Let It Snow

by Heidi Cullinan

  Marcus threw up his hands. “I wasn’t being grumpy, dammit!”

  Frankie wiped at his eyes again, twice on each side, and when he spoke, his voice was hurt and watery. “Why do you hate me? I keep trying, but it doesn’t matter what I do. Just tell me why, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  Marcus wanted to hand Frankie the axe to hack at him with, because he figured that would be a lot less painful. “I don’t hate you. At all.”

  In answer, Frankie glared and shoved roughly at Marcus. It budged him about a half an inch.

  “I don’t hate you,” Marcus repeated. The hell he was telling Frankie about Steve. “I’m just a cranky old bastard. Ignore me, and I’ll go away.”

  “You’re not that grumpy to Paul and Arthur,” Frankie insisted.

  This was true. Marcus sighed. “I don’t hate you. I swear.” His shoulders slumped in defeat. “You remind me of someone else is all, someone who really does make me grumpy.” Not someone he hated, though, because even after everything he couldn’t make himself hate Steve. “It’s not fair to you, I know, but I can’t help it.”

  Frankie folded his arms again, but not as tight as when he’d first arrived. “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I came off that badly.”

  “You came off horribly.” Those arms relaxed a little more, then tightened as Frankie tilted his head to the side. “So you don’t hate that I’m kind of swishy?”

  There was no kind of about Frankie’s swishy. Marcus smiled. “Not at all.”

  Frankie smiled, and goddamn if he wasn’t so fucking adorable Marcus wanted to pull him into his arms and kiss him senseless. No, he reminded himself, but that voice felt weak and far away right now. Frankie was smiling at him, truly smiling, and it felt good. He looked nothing like Steve. He looked sweet and adorable and kissable as all hell. So cute and perfect Marcus wanted to eat him right up.

  You’re not going to flirt with him, remember? Marcus reminded himself.

  Right, he agreed, and bent to give Frankie a kiss.

  Chapter Six

  THE KISS CAME from so far out of nowhere that for a second Frankie stood stock-still, trying to decide if it was actually happening, though the cold, sharp spice of Marcus’s scent and the stubble of that beard scraping against his chin was convincing evidence. Still, the kiss was unexpected, and if not unwelcome, disconcerting. Why is this happening? How is this happening? He lifted his gloved hands to push Marcus away. Except as they met the front of his jacket, Marcus’s tongue swiped across the seal of Frankie’s lips, and Frankie let him in on a sigh.

  Oh God. Yes. Unexpected, weird, whatever—this was hot, it had been a long, long time, and Frankie’s libido told him firmly, Shut up, I got this.

  He pushed feebly at Marcus’s chest, then gave up and went soft, trembling as his great big bearded lumberjack drew him in closer. The vague, distant notion that this was probably stupid and would undoubtedly end with more grumpiness than usual tried for purchase, but then Marcus flattened Frankie against a wall, and the idea of resisting shattered. Frankie let his body go slack as Papa Bear shoved hard and rough against him.

  Breaking the kiss, Marcus nuzzled Frankie’s neck with his beard, nudging the coat collar down. “Didn’t mean to kiss you.”

  Frankie opened his mouth to reply, but Marcus took firm hold of Frankie’s cock through his overalls, so he moaned instead. Marcus’s grip tightened, and Frankie whimpered, thrusting into his hand.

  “So sweet.” The scruff of beard scraped him before Marcus’s mouth opened over Frankie’s skin. He drew on the tender flesh of Frankie’s neck, hot and wet and insistent. Frankie gasped and tried to slide his knee up the side of Marcus’s leg, but his overalls didn’t give that much.

  It dawned on him there were severe limitations on making out in full winter gear during a blizzard. Taking the overalls off meant taking off his coat, and then he’d be way too frozen to do anything but run for the cabin. “We should—We can’t—Oh God.”

  Marcus had fumbled with the front of Frankie’s crotch, tugging his gloves off, pulling at a zipper, and suddenly he was inside, a cool hand delving into the waistband of his sweatpants and briefs. When Marcus took his cock in hand, Frankie gasped.

  “Cold?” Marcus rubbed his thumb over the tip, and Frankie clutched at his shoulders. Marcus chuckled into his neck. “So sweet. Are you really this sweet, Frankie? Or are you playing me for a fool, trying to get what you want?”

  Frankie didn’t know what the hell Marcus was talking about. All he knew was that Marcus’s hand felt so good on him he could die. “Not going to make it,” he whispered, then cried out as Marcus tugged him, tongue sliding up a cord in Frankie’s neck. “Oh Jesus. Please—please! I don’t want to come in my—”

  Marcus shoved a knee up against the underside of Frankie’s balls in time to his hand job and assault on Frankie’s neck, and Frankie came like a geyser. The spurt of his come arced between them, hitting Marcus’s coat, Frankie’s coat, and coating Marcus’s hand. It was the fast and desperate release of someone who hadn’t had one in some time, not with someone else’s help, and it drained Frankie, making him dizzy and weak.

  Marcus kept kissing his neck as he tucked Frankie’s cock away. “Fuck,” he whispered, then nipped Frankie hard. “You were set tighter than I am.”

  That’s what happens when you don’t have sex for four months and nothing very good for a year before that. That’s what he wanted to say, but all he could manage was a gurgle. He slid his hand down Marcus’s coat, fumbling at his crotch, but even if he’d still possessed coordination in his hands, he didn’t think he could find whatever secret panel Marcus had discovered on his own.

  Still biting and licking at Frankie’s neck, Marcus guided Frankie’s hand to the side, to a small zipper that pulled down—the intent, it dawned on Frankie, was not for getting off but for pissing. It certainly doubled as the gateway to getting his hand on Marcus’s dick—a thick, heavy dick, hot and slick with precome. Slick and stuck inside Marcus’s jeans, because Frankie couldn’t get it out.

  Is this a good idea? The question nagged at the back of Frankie’s mind, no longer drowned by the desperate need to get off. Probably not, he acknowledged, but the idea of getting his hand on Marcus’s cock, of feeling Papa Bear come undone around him, was too much to pass off. Besides, it’d be rude to leave him hanging.

  Marcus helped him finish opening the panel, sliding his kisses over to the other side of Frankie’s neck. He was going to have the worst beard burn in history, but he didn’t care, just tipped his head so Marcus could assault him more easily. When Marcus put his fat cock in Frankie’s hand, he stroked it clumsily, still not fully returned to his body after his release. God, it was so hot. A big, fat stick of meat, hard and ready. Frankie wished he’d been able to wait, that he could have lined his longer, slender cock along this monster and lost his mind beside it. He wished he could get a peek. He wondered if he’d get to see a hell of a lot more than a peek later.

  Would he, or would this little interlude only make Marcus crankier?

  Stop fucking thinking, Frankie’s libido answered him. Maybe he wasn’t young enough to get hard again that fast, but he could still appreciate getting Marcus off. So that’s what he did.

  It was hotter than fuck too. Marcus leaned against Frankie, pressing him into the wall, still making a meal of Frankie’s neck as he pumped into Frankie’s hand. He took only slightly longer than Frankie, but without the desperate need to come, Frankie was able to savor the thrill of making out in the cold in a blizzard, of seeing his grumpy sleeping partner come undone by his touch. The act seemed to empty out Marcus as much as it had Frankie, creating an even bigger mess of their coats, and when it was over, Marcus sagged on Frankie’s shoulder, breathing hard.

  Something shifted inside Frankie, a softness that ached. Shutting his eyes, he pressed a kiss against Marcus’s hair above his ear, breathing in a long, slow draught of his lover.

  When Marcus finally withdrew,
Frankie was ready for Grumpy Bear to return, telling himself a full-on scowl wasn’t out of the question and almost likely. He got one, yes, but he wasn’t prepared for the flash of fear and vulnerability he saw first. It made Frankie pause, unable to guess why it had been there at all. Because it sure as hell didn’t make any sense for Marcus to be afraid of him.

  Yet when he searched Marcus’s bearded face, Frankie found he could still see the fear. Marcus had turned away to button himself up—he’d seen to Frankie first, though, and once he had his own overalls set to rights, he bent down to get Frankie’s balaclava from where it had landed on the floor.

  “Here.” Marcus passed it over, gruff and frowning, finishing his slide back into the grump Frankie knew. Yet now that he’d seen that one moment, Frankie knew everything had changed, that even at his orneriest, Marcus wouldn’t be able to upset him in the same way anymore.

  Marcus was scared. Big, cranky, intimidating Marcus was scared, and every time Frankie thought about it, he felt himself go undone all over again.

  “Thank you,” Frankie said as he took the head covering.

  With a gruff nod, Marcus turned back to his woodblock. “Your cheeks are getting too red. You should head in and warm up.”

  Frankie’s cheeks weren’t anywhere close to frostbite, but he found his gloves and nodded all the same. He wasn’t stupid. Marcus wanted to be alone. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from going up to Papa Bear’s side and leaning in to place a chaste kiss on his cool cheek.

  “Don’t stay out too long,” Frankie said, squeezed the big arm through the coveralls and headed for the house.

  KISSING FRANKIE HAD been a stupid, if not pleasant thing to do, and now that it’d happened, Marcus wasn’t sure how to behave around their houseguest. He braced himself for an awkward moment when he went inside, but by the time Marcus got back into the house, Frankie had been roped into a round of cribbage against Paul, which was a relief. Frankie didn’t make purposeful eye contact, but he didn’t avoid Marcus, either. He might have seemed calmer, but it was hard to read him. Marcus tried to be subtle about his study, fussing about the kitchen and glancing over to the table, but when Arthur came over to refill his coffee, he elbowed Marcus in the side.

  “Quit staring at the kid with your grumpy moon eyes. You’d think you weren’t ever a hotshot lawyer in Minneapolis, the way you unravel around Frankie.”

  Marcus glowered at the countertop. “We made out in the barn.”

  He’d expected Arthur to be surprised, but he only snorted. “No shit. Even without the beard burn all over his neck, the fact that he looks like a cat with cream—your cream, to be exact—is a dead giveaway. Not to mention that you seem ready to bolt back into the snow.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Marcus grumbled.

  “It is down.” Arthur put his back to the dining room table and looked Marcus dead in the eye. “This is a good thing, you and Frankie. Stop trying to say it isn’t. You gotta get over Steve. He was a manipulative little bitch, and he played you, but that’s done now. Quit letting him ruin your life even when he isn’t in it anymore.”

  Intellectually Marcus knew Arthur was right, but he still couldn’t seem to let go of that fear.

  When the game ended, they tried to rope Marcus into the next round, but he declined. After refilling his coffee, Marcus settled in by the fireplace and checked his phone for the weather.

  It took forever to make the most basic of sites load, but Marcus sipped his coffee, as patient as he could be. He’d have used the laptop, but with the storm there’d be no getting internet off their satellite anytime soon. Eventually he was able to load a very basic weather report page, and none of the news was good.

  “Snow’s not due to stop for another twelve hours. A full day of blowing after that, with another storm system barreling in behind.”

  Arthur’s eyebrows went up. “That’s crazy. How many inches we due to get?”

  “With our current totals, they’re saying close to two feet before it’s all said and done. That’s just this storm.”

  Arthur whistled low, and Paul frowned. Frankie, however, looked a little pale. “Oh my God. You’re telling me I’m not going to get back to Minneapolis for more than three days?”

  Paul snorted. “You’re going to be lucky to get there in five. It’s going to take some doing to plow all this out—and let me tell you how we’re not a priority for the DOT—to say nothing of what digging out your car is going to be like.”

  Frankie sat back down, stricken. “I’m going to lose my job.”

  This made Marcus frown. “Surely you told them this wasn’t your fault?”

  Frankie grimaced. “Doesn’t matter. A lot of people want my chair at the salon. It’s the busy season too. Everyone wants to look good for the holidays.” He clapped his hands over his cheeks. “Oh God, I’m going to miss the open house.” He slumped, looking positively ill. “I’ll lose my job. I’m not going to be able to pay my rent. I’m going to have to move.”

  Arthur and Paul launched into empathetic reassurances, telling Frankie it couldn’t be that bad, that his boss would understand, that even if the worst happened, worrying about moving was a bit premature. They were saying all the right things, in short, except Marcus understood Frankie’s fear better than anyone else could.

  Lower priced but still habitable housing was hard to find in the Twin Cities, and the competition for those spaces was fierce. Frankie sounded like he was on the lower end of the middle-income bracket, likely living near to downtown or close enough to make it crazy expensive, even with roommates. Frankie’s car, to hear Paul describe it, was modest at best. His clothes were fashionable and the most expensive part of him, short of his hairstyle, but despite this his wardrobe spoke of someone riding a lifestyle they couldn’t quite afford. To many people, that likely looked frivolous, but Marcus figured to an up-and-coming hairdresser who called himself a stylist, such accouterments were practically a uniform.

  Marcus also suffered no illusions that Frankie exaggerated his danger of losing his job. While Frankie’s doomsday scenario of ending up with his suitcases on his parents’ doorstep was perhaps a bit premature, Marcus knew it wasn’t as far off as Arthur and Paul assumed. Unless Frankie had mad skills, his absence would easily turn into a vulnerability, one with far-reaching repercussions. Given the look of despair on Frankie’s face, he didn’t qualify for such an exception.

  When Frankie bowed out of the next tournament round and went to the kitchen to make his tea, Marcus followed.

  “You should call them and explain the situation,” Marcus told him.

  Frankie nodded as he dunked his teabag, glum. “I will. It’s just that I know it won’t be pretty. It’s such a busy time of year, and I had a full docket. Everyone will have to be rescheduled, and I’ll probably lose some clients. It doesn’t help that this is all my fault. I should have paid more attention to my driving. If I wasn’t such an idiot, I’d be at work right now hearing about the big storm up north on the news, and that’d be the end of it.”

  “You’re not an idiot. And unless you’re complete crap at your job, you won’t lose anyone from one missed appointment.”

  Frankie straightened a little. “I’m good at my job. I can cut any style, and I’m amazing with color.”

  “Then you don’t have anything to worry about. You only need to call your boss and tell him you’re doing your best to get back as soon as possible. It’s better to keep him informed of what’s going on. Always give the other party the narrative. Never let them supply yours by your silence.”

  “Hmm. That’s a good point.” He gave Marcus a sideways glance and a sly, teasing smile. “Are you some kind of political operative or something?”

  “Logger,” Marcus said, then added, “though I used to be a lawyer.”

  He hadn’t meant to trot that out just yet, and he still tensed as he took in Frankie’s reaction.

  “Wow, really?” Frankie said, surprised. Marcus got ready for the usual why in
the world did you quit that to be a logger? but, Frankie, if anything, seemed as uneasy as Marcus now. “Oh.” His smile was thin. “God, you must be crazy smart.”

  That reaction was so unusual it shocked Marcus out of his defensiveness. “Not particularly.”

  Frankie put his hand on his hip and gave Marcus a come off it look. “You went to grad school. You passed the bar. You’re smart.”

  He’d gone to grad school twice, actually, after a double major in undergrad. Which apparently was a bad thing in Frankie’s book. Marcus raised his eyebrow. “Sorry to disappoint you.” Part of him wondered if he shouldn’t be upset, but the idea of being dismissed for being over-schooled was so novel he had a hard time processing it.

  At this, Frankie averted his gaze, appearing embarrassed. “Not disappointed. Only…surprised.” He grimaced. “I mean, I’m not very smart, so nobody smart ever wants more than a quickie with me.” He stopped, not just embarrassed now but beet red. “I mean—not that we—shit.”

  This reaction was so far off Marcus’s beaten path he couldn’t help it, he grinned. “Frankie, you’re a first. Usually when I tell a guy I’m a lawyer, he cozies right up, seeing dollar signs in his head, and gets upset when I say I’m not planning to practice anymore.” Even up north, his few hookups where he’d let slip what his previous profession had been had marked a strange turning point, like they’d seen Marcus differently. Frankie wasn’t an exception, but he was the first who seemed to see it as a negative.

  Now Frankie looked almost angry. “I wouldn’t date a guy because I thought he might be rich. That’s awful.”

  The intensity with which Frankie said this made Marcus believe him. “If it helps, I’m not. I have some money saved, but a lot of what I’d made practicing law and all of what I make now goes to my mom’s care-center bills.”

  Frankie’s anger faded away. “That’s so sweet. Is she close by? Do you get to see her a lot?”

  “She’s at the Logan Manor, right here in town.” Emboldened by Frankie’s reaction, he added, “She has Alzheimer’s.”