by Amy Lane
“Why? What’s so bad about butterscotch?”
Brandon manfully refrained from gagging. “It makes Jakey puke like a machine. It’s uncanny. Nica says he can’t so much as smell butterscotch candy. The kids don’t even know it’s a flavor.”
“Now that’s a crime. And so is letting this opportunity to date a guy you’re actually interested in pass you by.”
“Date him?” Grope him, be ravished by him, devour him, bend over and beg for him, make him scream with need, bang him like a screen door in a hurricane—yes.
“You don’t want to date him?” Garland was still amused.
“Uh, sure.” That amused silence battered at Brandon until he was compelled to add, “It’s just sort of a tame word.”
Garland’s rich laughter rang throughout the little trailer. “Oohkay. I think we have successfully answered the question of why Brandon didn’t like the new nanny, and it has nothing to do with whether or not he fits in.”
Brandon closed his eyes and tried to ignore Gar, the little trailer, and his treacherous thoughts about Taylor Cochran all at once. “Shut up.”
“Sparks, my friend. They’re as exciting as hell, but they’re not always comfortable when they jump down your pants.”
Brandon turned abruptly. “I’m gonna go find my crew, Gar.”
“Don’t ignore your own signals, junior!”
“You’ve been a lot of help! You can shut up now!” he said, putting his hand on the doorknob and not looking back.
“You think this is uncomfortable, you should try blue balls.”
Brandon groaned, remembering his sleepless, achy, restless, horny night before. “Been there, done that,” he said, shoulders slumping in defeat.
“Do something about that.”
“I hear you.”
“And don’t take all my best guys. I’m trying to run a business here.”
“Hear that too.” Brandon turned around as he stepped through the open door. “And thanks, Gar.”
“Yeah, call your parents. That’s thanks enough.”
Brandon stepped into site cleanup and his first chance to be the foreman of his own show.
IT was gratifying to pick the guys he wanted to work with and not have any of them turn down the job. The hard part was pulling Cooper Hoskins aside and telling him why Brandon wasn’t going to take him. Not this time.
“Coop, you got a second?”
Coop was barely nineteen. When he’d applied for the job the year before, he’d been two weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday, and Brandon had talked Garland—who had talked Wally—into waiting to hire him. In the meantime he’d made money mowing the lawns of everybody Brandon knew.
There was something fine about Cooper—and something damaged. Brandon had seen him looking at shirtless, muscled men, and there’d been both yearning and terror in the expression.
The only person on Coop’s reference sheet had been a foster parent, who had vaguely confirmed that Cooper had lived there but left the day he aged out.
He’d proved to be a good worker—smart, agile, able to both take directions and think for himself—if not particularly big or strong. Brandon normally loved working with him, which was good, because he’d earned the nickname Spooky Cooper from the rest of the guys. Too quiet, too secretive, too prone to glances that skittered away before they landed. And he moved like being seen was a crime.
But Cooper was just about to learn drywalling on this next job—Garland had set him up as an apprentice for the next couple of months. It was a solid part of contract work, and it would ensure he’d be able to find a job wherever he needed one. Brandon didn’t want him to miss the opportunity, that was all.
He had to make sure Coop saw it that way.
“You don’t want me to come with you? I mean, uh, sure. That’s fine. I don’t, uh… I mean, I’m not a baby who needs you to watch over me and all. It’s cool.” Cooper was a handsome kid—olive skin, with cheekbones and chin in a perfect diamond formation in spite of arresting, slightly asymmetrical brown eyes. Unfortunately truthfulness was not his strong point, and neither was eye contact.
“Cooper.” Brandon’s voice sliced through the bullshit. “I’m not abandoning you. And I still like working with you. But drywalling pays decent, and the training could set you up with any contractor in the state. I want you to have security, do you understand me?” Because Brandon was pretty sure Cooper had been living in his beat-up Chevy Impala when he’d first shown up on Sowers’s doorstep, begging for a job. His clothing had been worn, and his ribs had practically shown through the holes, and he hadn’t smelled great either.
Brandon didn’t ever want to see him in that state again.
Cooper nodded and darted a glance at Brandon’s face. Brandon caught his eyes and made sure the look stuck. “I’m being honest here, Coop. I like you. I want you to work here as long as you want. But you need to learn as many skills as you can. I was going to hook you up with Anthony—”
“The electrician?”
“Yeah, him. As soon as you’re done learning drywalling. The more you know, the more hireable you are. The more choices you have. You understand me?”
This time Brandon believed Cooper when he nodded quietly and said, “Yeah, sure. You’re looking out for me. I appreciate it.”
“You’d better,” Brandon said with a wink, and Cooper actually grinned, which was not an expression they saw often.
Brandon got back to work with a good heart, mostly.
The expression on Cooper’s face as he’d realized, finally, that Brandon wasn’t kicking him to the curb—there was something familiar about it. Something haunting.
Something that reminded him a lot of Taylor Cochran as he’d nuked Brandon’s surliness out of the water with cold hard facts and then stalked away.
BRANDON finished his second final of the day with relief and dragged his tired ass up the wooden stairs to his apartment. Jacob knocked on the door while he was unlacing his boots.
He came with a wrapped plate of meatloaf and vegetables—which was totally unnecessary and very welcome—and with an update.
“Taylor’s starting next week.” He set the plate on the small counter by the refrigerator that marked Brandon’s kitchenette and kept speaking as he walked into the “cozy” white-painted living room. “We figure you’ll be done with finals and concentrating mostly on the extension by then. I know you’ll be busy, but I also know you’ll be keeping an eye out for the kids in case they get out of Taylor’s control, and if Taylor needs help, he can go to you.”
Brandon made an uncomfortable noise, and Jacob held up his hand. “I get it,” he said. “You are not expected to pick up Taylor’s slack—that’s two jobs nobody could do at the same time. We’re just saying we know you’ll take safety seriously while you’re working. I mean, you met Taylor—unless he was really in need, do you think he’d bother you?”
I wish he would. “No. I hear you. I’ll be backup if he needs it.”
“Yeah. And, of course, Nica and I are just a couple of miles away. He’ll be fine.”
Brandon nodded and toed off his second boot, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Long day?”
“Two finals and a site cleanup. I’ll be glad to get home at five tomorrow.”
“Well, we’ll try not to be too nuts for you. I think Taylor’s coming over to have dinner with the kids to get to know them and the routine—feel free to stop by. Teamwork, yo?”
“Yo.” Oh God. If he could only take a nap, he might make it off the couch and into the shower and—“Hey!”
The plate of meatloaf was hot as Jacob set it on his lap.
“Gotta eat,” Jacob said. He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned the station to cable reruns of something with no storyline and lots of explosions while Brandon took his first bite. Unbidden, he saw the look on Taylor’s face before he’d left the kitchen.
“Jakey?”
“Yeah?”
“I said so
mething awful to Taylor last night. Think he’s going to listen to me?”
Jacob snorted. “Dustin threw lasagna at his face last night. If the guy’s coming back after that, I think he can survive you being an asshole.”
Fortified, Brandon took another bite of meatloaf, his entire body waking up at the thought of apologizing to Taylor Cochran—and maybe seeing one of those sardonic smiles again.
Helped and Helpless
TAYLOR was setting Nica’s maple-wood table with china-blue place mats and bantering with her about her classic customer service technique when Brandon walked in.
“Boots!” Nica called without breaking her stride. Taylor had helped her start her first business, Monica’s Dinners To Go, and he’d always loved watching her fly about the kitchen like a mad pixie possessed by a demon of speed.
“Already off!” Brandon called back. “Can I get anything?” He leaned casually against the doorframe that divided the open kitchen/dining room from the living room. He was wearing a clean T-shirt, and around his collar he had streaks that looked like leftover dust after he’d given himself a quick washup. That square American-boy jaw was still firm and his slightly pouty lips still looked soft, and no, Brandon’s broody attractiveness hadn’t lightened up one iota.
“Get out of my way,” Nica called back, not even looking up. “So, Taylor here was just about to tell me stupid stuff I don’t need to know.”
Taylor finished with place mats and started working on silverware. “I was just going to tell you that if you tell your customers right off that their car is a piece of crap and going to die on them, they’re going to think, ‘Oh my God, my baby!’ and take it to another repair shop.”
“There is a thing called honesty—”
“That’s not honest!” Taylor laughed.
“It is too. It’s a thing.”
“It’s cruelty, Nica. Cars aren’t just transportation—they’re our companions, sometimes even our homes. No, you tell the customer, ‘We can make a patch on that, but there’s no guarantee it will last. Eventually the engine will need to be replaced, and that’s bigger than the resale value of the car.’”
“Which is saying the same thing I just said!” Nica protested. She was finely grating the parmesan into some olive oil with crushed garlic, chopped parsley, and basil, and Taylor’s mouth watered. He loved it when she put that on top of a dish.
“But it’s not the same thing!” Brandon winked at Taylor in what must have been an unconscious moment of goodwill. “What you’re saying is ‘take it out and shoot it.’ What Taylor is saying is to make the car comfortable and make sure it’s loved before we honor the DNR order.”
Taylor grimaced, and Nica stopped what she was doing and stared at him. “Oh my God, that’s morbid,” she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron before moving on to slicing the bread.
“It’s a good metaphor,” Taylor considered, “but yeah. Jesus, kid, way to kill a discussion.”
Brandon groaned and rubbed his forehead with a not-quite-clean hand. “Yeah, sorry. Had a physics final yesterday—the professor used a lot of ambulance examples in the word problems. I think I mixed up my worlds.”
Oh great. Taylor was even outclassed by the kid’s schoolwork.
“So how’d you do on the final?” Nica asked, and Taylor frowned at her. There was a trace of that smugness in her voice, one that said, Yes, I know you worked your teeny tiny brain to a pulp on this thing, but my brain could wipe the floor with yours even when pregnancy brain is real and I’m working on four hours of sleep.
“I bombed it,” Brandon said without batting an eyelash. “I always bomb them. You know that. We’re lucky the school has kept me this long.”
Taylor snickered. “Yeah, don’t let her give you any shit about your grades, kid. She was always the smartest one of us, and not ready to let anybody forget it.”
Nica huffed. “You were all slackers,” she said grandly, though her following smile was a little sad. “Actually, you were all the only ones who would put up with me. I was lucky to have friends at all.”
She sounded sniffly, and Taylor looked at Brandon in a little bit of a panic. Brandon was backing slowly out of the room.
“Coward,” Taylor mouthed. He’d thought the boy had more backbone.
“Getting Jacob!” Brandon mouthed back and then disappeared out of the room.
Okay, so not a coward, just showing quick thinking. But Nica was actually crying over her food, and Taylor was stuck in the kitchen with her.
“’Kay, Nica? I love you and it’s time to sit the hell down.”
She gaped at him, mouth opening and closing, and Taylor made his move. He’d worked with a physical therapist for a year to make sure he could deal with a home’s second-most dangerous room, and it was time to pony up.
Gently he took the spoon out of her hand and gestured with it to the table. “Go sit,” he said, meeting her gaze and nodding. “I need you to go sit and rest. Our girl doesn’t cry over being smarter than the whole damned world, and she doesn’t get sniffly over dinner. Go rest and let your family take over for you, okay?”
Nica was short, and she looked up at him, lower lip still wobbly, eyes still red-rimmed. “You know,” she said, voice unaffected by the tears, “this is why I thought I loved you in high school. You were nice like this.”
“Not so nice,” he said, hating the memory. “If I was lying to you all that time, I was not so nice.”
“You had reasons.” He pulled her close so he could lay her head on his chest while he hugged her. Yeah, they’d been good at cuddling in high school. And as hurtful as the truth was, one of the reasons he hadn’t come clean with her back then was that the cuddling was nice.
“It’s a good thing you’re gay,” Jacob said, busting into the treasured moment of human contact.
They stepped back—but not guiltily—and Taylor shook his head. “That’s not what my last boyfriend said.”
Jacob wrapped his arm around Nica’s waist and guided her past the table and toward the living room.
“Jakey—dinner!” she protested.
“How many times has Taylor watched you prepare chicken Alfredo? I bet he could make it with one eye shut.”
Taylor cackled, but Brandon looked horrified. “Jakey!”
“That’s both eyes shut, jerkoff!” Taylor called, and Jacob nodded, continuing to get his wife to the living room.
“Where are the kids?” Taylor asked when they were gone.
“I pulled them inside—they’re hanging out watching cartoons with Conroy.”
“What cartoons does Conroy watch?” This could be important, right?
But Brandon chuckled. “Anything Dustin watches, so right now it’s SpongeBob and Steven Universe.”
“SpongeBob I’ve heard of,” Taylor said, spreading the cheese/olive oil mixture on top of the sourdough bread. “That other guy—”
“Is pretty cool. Very gay-friendly, trust me.”
Taylor set aside the garlic bread and went to stir the ’fredo sauce, very nearly knocking the pan over as he did so.
Brandon caught and steadied it, grabbing the spoon as it fell. A flush crawled up the back of Taylor’s neck. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “Sorry. Depth perception—”
“Yeah, must suck.”
Taylor pulled up a shoulder and took the spoon from Brandon’s hand. His skin, warm and dry, was the first personal male touch Taylor had gotten since before his Humvee was hit by that RPG.
“Better than the alternative,” he said, expecting the kid to move. But he didn’t, just stood there studying Taylor from his blind side and emanating heat and sweat and something spicy that lingered after what must have been a hard day’s work. “Uh, if you’re going to help cook, you should probably wash your hands.”
“Sure,” Brandon said, and another moment—a long moment—later, he stepped away toward the sink. As he was drying his hands on a towel, he asked, “What did your last boyfriend say?”
“What?” Taylor m
oved to the refrigerator and started pulling salad fixings. He was trying to decide if grated cheese was overkill and if Nica still liked raisins—Taylor didn’t—and the question was right out of context.
“Please, no raisins—”
“Thank God!”
“You said your last boyfriend wasn’t happy that you were gay. Explain that.”
Taylor grunted and set the lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, and cheese down on the counter. “He wanted the closet. I wanted the whole house. We were still fighting when my face blew up.”
Brandon grunted like he’d borne the blow himself. “Dumped you?”
“Dumped implies communication. Haven’t heard a thing from him in three years. Only reason I know he’s not dead is that he was holding the car for me while I was deployed. He sent me the registration when I was laid up.” Nica had been in the hospital when he’d gotten the envelope. For a whole thirty seconds, he’d hoped Duane was coming to visit him. Not so much.
“Nice,” Brandon said. “Here, give me the tomatoes and the carrots—”
“You can have the lettuce,” Taylor said shortly. He’d worked on his hand strength and mobility too hard to let salad vanquish him.
“Sure.” He sounded chastened. They worked for a moment in silence, and Taylor smiled as the sounds of SpongeBob and childish laughter floated down the hall.
“I could watch that show with the—”
“I was an asshole.”
Taylor narrowly missed chopping off his fingertip. “I’m sorry?” he said, trying to put that into context.
“When I said you wouldn’t fit in here. I was an asshole.”
“Did you mean it?” Taylor asked.
“I didn’t know you—”
“You don’t know me now. Look, it’s that simple. I was a lying little shitbag when I was a kid. Now that I’m reformed, I’d rather you be rude than false. Did you mean it?”
“Yeah,” Brandon said quietly but not defensively. Taylor stopped chopping vegetables and looked to his left, and found the kid’s eyes fastened hungrily on Taylor’s face. Taylor expected him to look away, embarrassed because he’d been caught staring, but he didn’t.