Delectable 04 - Gingerbread Palace

by EM Lynley

  “Lemme check the messages and call you back.”

  “’kay.”

  Sure enough, there was a message. Kevin hadn’t checked sooner because he’d been busy the whole morning. First with Alex, then with morning admin stuff for the shift captain and the kids’ tour. He listened now.

  “Kevin, give me a call ASAP. I got another guy who’s offered four hundred more. If you can match that, it’s yours. Call me within an hour. Nine thirty and it’s his. This guy is fucking eager, woke me up over this thing. You’re probably still asleep.”

  Kevin slammed the phone down on the desk. “Fuck it all to fucking hell!” He knew exactly where he’d been when the guy had called: balls-deep in Alex Bancroft. That casual fuck had cost him the chrome. It had been a good fuck—stellar, actually—but not worth losing the chrome.

  Now he didn’t feel so bad about what he’d told the arson guy.

  BY THAT evening the firefighters had baked more than two hundred gingerbread men, and Alex had decorated about fifty. With one hand he wasn’t going to get them done in time. He had to let Lacey handle baking the walls of the gingerbread house while he supervised the mixing and baking of the soft gingerbread cake.

  “How do you build a gingerbread house with cake? I always thought they were made from big cookies kind of glued together,” Bobby Perez asked as he scooped batter into a pan and smoothed it with a spatula.

  “Lacey’s making the walls, which we’ll assemble around the solid cake inside. Then we’ll add to it in layers, like a regular cake, then frost and decorate. The towers and parapets get made separately and glued with frosting.” He showed Bobby the drawings.

  “It’s almost like blueprints that an architect uses.”

  “It’s the same principle. Lacey’s cutting the dough for the outer walls to these templates before baking. We had to do a lot of engineering so the pieces aren’t too heavy and fall off or too weak to hold the weight.”

  “That’s so cool. I never knew making a cake was so scientific.”

  “It’s not any old cake, Perez,” Lacey said from across the room. “It’s going to be a masterpiece!” She grinned, but Alex couldn’t muster his usual level of excitement for the project.

  “I hate watching you do everything here, Lace.” He watched as she rolled out and shaped the special dough according to templates Alex had carefully designed. That was why he felt so uninspired, right? It didn’t have anything to do with Kevin Flint, he reminded himself.

  “I’ll handle this and then we’ll assemble the house together,” Lacey said cheerfully.

  He also wouldn’t be able to assemble the gingerbread house once they’d baked enough gingerbread walls. They planned to bake twice as much as the plans called for because something always went wrong. He and Lacey had practiced twice and the assembly was a little tricky. She might have to do most of it after all. He’d handle the decorations. Lacey couldn’t duplicate his style, and she didn’t want to. This year he wished she’d practiced that too.

  In addition to the traditional gingerbread men, the crew had baked several batches with a firefighter cookie mold. It was a way to pay the men back for helping him so much. A lot of the guys on the crew who’d responded to his call had come in on their Friday night to help bake or clean up, or to bring more ingredients.

  The only one who hadn’t been in the holiday spirit was Kevin. Alex knew they weren’t going to ride off into the sunset holding hands, but he hadn’t expected to be treated so badly. In front of the firefighters, Kevin acted as if nothing had happened between them. Worse, he practically exuded hatred toward Alex, and his occasional jokes at Alex’s expense made his chest ache. He’d gone into it with open eyes, knowing Kevin had a big rainbow-colored chip on his shoulder. But he’d expected at least a kind smile rather than that dagger-eyed glare.

  What had Alex done? He’d promised not to say a word. No one had seen them and as far as Alex could tell, no one had commented on anything indicating they knew anything.

  “FLINT, what’s your problem?” Captain Lane asked after Kevin had slammed a pan into the sink.

  “Still hot,” he lied. But everyone avoided him. He had to pull himself together. He couldn’t afford to get transferred again. If one of the captains sent him packing, it was over. Three strikes was true in the FD as well as in baseball and the legal system.

  “Got cabin fever, Flint?” the captain asked, and Kevin nodded. He was tired of riding a desk. “Okay, you can go out on any calls we get tonight. But you listen to the IC on the ground. Got it?”

  Kevin nodded again. He noticed the crew watching him. Some had tense smiles on their faces and others grinned. They’d all been stuck riding a desk before. The worst was watching Alex. He might not know exactly what was going on, but he understood Kevin was in trouble. Alex gave him a pitying look that knocked the wind out of Kevin’s sails. Not that he needed Alex’s approval, but he didn’t need Alex looking down on him.

  This day would just never end. It had started off so well, then spiraled into disaster. Maybe they’d put that on his tombstone.

  Fifteen long minutes later, the alarm sounded. Kevin raced toward the engine and into the turnout gear. He didn’t care what the call was. But he had to focus 100 percent. He put Alex and Bancroft Buns and his lost chrome out of his thoughts as the engine stopped on a small residential street.

  Someone’s excessive use of Christmas decorations had shorted out a whole street. They called FD just in case, and they shut power off until the electric company truck arrived an hour later. In the meantime, the residents offered them cookies and milk.

  “I don’t think I can eat another cookie until next year,” Peterman said when they got back on the engine. “And after Alex’s gingerbread men, I’m spoiled.”

  “Me too,” Richardson replied. “I can’t wait till he gets his kitchen running again.”

  They drove back by way of Third Street, and Kevin noticed the lights on in the Bancroft Buns shop. Lacey was in there cleaning. In the window, a sign read:

  GINGERBREAD MEN AVAILABLE SATURDAY DEC 21.

  LIMITED SUPPLY ONLY.

  OPEN 10 A.M.—SELL OUT

  ALEX was exhausted from a combination of stress, worry about his business, the rush to make the gingerbread house in time for the auction, and last, but certainly not least, Kevin Flint. When Lacey told him his gingerbread decorations might be attributed to Picasso, she ordered him to take a nap.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll wake you up in two or three hours. You’re worse than useless right now. I don’t think you should touch another cookie until you get some rest.”

  “Okay.” She had his best interests at heart, and she was usually right. She’d probably help him get over this Kevin Flint thing. He went downstairs to the sleeping quarters—on the ground floor for quicker access to the engines—and flipped the light on in the room.

  The bed was still rumpled from that morning. Alex looked at it and headed for the other bed in the room. He lay on his side and curled up. He tried to think about good memories. About meeting the Bancrofts and how nice they had been to him. How they taught him how to bake and the year they all went to Hawaii for Christmas vacation to celebrate officially adopting him. He’d never felt safe or happy until he’d gone to live with them. He closed his eyes and remembered how it felt to have Mrs. Bancroft—Mom—give him a goodnight kiss and make him feel part of a real family for the first time in his life.

  POUNDING on the door woke him up. Lacey poked her head in “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!”

  “Okay, I’m up.” Alex sat up in bed. He didn’t remember even falling asleep. “I’ll be up in the kitchen in a few minutes.”

  She nodded and shut the door.

  Alex pulled his knees up close, blinking to clear away the dream. Usually, he woke up when he had that other dream. The one where Mr. Anderson came into his room and got in bed with him. Alex would cry.

  “Don’t cry Alex. Be a good boy or I’ll go wake up Lacey instead.”


  “No. I’ll be good. I’m a good boy. I’ll be good for you.”

  Then Mr. Anderson would do things that made Alex cry again. “It’s a bad thing, Mr. Anderson. Why do you want me to do that?”

  “It’s nothing, Alex. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “But it’s bad. Mrs. Jones from Children’s Services said—”

  “She didn’t believe you, did she? Because you’re just a kid who lies. You’re nothing, Alex, and no one will listen to boys who lie.” He kissed Alex and got out of bed. “Go back to sleep, Alex.”

  Alex pulled the pocketknife from under the pillow and opened it. He thought about using it on Mr. Anderson. But Alex was just a nothing, not big and strong enough to do enough to make it stop. He put the knife back.

  Alex sat up on the bed in the fire station and took several slow, deep breaths. He reminded himself that he wasn’t nothing. The words were nothing. They didn’t have any power over him, no matter who said them. He was strong, and he had real family now, people who loved him.

  But there were still too many Mr. Andersons out there.

  Chapter 4

  KEVIN and the Engine 21 crew were a block from the station when they got another call for an elevator rescue. A group of people heading for a company holiday party had gotten stuck between the fifth and sixth floors of an eight-story building. Even though no fire was reported, they had to take the stairs. No one was injured, and the building maintenance team was able to get the elevator working again quickly. But the occupants were relieved to be out, and the crew packed up and headed back to the station.

  While they’d been handling the elevator, the other engine and rescue truck had been called to assist Station 8 with a house fire caused by a Christmas tree. It was easily contained, and they weren’t needed. No one had been hurt, but a few kids wouldn’t have anything on Christmas morning. Alex Bancroft would probably want to go over there and make everyone breakfast in bed, Kevin thought.

  Back at the station, Alex was still decorating gingerbread. He’d made fresh pots of coffee while the engines had been out, and everyone was grateful. It was the Friday before Christmas, the night with the most holiday parties, and they expected to get more calls, especially TCs—traffic collisions. They had four more calls that night, including two with traffic fatalities related to drunk driving. The last call ended around eight, when the shift ended. Almost perfect timing, if you didn’t count the fact they hadn’t gotten any sleep.

  Kevin had the choice of catching a few hours in his bunk or going directly home and sleeping the rest of the day. He chose the latter and needed to caffeinate for the short trip home. Coffee would keep him alert enough to drive, but he was so tired he’d fall asleep as soon as he hit the bed. Up in the kitchen were platters of cheese and vegetable omelets and crispy hash browns on the counters where racks of gingerbread men had been the night before.

  He could use some time away from those damn cookies and Alex Bancroft. He needed to go home and wash all memories of him away until absolutely necessary.

  “See you tomorrow,” Kevin said to the other guys as they headed to the parking lot with mugs of steaming coffee.

  “Tomorrow? Aren’t you coming back to help Alex? We have to bake more cookies and get started on the cakes he’ll use for the house.”

  “I don’t have to do anything except sleep. I did an extra half shift and I’m on tomorrow.”

  “You were sitting on your ass all week until last night. Suck it up, little girl.”

  The little girl crack got to him. “Yeah, I’m Iron Man. I don’t need no stinkin’ sleep.”

  “Four hours, guys,” the captain said as he headed for his car. “Get some sleep then let’s get back here right after lunch.”

  “Yes, sir,” they all replied.

  Kevin got into his car and slammed the steering wheel so hard it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He counted to ten before starting the engine. Distracted driving was dangerous. He knew that more than most. He still wasn’t calm enough to drive and counted to ten again before pulling out of the parking lot.

  He found himself driving down Third Street, even though it wasn’t the most direct route. He saw a line of people that started at Bancroft Buns and snaked around the corner. Why were those damned gingerbread men so popular? Did Alex put crack in the batter? Kevin shook his head and kept driving. It had been a good cookie, he admitted. Probably the best gingerbread he’d had, but it wasn’t going to cure cancer.

  If Alex Bancroft wasn’t a first-rate dumbass he wouldn’t be half-bad. He could cook, and he certainly could fuck. He’d have to do both even better to erase the latest dumbassery that caused Kevin to lose his chrome.

  Back home Kevin took a shower so cold his dick shriveled up to the size of his thumb. He towel dried and fell into bed, exhausted. The dreams were more vivid than ever. Now that he knew how Alex tasted and smelled, and how his nipples felt in Kevin’s mouth, the dreams felt so real. He woke with a hard-on that felt like he had an eighteen-wheeler between his legs. In the haze of half sleep, he stroked himself as he relived the whispery fragments of his last dream, where Kevin lay on his back with Alex hovering over him, pushing his gorgeous cock into Kevin. He had a hand on Kevin’s dick, and everything felt so good. Alex’s cock reduced Kevin to a quivering mass of jelly, every movement inside so intense Kevin said he never wanted to top again.

  Alex closed his eyes, and Kevin watched the orgasm shoot through his body and the blissful expression on his face. Then Alex’s eyes popped open. “This isn’t real, Kevin. This means nothing. I’m nothing.” He pulled out of Kevin and snapped the condom off, then tossed it onto Kevin’s chest and went over to the other bed, where two of Kevin’s former lovers welcomed him and used their hands and mouths to get Alex hard again.

  That was when the alarm went off and Kevin was fully awake. He had his hand on his cock, and his balls ached. He hit snooze and spent the next seven minutes trying to come, to no avail. The buzzer went off before he could, and he stumbled into the shower and managed what had to be the least satisfying orgasm he’d ever had.

  Dressed and presentable again, he went into the garage. Next to his Charger sat the Jag under a protective tarp. He yanked the tarp back and looked at his baby, the Mark 2. It was a four-door saloon and classy as all hell. A lot of firefighters had muscle cars, like Kevin’s Charger, and the guys with kids had minivans or practical cars. But no one had anything like this.

  He’d gotten it as little more than a chassis with a few working mechanical parts. Over the years he’d acquired doors, panels, and headlights, while he rebuilt the engine and transmission. He’d finished painting the body and reassembling the exterior, except for the distinctive chrome grille. Back in this car’s heyday, it had been as recognizable as a Rolls. Now without the grille, she looked like a pretty girl who’d been punched in the mouth.

  Nothing to do about that now. With the bullshit shift changes and cookie duty, he didn’t have time to work on her even if he had the chrome. After the holidays he’d start searching for a new one. He’d have another paycheck to add to the kitty too, with the overtime he’d rack up. He walked around her, trailing his fingertips over the pristine paint.

  “Next month, baby.” He stared for a few moments with the uneasiness of a job almost done. He’d expected to have her ready to drive by New Year’s. He was planning to take his mother for a drive around town and then for brunch while the rest of the family watched football after coming home from a grueling shift filled with TCs and casualties.

  Definitely by Mother’s Day, he promised himself.

  He hopped in the Charger and headed back to the station. The lot was full, and he parked around the corner and got caught in a light rain as he ran for the door.

  As soon as he opened it, the aroma of gingerbread swirled around him. He’d never get that smell out of his brain. His clothes and hair would smell of it by the time he got home. The guys in the kitchen greeted him as he walked in. Lacey was directing guys in mixing a
nd cleaning while Alex sat at a table decorating cookies.

  Kevin took over chopping fresh and crystallized ginger from Perez, who moved on to smashing hard candies with a kitchen mallet. Apparently chopping was the hardest job, but Kevin didn’t say a word.

  “Want a NAB?” Taylor asked. “There’s leftover pizza too, if you didn’t eat yet.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Kevin went to the B-shift fridge and pulled out a bottle.

  “What’s a NAB?” Alex looked up and asked.

  “Nonalcoholic beer,” Perez explained.

  There was a strict no-booze policy in the FD, though some captains didn’t enforce it. Back in Kevin’s grandfather’s day, firefighters drank pretty regularly on duty and even reported to incidents while intoxicated. This station was particularly strict, allowing even off-duty crews only the NA beer.

  Kevin sipped at his beer and checked out the leftover pizza. He grabbed a piece of thick crust and one of thin. He didn’t even care what the toppings were. He sat back down at the chopping station and took a bite of thin crust, still crispy, with a tangy sauce and a variety of veggies and meat on top. “Mmm, this is good. Where’d you order from?”

  “Lacey and Alex made it,” Captain Riggs said. Kevin hadn’t realized Riggs was the guy washing mixing bowls at the sink. Good thing he’d showed up on time. Looked like all of B Shift was now on cookie duty.

  Perez walked over to where Alex was piping frosting onto cooled cookies.

  “Wow, I can’t believe all the different ways you can decorate the same cookie. But we’re like two thousand cookies ahead of you. Can I help decorate?”

  Alex grinned. “It’s kind of tricky. Have you ever used this kind of icing before?”

  “No,” Perez said. “But I can learn, right?”

  “Yeah, we really could use some extra hands. Lacey, can you get a piping bag for Perez?”