by T. Neilson
Luke glanced at his wine and found, to his surprise, that he hadn’t finished it. In fact, he was just holding the glass as though it were a prop. There was nothing wrong with the wine… or the food, for that matter. It was just that he was unable to relish either of them.
He drained the glass anyway. Then, as though the server had been watching through a peephole, she appeared again with the bottle of wine, filled his glass, and made some pleasant conversation.
Simon ran a slick establishment. The only thing that might have made things better would have been another glimpse of him, another word, perhaps. He would probably never know what he’d done to drive Simon away from him so suddenly and so completely, and even after ten years, it still rankled.
When he’d first met Simon, he was immediately drawn to him. No one in his life had ever been so serious and focused. No one in his life had ever cared so much for family or been through so much and come out with a backbone like steel, the way Simon had.
Culinary school had been easy for Luke. Of course one combined flavors and textures just so. How else would it be done? But for Simon, it had been difficult. And he was humble enough to know his skills would never reach the level that would be required of a good chef and stubborn enough to find a way to save his family’s restaurant anyway. No wonder Luke had fallen in love with him. How could he do anything but admire that? It was part of why he’d agreed to come to Lake Balmoral, the literal middle of nowhere Washington, and stay for a week. He was going to keep out of the kitchen, ride some horses, and reconnect with someone who understood what it was to find a way through bad times, no matter how inadequate he felt to the task.
It wasn’t that he still carried a flame for Simon. Luke knew he was off-limits. First of all, Simon was straight. Second, he was in the restaurant business. Third, he’d run away once, maybe because Luke had hoped too hard to turn their friendship into a romance. Maybe he had too obviously adored Simon, and it made him uncomfortable. He might never know. But as Luke’s grandma had never tired of saying, “You must be grateful for the love that you are offered.” And if ten years’ distance meant he and Simon could at least be friends again, that would be enough. Surely.
SIMON ducked into the service corridor and started for the offices. Dave, the head of beverage, was coming down the hall in the opposite direction, frowning at his tablet. He glanced up at Simon and smiled. “Oh, great, I was just coming to talk to you.”
“Does it have to be now?” Simon asked.
Dave blinked. He glanced at his tablet and then at Simon. “Uh. No. It can wait.”
He realized he’d snapped at Dave. “Sorry. Cole fucking Doren and Luke fucking Ferreya are here.”
Dave’s eyebrows tried to escape into his hairline. “Oh shit.”
“So, I’m….”
“No, no. I get it.” Dave folded the cover over the tablet with a thwack. “It’s just orders for next month. I can talk with Ginger about it after service.”
“Thanks.”
Dave stepped aside, and Simon squeezed past him to the brown panel door that read Executive Manager. He punched the code to unlock the door and ducked inside the office. He didn’t exactly sag against the door when it closed, he more pushed it shut and then stayed in that position a while, as though he were holding the door shut hard against someone who was battering at it, trying to get inside. Luke fucking Ferreya.
Simon let his head droop between his upraised arms, let out a long-held breath, and stared down at his burnished brown leather shoes and the cuffs of his navy trousers and remembered.
An August evening in the test kitchen at the school, the hood fans roaring, a fetid stink rising off the garbages and seeping out of the grease trap. His project was falling apart, the kitchen unbearable. Sweat ran in a river down his back, between his shoulder blades and into his ass crack. It dripped off his chin and soaked his chef’s coat. He hated his classes, the school, the summer. The back door stood open just a crack, betraying the onrushing night, a tantalizing glimpse of cool blues and purples, and the promise of a breeze like a draft of cold water. He remembered pulling the door open and hearing them before he saw them, before he heard Luke say, “Yeah, come on.”
He remembered the deep shade where delivery crates and pallets lay piled up, too early in the evening for the security lights to come on, dark enough for something approaching privacy. Through the fractured sight lines afforded by the pallets, he saw Luke, white coat discarded on a heap of boxes, gray T-shirt blotchy with sweat, white pants down on his hips so the dark blue elastic of his underwear showed clearly. And with him, leaning against him, shoulder against shoulder as if they were in the middle of a rugby scrum was Andre Martel, the broad-shouldered Dutchman who was the only one in the class who could give Luke a run for his money. He was stripped down too, pants open and pushed down, his white T-shirt pushed up his chest and stuck there with his sweat. He held Luke’s rich, red erection in one of his broad hands, and Luke held his, paler, pinker, almost blushing.
“Yeah, mmmh, come on.”
Luke’s voice was rough and rasping, and his hips jerked as he fucked into Andre’s hand and Andre fucked into his. Andre mouthed at Luke’s unshaven neck, and Andre crowded him against the wall, jammed a knee between Luke’s thighs and knocked them out a little wider. Andre leaned down, one hand still working Luke, the other sliding down Luke’s belly to vanish inside Luke’s pants. Luke inhaled sharply and rose up on his toes a half inch. Simon could hear his heart thudding in his ears, feel it pounding against the cage of his chest. The moan that came from Luke was raw, ragged.
“You like it,” Andre had said. Not a question.
“Yeah,” Luke answered, gasping and growling. “Yeah, get it in me. Come on, make me, ngggh—”
Simon saw the orgasm take Luke, even with the pallets in the way. He saw it move through him, twist him, make him writhe and groan until the wave reached his chest, tipped up his head, and made him gasp at the sky. He heard Andre’s chuckle.
And that was it. They were done, right? Probably. Simon didn’t know a damn thing about gay sex, and honestly not a whole lot more about straight sex. But that had to be it, right?
Vicarious embarrassment flooded Simon. He’d wait till they were distracted or getting dressed, till the silence wasn’t quite so complete, and then he’d sneak away—with, he couldn’t help noticing, an erection the size of Texas in his pants. Holy shit.
“Very pretty,” Andre murmured, as he withdrew his hands from Luke’s pants. “Now get on your knees.”
Luke slid down languorously, almost bonelessly, onto the stained asphalt, and Andre stepped the half step forward and guided his blushing erection right into Luke’s open mouth. Then he steadily and methodically began to fuck his mouth.
Oh holy God. Simon’s cock throbbed, and his balls were suddenly aching between his legs. If he was waiting for a time to get the fuck out of there and not be seen, there would never be a better opportunity. He should have stepped backward two or three steps and closed the door after him. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to.
He wasn’t gay. He had two out brothers and had occasionally wondered if he might be the third. But that idea was absurd—three gay brothers in a single family? How likely was that? No, he wasn’t gay. It was just that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten off, and even Simon would admit that Luke was a beautiful creature. And Luke knew it. He flaunted that hard Argentinian ass at every opportunity.
Simon stayed where he had stopped and slid a hand into his own, too-tight pants and gripped his shaft in his sweat-dampened hand. Precome had already slicked his tip and dampened his shorts. He used it to lubricate his hand and watched as Luke’s red mouth stretched around Andre’s member, as his throat flexed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Andre twisted his fingers into Luke’s black hair and closed them into a fist.
Luke’s muffled groan shot through Simon. He bit back a noise of his own, imagining not his own hand but Luke’s mouth there, working his shaft
like a piston, hot and wet and hungry, taking as much as Simon could give. He heard a low rumble of pleasure come from Andre, and was aware of his own breathing and his own need galloping away from him as Andre fucked into Luke’s mouth. Andre moaned, thrust his hips hard and deep, until Luke made a small noise—a slight choking noise—and slid his hands up to grip Andre’s ass with both hands and drag him in harder, hungrier. All at once Andre jerked Luke’s head back. Simon saw the surprise on Luke’s face, and then Andre was coming. On Luke. On his chest, his neck, into his open mouth. Luke closed his eyes and opened his mouth wide to receive it.
And suddenly Simon came too. Helpless, he arched over his hand and splashed hot sticky come all over his hands, onto the concrete, over his whites. In the next instant, he was aware of what he’d done—perved on friends and classmates and jerked himself while he watched two guys go at it. He had a huge fucking mess all over him, and he was going to have to walk the two blocks to his apartment with come all over his kitchen whites, and tomorrow he was going to have to work beside Luke at their station and not say that he had seen him like that—on his knees in an alley getting a hand job from a classmate and then eating the guy’s jizz like it was foie gras—while he jerked himself so hard that the orgasm had surprised him.
Simon didn’t exactly run. He walked back into the test kitchen, where it was too hot for any rational human being to linger, and then into the bathroom to clean his hands and dab the come off his pants with paper towel. And after that he returned to the shared apartment that was home, with his messenger bag slung over his crotch where the stain was agonizingly obvious.
He dropped out of culinary school that night and enrolled in the school’s hospitality program. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Luke again. He did. They were friends, and he missed their conversation and jokes. But Simon found he couldn’t get the memory out of his head.
And he saw Luke again, all right. He saw him every night in bed, every morning in the shower. He relived the whole thing over and over for months, imagined himself in Andre’s place and jerked himself so hard and so often that he started to wonder if he would hurt himself if he kept at it. He dodged Luke’s calls and avoided social gatherings. His family needed him, the restaurant needed him, and he was just too damn busy. He completed his course half a year early and went home.
He heard from a couple of classmates that Luke was worried about him, so he finally sent Luke an email saying he’d decided cooking wasn’t for him—and Luke, being honest and straightforward and because he’d always known who he was, and only Simon was being weird about it—told him he thought that was a good move.
Luke friended him on Twitter and followed him on Facebook, and for a long time, he would initiate conversations online. Sometimes they talked on social media or over email, and the alley receded in Simon’s mind until it was like the memory of something seen in a rearview mirror, something that diminished as he kept moving. That was fine. It had all been fine.
Until now.
Chapter Four
HE couldn’t hide in the office forever, and frankly, he wasn’t the only one who had the code to the door. Mark kept the really high-end ingredients in a tiny fridge in there, and personally parceled them out to the chefs, so it wasn’t exactly private. Someone would be along sooner or later, either to get something for service, or to find out what the hell had happened to the executive manager who was supposed to be schmoozing the regulars.
Simon took a few breaths to steady himself, checked his appearance in the smudged little mirror by the door, and then crept back out into the service hallway. Bussers and runners were coming and going from pantry and dish pit, the kitchen was in full roar—hood fans and the clatter of pots and pans, “Yes, Chef!” and the thunk of knives on cutting boards, and beyond that, the low, contented buzz of chatter in the dining room. He stepped into it and headed for Ginger’s station.
Ginger glanced up from the table she was seating and made eye contact with him. It was only because they had worked together for so long that he saw the nearly imperceptible shift of expression—the fractional lifting of her perfectly plucked eyebrows. Everything okay?
He nodded, glanced at Ginger’s notes for the night, and reminded himself where the hell table four was. There. He headed over to introduce himself to the Chans and see how their meal had gone, and he spent longer than he normally would have. They were friendly and effusive about the experience and the food, and he was glad to have a reason to delay his return to the chef’s table. But it couldn’t last forever, and soon Hiro caught his eye across the dining room, lifted his chin a quarter of an inch, and then looked deliberately toward the chef’s table. You’re on.
Simon’s heart thumped against his ribs, but it wasn’t the thumpitta thumpitta of a good workout or even of being slammed with unexpected guests. It was the bam, bam, bam of fight-or-flight.
“How’re things in there?” he asked Hiro softly as he passed.
Hiro gave him a microfrown, the sort of thing you could easily fail to notice and no guest was ever going to see. “You mean how does Doren like it?”
Simon marveled that Hiro could sound so calm. Simon was probably going to have a heart attack right there on the floor of his own restaurant.
“He’s fine. He’s having the trout, so I paired a beer.”
Simon felt his eyes bulge. “You what?”
Hiro returned his look with a flat stare. “I paired the Hefeweizen from Old Canoe. With the lemon in the trout, it’s excellent. There’s no wine in the cellar that pairs better.”
Simon closed his eyes. “Hiro Nakamura, we are a fine-food establishment.”
“Simon Love, quality beer belongs in fine dining.”
Simon exhaled through his nose. “With Luke fucking Ferreya here? I am going to lose my shit.”
“Going to lose your shit?” Hiro whispered, rocking back just slightly on his heels. “Go look in. I’m telling you, they’re happy.”
Simon took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. Hiro took the opportunity to disappear across the dining room, to offer aperitifs to a pair of new guests who had just been seated. As steady as he was ever going to be, Simon headed to the chef’s table and peered inside.
In that moment Luke was laughing, eyes bright. The lights above shone on his black hair, heightening the contrast of dark skin and pale shirt and the light and shadow on his thick forearms. The plate in front of him was empty except for a smear of sauce, and there was a nice, full glass of burgundy in his hand.
Across from Luke, Daniel laughed too, and through a mouthful of his steak said, “You’re an asshole, Luke.”
“It’s true,” Luke answered and wiped the corner of one eye with the tip of a finger. “And that’s why I’m never going to run a kitchen again.”
What?
Simon felt his mouth drop open. It was one thing to sell your place and take a break, another to be done forever.
“You’re really retired, then?” Cole asked. “Like, forever?”
“I am,” Luke answered. “It’s so much better to eat at restaurants when you don’t have to work at them.” Luke sat back with a satisfied grin and swirled the wine in his glass to gaze mildly at the legs. Simon couldn’t help himself. He looked Luke up and down, from his black hair to the sinews of his neck, the shoulders hidden under that dress shirt to the taper of his hips and the bulge in the crotch of his tailored trousers.
Someone touched his arm. Ginger. Her expression had gone from mildly amused to definitely and publicly amused. He bundled her out of sight of the chef’s table and the dining room.
“No,” he said, not sure exactly what he was addressing.
“Of course not,” she softly chided.
“No,” he blurted, “it’s not like that….” And then he glanced back around the corner at Luke because he couldn’t help it.
“Oh, boss,” Ginger said again, that time with a hint of scandal in her voice.
“It’s not.”
�
��It is.”
He shook his head. He had two gay siblings. He wasn’t gay. He wasn’t anything. He ran a fucking restaurant and a hotel. He was surrogate dad for six brothers. He looked after his mom. He didn’t have time for it.
Ginger nodded in the direction of the chef’s table. “Even I will acknowledge that one is awfully pretty to look at.”
Simon wished he could do or say something… anything. He wanted to locate some scrap of dignity and tell Ginger to mind her own business. Instead, all he felt was dizzy. Ginger gripped his forearms.
“Breathe, boss, or you’re going to faint.”
He wanted to slide down the wall and curl up into a ball or make a break for it and leave nothing but a Simon-shaped hole in the wall of the hotel. And Ginger wasn’t helping matters even a little.
“I’m not hot for him,” he hissed at last. “He’s a fucking two-star chef, and he’s here with a food critic, and I am woefully unprepared.”
Ginger gave him a look that was more than a little pitying. “Of course. Anything you say.”
He ignored that. “I’m going to the back. Call me if anything happens. If they ask for me. If they want to know about anything. Just….”
Ginger nodded. “Sure. You’re ready to wait on them hand and foot.”
“Damn right,” he answered. He didn’t exactly sprint toward his office. Not exactly.
BY the time the Ferreya party left at half past ten, Simon felt completely done in. Every time he looked at Luke, all he could think about was the last time he’d seen him. Hell. How could he not feel like he was going to explode?
He slipped into the washroom to take a glance at himself, and he frowned at the sheen of sweat on his forehead and eyes that looked far more tired than they should have, even late into Saturday night service.
“You look like hell,” he whispered at his reflection. Something about the lights in the bathroom always made the reflection in the mirror pale and set off the encroaching gray in his hair, but he had never looked so old to himself, not even on his worst nights.