The Holiday Toast Duo

by Nya Rawlyns

Mrs. McD exchanged raised eyebrows and pursed lips with the ladies in the front row. He was adamant. It was last row, left, in the all-male section, as far away from the mock-up kitchen as he could manage. If he could have sat outside in the hallway and just listened to the lecture, he would have.

  As it was, just hearing the dulcet baritone was enough to send his libido through the roof and his mea culpas worshiping at the altar of failed relationships. So far he’d gotten through two lectures, refusing to let inspiration take him to flights of fancy over candied yams and the inevitable pairing with green beans amandine and a carrot pineapple gelatin salad. Chef Asshat was saving the ham for the next to last lecture, thus according exactly one session to the alternative offering—pan-seared scallops.

  One session. It did not escape him that he was the one who had offered scallops as a viable alternative. Not according the dish its proper respect was a virtual slap in the face. But there was more at stake than his ego. What he feared was having the prep shortchanged with common ingredients and lazy searing techniques.

  Scowling his way through ninety minutes of I can do better than that blindfolded was still better than pining alone in his apartment, wondering what he’d done that was so wrong as to drive Jack Lambert away. Not just away. God, the man had taken off like he was being pursued by a rabid animal. Or a serial killer.

  No … sorry, have to leave, I decided het’s the better way to go, your cream of cauliflower sucks and I’m too fucking cowardly to tell you the truth. You taste like shit. You aren’t my type. You keep a trash can full of sharp objects…

  The only reason he was still attending the class was because…

  Why the heck am I here? Rae said I’m bigger than, better than. Show him I don’t give a shit.

  Except he did. And seeing him twice more, then bolting for home at a dead run so he couldn’t possibly risk a chance meeting… Yes, that did wonders for his ego. Not. Add to that the hours spent at his desk researching up ’n comer Jacques Lambert, including the little brouhaha in Seattle and the man’s subsequent fall from grace. It had taken a lot more digging to expose the truth—that he’d been shafted by his partner and was now under the spotlight of the IRS.

  He was an accountant. He understood all too well what Jack was up against. Including some workarounds that required creativity but weren’t impossible to implement. But like his maiden aunt said, “That don’t make no nevermind.” If he offered to help, the asshole would see it for what it was … him currying favor, trying to win him back by manufacturing obligations. That wasn’t his style. He didn’t owe the man anything—not consideration, not even the time of day. And vice-fricking-versa.

  He’d paid his money to learn how to cook a damn Christmas ham dinner. The irony was that this year was his turn doing Hanukah, and as far as he knew ham was the last thing going on that menu.

  “I’m not a pathetic foodie whore.”

  “What, dear?” Mrs. Samuelson. She was using her wheeled walker, with her notebook, purse and assorted stationary items housed in a pink-beribboned basket attached to the front of the device.

  He stood, disoriented. While he’d been skinning himself alive yet again, the class had wound down, the head honcho was already MIA, and his help was needed to get the elderly woman to her ride. He recalled the granddaughter did chauffeur duties, but that extended only to parking the vehicle at the curb and listening to her iPod. Granny was left to her own devices when it came to actually getting from point A to point Ford.

  “Let me get that, ma’am.” He held the door open, then escorted the woman down the short hallway. He could hear the bass beat from inside the building. “Jaysus, turn it down.”

  “What, dear?”

  “Um, nothing, ma’am.” The woman was probably deaf as a post. If she wasn’t, she would be by the time they drove the two blocks to her assisted living center. He helped his neighbor into the front seat and folded the walker to fit in the back of the small SUV. He had to crouch on his heels in order to reach around the woman and get her properly buckled in. Then he hit the Stop button on the CD player.

  “Hey.”

  “I can see your bedroom window from my apartment. I can even see the tats on your boyfriend when he’s crawling into your room.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Sorry, you aren’t my type. Try being a little nicer to your grams and I won’t mention what goes on to the rabbi.” He withdrew from the cab of the SUV and glared at the girl. “Deal?”

  She reached for the Play button, then stopped, reconsidered and mouthed, “Fuck you, faggot,” before driving off. Mercifully Mrs. Samuelson was already dozing.

  Hefting his satchel onto his shoulder, Alan trudged through the light snow that had fallen while he was off in la-la-land. Though the forecast wasn’t promising a white Christmas, he was sort of hoping for a major storm, one that would force him into staying home instead of doing the aggravating road trip to Esther’s place near Salisbury, Maryland. He would have to pick his Mom up, along with a few cousins—however many could fit into his Subaru—and cuss his way down the turnpike and interstates, three hours and change if he was lucky, not including bio-stops for his elderly relatives.

  “I love them … but.” His breath puffed out icicles of resignation. There would be questions. Even worse, he’d have guidance and suggestions; and if he was particularly unfortunate, a plus-one might be at the dinner table. Special for him.

  His breakups ran a pattern, regular as clockwork. “It’s not me, dammit. I don’t plan it this way.” Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  It was cold enough his lungs burned with every labored breath. For no reason, he was going all girly again, close to tears, maybe even a total emotional breakdown. He could say no to his family, but what purpose would that serve? He’d be alone again, over the holidays. A pathetic, lonely, lost soul. At least with his sister and his mom, he’d be badgered and teased and they’d all make a fuss over the meal and proclaim it the best ever. Early on they used to lie about his cooking skills, but now he sensed real appreciation and even a little pride in his accomplishments. Some people might call that grasping at straws.

  “I’m not a neurosurgeon, but I can damn well cook.” For a half-Jewish boy, with a steady job and decent income, that counted for a lot. Not enough to make up for being gay, but it helped.

  The air inside the stairwell was damp and overheated, compared with the brisk air outside. He stripped the scarf off his neck as he trudged up the two flights to his floor. At the emergency door he paused, reconsidering settling in for the night. There wasn’t much open on a Thursday, but he’d had enough self-imposed isolation over the last couple weeks. Besides, walking was good exercise. He’d been dropping weight steadily since his aborted tryst with Chef Asshat, reacquiring the long, lean build he used to have.

  With a sigh, he looked down at his good wool slacks. He wasn’t dressed for a stroll, and once inside his apartment it would be all over for the evening. Grimacing, he shoved the door open and nearly tripped over a pair of long legs stretched in front of his apartment door.

  “Jack?” What the hell?

  The man scrambled to his feet, wobbling as if standing so quickly had rendered him disoriented. Alan grabbed his arm to steady him, demanding, “What are you doing here?”

  “I, uh… Sorry. I must have dozed off.” He swayed again.

  Alan unlocked the door and guided his unwelcome visitor inside. “Go sit. I’ll make some tea. Did you eat? Are you sick?”

  “I-I, no, I’m fine. Forgot to eat, is all.”

  “Well, you look like shit.” In fact, he’d noticed how pale and pinched Jack’s face had been, but the fact hadn’t really registered until now. He’d been too caught up in his own misery to pay much attention to the man he was head over heels in lust with. Small “l,” not the big one, not the forever after, until death do us.

  It can’t be, there’s no such thing as first sight anything. It’s a myth.

  Isn’t it?

  Alan tried to igno
re Jack, keeping his back to him while he boiled water for tea. Selecting a black, Russian blend, he loaded the ball with the loose tea leaves, rinsed the teapot with a small amount of hot water, then filled the pot carefully. He set sugar and honey on a small tray, along with two ceramic mugs and carried the lot to the coffee table.

  Jack was staring off into space. He looked a little better. There was color returning to his cheeks but his eyes seemed lifeless, as if all joy had been siphoned from his body. Alan could relate. The man looked a lot like he felt.

  “I’m going to change. Tea will be steeped by the time I get back.”

  He strode into the bedroom, changed quickly into sweat pants and tee-shirt and took a swipe at his unruly mop of wavy hair. It was weeks past a haircut, and he would hear about that from all the women in his family. At that point, he simply didn’t give a shit. Shrugging at his reflection in the dresser mirror, he strode back to the living room. Jack hadn’t moved a muscle near as he could tell.

  He decanted tea into the mugs, added honey to his and raised his eyebrows at Jack. The man stared into space, ignoring him.

  “This is all I have. Sorry.” I don’t shop so I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. All I do is pine like a lovesick teenage girl. I haven’t shaved in three days. “Honey or sugar?”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Honey’s fine. Lemon?”

  “It died. I was going to hold a service, but citrus eulogies are a bitch.” The man’s mouth twitched, though he still refused to make eye contact.

  Alan sat on the coffee table, his legs bracketing Jack’s. They sipped, the silence punctuated by sharp intakes of air, emotion slicing and dicing through the divide holding them at bay. Finally Alan asked, “Why are you here?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “I don’t have any right…” Jack’s face had gone puce with anxiety, his eyes flattening into despair, haunted and underlined with dark paunches. He was walking wounded, his face a roadmap for his tortured soul. Alan’s heart stutter-stepped. He knew that look. He’d seen it often enough on his own face, when he’d garnered the courage to peer at himself in a mirror.

  He laid his hands on Jack’s thighs and spoke softly. “Maybe I should be the judge of that.” He fought the hope but his gut told him, maybe this time, it was a losing battle. Maybe for once, hope wouldn’t play him, or Jack, false. So he asked, “Do you believe in love at first sight, Jack Lambert?”

  Large hands, roughened by hard work, covered his own.

  “Jack, look at me.” He did and what Alan saw nearly broke him. But he, no they, needed an answer so he persisted. “Yes or no. Do you believe?”

  “Yeah, I do, Alan. I don’t know how or why this happened. If it’s real or a figment of my imagination…”

  “I don’t think we’re imagining this.” Alan stood and drew Jack to his feet. “Will you let me show you how real it is for me?” He nodded in the direction of the bedroom.

  Jack ducked his head and shuffled his feet. “Um…”

  “It’s okay, we don’t have to…”

  “No. No, it’s just…” He grimaced. “I haven’t eaten for a couple days. Do you have any of that soup? Maybe a chocolate bar.”

  Alan’s face split into a wide grin. “Grab a seat at the counter, Chef Lambert. One special Liebowitz omelet coming up.” He stuck his head in the refrigerator and grabbed as many ingredients as he could carry.

  Jack raised his eyebrows. “Ham?”

  “I’m half-Jewish. The other half enjoys pork products, thank you very much.” He shoved a small cutting board and knife in front of Jack. “You steady enough to chop onion and tomato?”

  “Yeah. Uh, small or large dice?”

  “What size do you like?” Alan knew that was a loaded question.

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what it’s going into…”

  Chapter Six

  Tender Cuts

  “Call her.”

  “She’s not my mother.” Jack entrenched, arms crossed over his chest, wearing “I’m a big boy, I don’t have to report to anyone” face.

  Alan peered over top of his black frames. “Tell me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Will she worry?” That brought on a long, pregnant pause.

  “Well.” Awkward shifting. “Maybe. Yeah, I guess.”

  “Where’s your cell phone?” Jack still wasn’t convinced, but he dutifully retrieved the device from his coat pocket and held it out. “Nuh-uh. She’s your sister, not mine.”

  “She’ll ask questions. It’s what Marie does.”

  “So tell her…”

  “Tell her what? We ate dinner. We’re sitting on the couch watching a movie?”

  “Tell her it’s gay porn.”

  “Right. You tell her.”

  “Okay.” Alan stuck his hand out. He thumbed the setting, then placed the phone against his ear. “Hi, yes, is this Marie? Just wanted to let you know Jack won’t be home until … um, Monday?”

  Alan watched Jack’s face split into a grin. He grabbed the phone and dialed. “Hey, Mark. Uh-huh. Tell your mom I won’t be home tonight. Right. Yeah, you could say that.” He looked up and winked. “Tell her … Monday. No. No way. Use your imagination. Yeah, goodnight, brat.”

  “Your nephew?”

  “Uh-huh, good kid.”

  “How’s his imagination?”

  “Not half as good as mine.”

  Alan sauntered to the counter. “Hold that thought. I need to make a call.”

  “I thought your sister was in Maryland.”

  “This is work. Calling in sick.” He dialed, tapped on the screen a few times, then spoke slowly. “This is Alan Liebowitz. I’ll be out of the office until Monday. Please leave a message and I will get back to you…”

  “You weren’t kidding.”

  “No. I wasn’t. I’m not.”

  Alan felt his face flush, the heat spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears. It was one thing to dance around their feelings, talking about euphemisms. It was quite another to make a commitment, even if it was just a long weekend’s worth, when they still knew so little about each other. They’d barely kissed let alone explored the kind of intimacy that could make or break them.

  Jack approached with slow, tentative steps. He stopped, a bare few inches away. “Can I tell you what I imagine will happen?” He swayed, still unsteady on his feet.

  “You’re the walking dead, lover.” Alan gulped. Did I really just call him ‘lover’? “Let’s lie down. You can tell me bedtime stories.”

  He took Jack’s elbow and guided him to the bedroom. The man was a zombie with a hard on. And he wasn’t in much better shape himself. Neither of them was a poster child for hale and hearty. They needed sleep, more food, and a large supply of condoms for later. He grinned. Jack wasn’t the only one with a very active imagination.

  Jack looked down at the bed, then back to Alan. “Undress me?”

  “Sure.”

  That was easier said than done. He’d spent so many hours sleep-walking through a dozen scenarios just like this one … Jacques Lambert, in his bedroom, eyes gone smoky with lust, the bulge in his jeans threatening to split the fabric stem to stern. Him drooling at the mountain of toned manflesh, the dark dusting of hair a trail of wish fulfillment.

  Now that he had his dream in his sights, if not exactly in hand, he blanked. Fingers twitched, massaging each other, thumb and forefinger masturbating in a joyful rhythm. In his mind he heard blood gushing, like a waterfall, a jailbreak of desire, all headed south, leaving him nearly comatose. Unable to move.

  Jack murmured, “What’s your name?”

  Name? He wants my name? Why? Can’t he fuck me anonymously? Is this a damn test?

  God, if it is … I’ll fail.

  Jack tipped his chin up with a single finger. “Your name.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Ah. Fuck Liebowitz. Is that it?” Dark shadows dusted his c
heeks and chin, weariness was etched into his features, but his eyes crinkled with mirth. “Good name.”

  “It’s Alan, fuck you very much.”

  “Hearing a lot of talk, not much action happening.”

  Jack held his arms in the air. The turtleneck was wool mohair, soft to the touch, just the kind Alan liked for cold winter evenings. He pulled the sweater over Jack’s dark hair, static electricity standing it on end. He wanted nothing more than to smooth the riot of spikes but if he did, sparks were likely to shoot out both their asses. He said as much.

  Jack snorted. “Talk about premature ejaculation.”

  “Quiet. I need to concentrate.”

  “Thought you were an accountant. Can’t handle a simple zipper?”

  “Depends.” Jack grunted, his gaze directed downward. “You commando?”

  “Oh.” Apparently he was.

  Undoing the belt buckle, Alan slipped the supple leather through the tabs. He wrapped it around his left hand, looping it carefully. When he mumbled, “For later,” Jack smirked.

  “Can I tell you a secret?”

  Alan nodded. Whatever Jack said was lost to the sensation of his own hand sliding down the thick length of the man’s cock, creating a barrier as his right hand undid the zipper. One notch at a time. By the time he’d finished, he was in a cold sweat and wondering how in hell he was going to last long enough to pleasure the man.

  His own ass and cock were dueling for supremacy, a me me me of entitlement. He nudged the denim down well-shaped thighs, then crouched on his heels, prepared to worship at the altar of Jack’s beautiful prick, but his lover lifted him up. Distracted him with the words, repeated until they finally registered…

  “I said… I like it rough.” He handed Alan the belt. He turned around. Bent over the bed. There were muffled words. “Tenderize me.”

  Alan swallowed, hard. Stripping fast, his clothing landed in a pile at his feet. He kicked the garments out of the way. Backed up. Ogled the expanse of firm flesh, imagined the cheeks burning cherry red, welcoming him home. It was the kind of foreplay he’d craved but never dared try. Until now.