“Look at you two. Goodness, Elijah, I can tell you’re someone special. It’s not just anyone who can make my Sebastian shy.” Gloria dabbed at her smile daintily with a peach-colored cloth napkin. “What will the two of you do tomorrow?”
“Shopping.” Baz cut into his popover with a knife and fork. “Which reminds me. I’ll need a car service because I want to take him to Zeglio’s. Is this event black tie?”
“Oh, goodness no. A house party up by Mirror Lake. Cocktails, dinner. Anything from Zeglio’s will be more than appropriate. If they don’t have anything suitable on the rack, mention a rush custom job will be a favor to Uncle Paul.”
They got into a discussion about types of dinner jackets, which Elijah decided was permission enough to eat. The soup was amazing, and so were the popovers. Normally he didn’t go in for fish, but if all lobster bisque tasted like this, sign him up. As far as the cheese rolls were concerned, it was all he could do not to lick the plate. He would have eaten more, but none were offered, so he polished off his wine.
When the housekeeper returned and asked them how their meal was, then Baz and his mother effused in tones both controlled and sincere. Elijah echoed them, quietly. After a nod of acknowledgment, the housekeeper brought out dessert. Elijah missed the name of it, but it was basically some kind of custard thing in a dish with a stem as long as a wineglass. There were bits of cake in the custard, and cinnamon whipped cream on top, and when consumed with the decadent Italian espresso offered, it was probably the most amazing thing Elijah had ever eaten.
Gloria excused herself before Baz had finished, pleading a “mountain of work,” encouraging the boys to send out for anything they might need. She wouldn’t see them tomorrow, as she had a full schedule. When she rose, Baz did too, leaning over to kiss her cheek and accept one in return. Elijah wasn’t sure if he should stand up too or not, so he tried to split the difference, rising as if maybe he meant to anyway. Once she left and Baz sat, however, Elijah remained standing, rubbing his arms as he wandered hesitantly around the perimeter of the room.
“We can go out on the patio, if you want a cigarette,” Baz suggested.
Elijah wanted one of Baz’s medicinal cigarettes, but he wasn’t going to ask for them. “Sure. Except I left them in the room.”
“No worries.” Baz pulled out his phone, tapped out a text and resumed eating his custard thing. As he scraped the side of his dish, a thirtyish man with a fake-bake tan breezed into the room, wearing a plastic smile.
“The items you requested.” He passed over a small paper bag to Baz and nodded politely at Elijah. Then he disappeared out of the room again.
Baz pushed away from the table, scooping the sack up as he rose. “Wait here. I’m going to grab the Oban, and we’ll sneak out.”
Elijah would have protested Baz wasn’t leaving him anywhere, but since he could hover in the hallway and pretty much watch him except for the ten seconds he was behind the bar, he let it slide.
The patio was a magical expanse of tile and potted urn things at the top of a stone staircase leading to a gleaming blue swimming pool and an expansive backyard which was probably not called a yard at all, but grounds. Elijah sank into a swanky fabric lawn chair and stared out across the grounds as Baz passed him the paper bag. Inside was a package of cigarettes Elijah hadn’t ever heard of before. Dunhill, they said. He didn’t think that was the brand Baz had mentioned earlier, but whatever they were, they smelled nice. He lit one and decided they tasted even better.
There was more in the bag, though. A prescription pill bottle of Xanax—in Elijah’s name. There were also three joints politely tucked into the corner, sealed inside a mini baggie.
Elijah stared into the bag. “Where the hell did all this come from?”
“Stephan. My mom’s Guy Friday.” Baz fished the joints out of the bag and lit one. “If you don’t want the Xanax, you can flush it. I thought…since you seemed on edge. Would have given them to you earlier, but they just showed up.”
Elijah wouldn’t have had one then, because hell would freeze over before he’d play this circus high, but now that the show was over, he cracked the lid on the bottle and fished out a pill. He couldn’t split it with his cigarette and the bag, but Baz relieved him of it as soon as he began to struggle and did it for him, popping it into Elijah’s mouth after.
“Are you still pissed?” His mouth thinned as he asked, like he was stressed and annoyed and confused.
Elijah sloshed the pill into his system with some Oban instead of answering, then followed up with a long drag. “What’s this shopping thing? Why do we need a car service to do it?”
“You need a suit. So do I, frankly. The car service is because the shop is in the heart of downtown Chicago, and as nervous as you got on the interstate coming in here, I didn’t figure we should leap right into graduate-level traffic.” He lit a joint. “So you are still pissed.”
Elijah wasn’t so much pissed as confused and terrified. He motioned for the joint, not giving a shit he had a lit cigarette in his other hand. Once the weed joined his chemical symphony, he cracked the lid on the freakout he’d been banking ever since he’d pulled into the drive. “I didn’t think you were this guy, is all.”
Baz took the joint back. “What do you mean, this guy? What the hell is that?”
“The guy with staff. A house with a courtyard clock. Suites. Somebody who can magic me up a prescription.”
“Why is that bad?”
Elijah swigged Oban. It wasn’t bad. It was…fucking insane. Elijah felt as if he were on the set of gay Dallas or Dynasty. “It’s weird. It makes me uncomfortable.” He put his cigarette to his lips and murmured around it. “Feel like an idiot, pretending to be your boyfriend. Jesus, they must all be laughing.”
He startled as Baz abruptly straddled the chair and loomed over him. He didn’t remove his sunglasses, but he pulled them down enough to glare. “Will you fucking stop? You could so be my boyfriend, and to hell with anybody who laughed. Quit pretending you’re a leper.”
Nostrils flaring, Elijah flicked the center of Baz’s chest. “You should have fucking let her set you up. You should have laid this out so I could have seen how awkward I’d feel and say no. If you were so against walking out with her choice of fake boyfriend, you should have gone on Grindr and picked a boy toy for the weekend. You shouldn’t have put that on me. This is the most fucked-up trick I’ve ever done, and I’m not even getting paid.”
Oh, how he hated himself, the way his body yielded and dick got hard when Baz threw the joint on the ground, sat on his thighs, cupped his chin and leaned in dangerously close. “This isn’t a trick, goddamn it.”
It was—the other kind. The nasty kind. The one he played on himself. Elijah’s throat got thick. “I hate how stupid you make me. Feel me up in a cupboard, pout, and here I am. I guess at least the food was good.”
For a horrible second he feared his barb had hit its mark. The hand on his chin almost fell away. But at the last moment, Baz caught a headwind. “I asked you—fine, tricked you—because I wanted you. Stupid’s an open market, baby. I don’t know why, but nobody undoes me like you. You want to know why I ran from you for a month? That. That right there.” He traced the tip of his nose along Elijah’s. “I’m done running.”
Elijah didn’t need Xanax for the confession to peel his heart open, but the drugs didn’t do him any favors. “I don’t know how to behave here. I don’t know how to play this game, how to be safe. Don’t tell me I’m safe, because it’s a crock of shit. There are a million ways for me to look foolish and be laughed at. And that’s here. I’m scared to death of this house party.”
Baz’s expression softened. “Anyone laughs at you, I’ll tear them apart.” He stroked Elijah’s cheek and drew a circle around his lips. “Hush, Sophie. You’re beautiful.”
It was, mostly, a quote from the movie, and it finished Elijah off. Shutt
ing his eyes, he leaned into Baz’s touch. “Don’t eat my heart, Howl.”
“Never,” Baz vowed, sealing the promise with a kiss.
Chapter Nine
Elijah didn’t exactly forget the rest of his first night at Baz’s house, but he had to admit it was hazy.
He had shards, here and there. Baz trying to fuck him on the patio, Elijah objecting, Baz plying him with booze and weed and finally the second half of the Xanax. After that things became distinctly gray. Did getting a blow job count as sex? If so, he had to cede the patio to Baz. Something had happened in the shower—he was pretty sure he tried to get Baz to fuck him, but if he got any action there, it was a hand job. Or…something.
Either he’d bent over the tub dais and been in the rimming Olympics, or he’d dreamed that part.
He knew Baz poured a metric fuckton of water into him, and the cheesy bread things magically appeared at some point. Cigarettes and another blow job on a narrow balcony off their room. He knew he’d swayed on the same balcony after, Baz wrapped around him while Elijah slurred sappy shit he was willfully not remembering.
Now, however, it was morning. Full, horrible morning, steeped in hangover and hell, and Baz with a tray of breakfast beside the bed, patiently explaining they had less than an hour before the car arrived to take them shopping.
“I can’t leave this bed,” Elijah wheezed, seconds before Baz hauled him out of it.
This shower was solo and filled with the horror of possibly retching all over it. The antacid Baz left on the bathroom counter helped keep that at bay, as did the dry toast and green tea. He didn’t feel human enough to get dressed until the Vicodin Baz offered him kicked in. He only got one leg in his jeans, though, before he had to sag into Baz. “Why did you let me get so drunk?”
“You actually didn’t have much more than the night of the wedding. The only thing different was the Xanax.” Baz nuzzled, licking Elijah’s ear. “Sucks it makes you this hung over. Because, baby, when you cut loose…”
Elijah’s blush burned him head to toe. “I guess it’s good you got the car thing. No way I could drive.”
Baz pressed a kiss on his temple. “If you get dressed, you can work in a cigarette before they get here.”
Elijah did get his cigarette, and half of a second one before a sedate black car pulled into the circle by the clock. The inside was leather and lush, complete with a privacy-screen thing Baz slid electronically into place as soon as he’d given directions to the driver. Elijah worried Baz would want to make out or something, jostling his still-unsteady tummy, but Baz only tucked Elijah into his side and indicated points of interest as they drifted past.
There were a lot of points of interest, because it was a long-ass drive into the heart of downtown. Which, thank Christ Baz had arranged for someone else to drive, because Elijah wanted to piss himself riding in this traffic. He’d never bitch about Minneapolis congestion again.
He tried not to rubberneck when they got out of the car and approached a not-exactly-well-marked storefront in a rather nondescript building. There was no marquee declaring the store’s name, only some lettering on the window in a font blending in more than it stood out. Kind of dumb for a business. How in the world would anyone find the place?
They walked through the door, the crisp, sharp scent of expensive fabric blooming like roses around them, and Elijah realized this wasn’t a place you found. This was a place you knew about.
He cowered when a man in a smart suit emerged with a smile and an expression saying Can I help you? in a manner indicating he doubted this was possible—but the second the guy clocked Baz, the wall fell away and the salesman all but drew him into an embrace. “Mr. Acker. What a delightful surprise. How can I be of service?”
Baz told the story of the last-minute event, so sorry to bother but it would be such a help to Uncle Paul—the performance had Elijah feeling queasy in a way unrelated to his hangover, so he drifted around the room, looking without touching. No price tags, which couldn’t be good. There wasn’t actually much stuff displayed in the small, heavily mahogany space. Bolts of fabric on the wall were clearly more for show or example than actual construction. Some shoes. Ties. Cufflinks and tie tacks. Shirts—there were some of those, and some suits on hangers, but like the fabric bolts, these seemed more for decoration than options for purchase.
He startled when Baz touched his waist. “What?” He bit back, I didn’t touch anything.
“They have my measurements on file, but not yours.”
Measurements. Elijah knew this gig from the suit Pastor had bought him for the wedding. He was glad he hadn’t brought that now. It had been the nicest thing he’d ever owned, but it was off the rack at Nordstrom. The greatest adjustment they’d made to it was to hem the pants. After he was measured, he modeled a pair of wool trousers whose fabric was so soft and rich he shivered as it passed over his skin. The pale peach shirt was crisp, weighty, yet somehow also light. Aside from needing to be hemmed, he thought the clothes fit him pretty well—except Baz and the tailor pointed out what should be tucked and let out. The same treatment was given to a suit coat, and while Elijah’s clothes were pinned and marked with white pencil, Baz held up cufflinks and ties and socks and shoes.
Elijah gave him a cutting glare he hoped made it clear Baz should continue dressing him and not invite him to fuck up the Cinderella routine.
Baz’s fitting went a lot faster, and soon they were out the door, to have lunch and “wander a bit” until their suits were ready for a final fitting.
“Where do you want to go?” Baz asked as they climbed into the car.
Home to Saint Timothy. Elijah leaned against the window. “Wherever.”
“Have you been to Chicago before?”
“No.”
“Well, what do you want to see?”
Elijah refused to turn away from the window. “I don’t know. You pick.”
Eventually Baz leaned into the partition window and said, “Take us to Navy Pier.”
A gigantic Ferris wheel loomed over the place where the driver dropped them off. Also a large building full of shops, a long boardwalk and a host of ferries boasting the best views of the city for a gaggle of eager tourists.
This, actually, wasn’t bad—well, it was horribly tourist, but Elijah felt at home in this crowd, and he let Baz lead him around by the hand. They mocked the souvenirs, ate hot dogs from a cart and shared a lemonade. They rode the Ferris wheel, which was incredibly boring and lame, and the giant swings, which gave Elijah an adrenaline rush and left him grinning like a fool for fifteen minutes after. They took a boat ride, snuggled together on the top deck. A chirpy woman told them the condensed version of Chicago history while Baz nuzzled Elijah’s ear.
“When we get to the house, I’ll give you fork lessons. Answer any question you have about tomorrow night.” His hand trailed down Elijah’s arm. “We can leave from the party, if you want. Get a hotel room somewhere quiet out of town. Or we can leave early Sunday morning. Whatever you want.”
“Hotel…would be good.” Elijah sagged into him. “Sorry.”
Baz kissed his hair. “Don’t be. I owe you a lot for this. An early escape and modest hotel room is the least I can do.”
What happens after the escape? What happens when we’re at the White House? Elijah couldn’t begin to guess. “Chicago is pretty, from a distance.”
“Yes. I prefer it best viewed from the Twin Cities.”
They said nothing after that, sitting together quietly for the rest of the ride.
The second fitting was quick. Elijah’s suit fit like a glove, though the tailor fussed and promised to make a few more minor alterations to his suit and Baz’s before sending them to the house. Baz took Elijah to pizza on the way home, the deep-dish kind the city was famous for, so thick and huge Elijah was able to only choke down a single piece. He and Baz lingered in their booth for an h
our after finishing, though, sipping at beer, teasing each other, laughing. Relaxing. Being normal, almost as if they were boyfriends out for a night on the town.
Unfortunately when they returned to the house, Elijah once again felt acutely out of place. Baz brushed this aside, leading him into the dining room—the big, formal, scary one. After sitting Elijah in one of the huge fabric chairs, he pulled china, stemware and silverware out of a hutch and began his instruction.
“The rule of thumb is to work your way in from the outside. You might see a little fork and spoon above your main plate, possibly on their own small dish. Those are dessert utensils. You’ll have at least two glasses, one for water, one for wine, possibly a second for another wine. The glasses are easy. You won’t do the pouring, and they’ll only give you the wine appropriate to the current course. Spoons are also simple: soup and teaspoon. That leaves us with…” he retreated to the wall of china, and when he turned around, he had a fan of knives in one hand and forks in the other and a wicked grin between them, “…the artillery.”
He lay the forks out on the left, the knives on the right, giving them all names. Salad fork. Fish fork. Dinner fork. Dinner knife. Fish knife. Salad knife.
Jesus, who the fuck needed this much silverware?
Baz touched the plate between his nest of utensils. “This is the place plate. You won’t eat a damn thing off it. They’ll remove it and present you with each course.” He pointed at the tiny plate with a mini knife laid across it to the place plate’s ten o’clock. “That’s the bread and butter plate and butter knife. You’ll also have your own salt and pepper shaker set, and a fancy menu card telling you what you’ll be eating. Your napkin will be on your place plate, folded into some complicated shape. Your place card will be either tucked into it or lying in front of it, telling you where to sit. The hostess will help you out, leading you to your place.”
They had assigned seats? What was this, the fifth-grade lunch room? And he’d thought the wedding was bad, where they had assigned tables. “I’ll be by you though, right?”
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