives a little sniff, tossing her ponytail primly over her shoulder, and says, “Hunter, if you care to operate your tool, then proceed at your own risk.”

  From the living room, I hear Ben call, “Here, here! Watch and learn!”

  More laughter, and my face burns, as Leah hands me the first dish of crème Brulee with a smug smile of satisfaction. She’s managed to get me good, it’s true.

  “What’s a nice tool doing in a place like this?” I ask, staring right at the blowtorch.

  And for a moment, I half expect the freaking thing to answer me.

  Much later, there’s only Maxwell and me still awake. I find myself sitting in the dark living room, staring at the Christmas tree. Max collapses on the sofa beside me with a weary sigh, and I reach for his hand, threading my fingers together with his. Feels good to finally make that physical connection with him, especially after such a long day without it.

  For a while neither of us even speak, we just sit together, holding hands by the shimmering lights of the tree.

  Leah and John have already turned in for the night, so I’m certain we’re all alone when I get inspired, and say, “I wanna give you something, Max.” I kneel down beside the tree and dig around for one special gift that I’ve tucked away for him. Takes me a minute to find what I’m after, then when I glance back at him, he’s vanished.

  Turns out he’s got a surprise of his own, because he reappears in the doorway with an open bottle of Dom Perignon and two champagne flutes balanced elegantly between his fingers. Apparently he’d already iced down the bubbly a while ago.

  “What’s that?” I ask, grinning up at him. The slow, seductive smile I get in return tells me all I need to know about his intentions for later tonight.

  “A little holiday cheer.”

  “Looks like,” I say, sliding the foil-wrapped gift across the rug toward the sofa where he settles. “And this is for you.” His dark eyes widen at the sight of the package.

  “Hunter, I thought we were going to exchange tomorrow night,” he argues, but he’s smiling like a little boy.

  I shrug, scratching my eyebrow. “Well, it’s Christmas Eve,” I say. “And I wanted to give you something special tonight.” I’ve done his holiday right, and I know it. It’s only a matter of time until he does, too. “Maybe this could, well, become a new tradition,” I add. “For us, I mean. You know, a holiday thing.” Something about that thought makes me realize it’s my first Christmas as his lover—and our first Christmas as a couple.

  His eyes glitter in th
e near darkness. “I’d like that.”

  I nod, trying to regain a little of the composure I feel slipping from my grasp. “Cool.”

  He drops down onto his knees beside me, and whispers. “You should open something, too.” He bends past me, practically leaning right into my lap, as he searches for the gift he apparently has in mind.

  I can’t resist stroking his hip, not with him pressing so close against me, so I reach for him, my calloused fingertips meeting the soft wool of his cashmere sweater, the thick denim of his jeans. For a moment, he stills beside me, and I slip my hand beneath the sweater, lifting it. Until my fingers stroke the warm skin of his abdomen.

  A little audible sound escapes my lips before I can stop it. He drops back beside me, studying my face seriously as he places my present on the floor. I take my cue and lean in for a slow, simmering kiss. His lips barely touch mine at first, even though my mouth opens hungrily. Then, I feel his tongue dart with my own, as my hand closes around his waist.

  “Oh,” is all I can say. “Oh, oh.” The kiss deepens as he laces his arms around my neck. I’m not even worried about his family, I’m only thinking about how goddamned much I suddenly want him.

  My hand finds its way into his bristling hair, stroking it, as our kiss grows intense and a little desperate. In the space of a heartbeat, my cock’s aching for release, but then a soft gasp punctuates our silence, as he pushes apart from me. “Hunter,” he pants, brushing at his disheveled hair. His gaze tracks toward the kitchen, then the hallway.

  “Stupid, I know,” I admit, wiping my damp mouth. I know what he’s thinking—Leah or John could easily have discovered us.

  “No, that’s not it,” he says, his chest still rising with uneven breaths. “Just, well, we’re opening presents now.” That’s what he’s so worked up about? “I mean, aren’t we?” he asks, looking uncertain.