Taste on my Tongue

by Beth Bolden

  It’s like Quentin hears him. “Gorgeous,” Quentin murmurs as they stare at each other, the air thick and syrupy. Landon’s grip on Quentin’s curls tightens. “Exactly what I was thinking,” Landon says.

  Quentin’s hands slide up Landon’s body, from his hips to his chest to his shoulders. He’s never really liked his rather curvy, compact body. Nobody’s ever really appreciated it before, but Quentin feels like he’s making a study of the curves, tracing their undulating lines with his fingertips. It’s like Quentin wants to memorize him, and it’s a heady thought, that Quentin might be as deep as Landon is.

  “Come to my place tonight,” Landon can’t help but spit out in a bit of a rush. He’s desperate and it feels like Quentin is just as desperate himself.

  Landon wants to believe it, even as Quentin shakes his head reluctantly no. “I can’t. Long shift today. Long shift tomorrow.” He sounds disappointed, but in the end, the result is the same: Landon probably losing his mind from unfulfilled lust, a phenomenon that he thought he’d long outgrown.

  “Sometimes I feel like we’re back at school,” Landon confesses, the words leaving his lips before he can shove them back inside his mouth. “A few little stolen moments here and there when nobody’s looking. Jacking off until I’m sick to death of my right hand because there’s never enough time.”

  Quentin cocks his head and gives Landon an intrigued look. “Was that what school was like for you? Hiding things?”

  Landon tenses. “You’re meant to focus more on the jerking off until I’m sick part,” he jokes, but it doesn’t come out right.

  Quentin’s gaze softens and swimming in those warm blue eyes, flecks of gold hypnotizing him, Landon feels like maybe Quentin is as deep as Landon. Feels like maybe Quentin does understand what he means, how the impossible longing he feels can’t ever be sated by the little moments they snatch for themselves.

  It’s possible even if Landon gorged himself on Quentin, he’d still never get enough. It’s a thought that’s exhilarating and terrifying, all at the same time. Landon desperately wants to write it all down, but he can’t seem to find the words to properly express it.

  So he just kisses Quentin instead, trying to pour everything he feels into a simple meeting of lips. It’s slick and hot, but it’s slow and tender, and when they finally part, breathless, there’s a look he’s never seen before in Quentin’s eyes.

  It looks like maybe everything Landon can’t seem to say.

  “We’ll make more time next week,” Quentin insists, and it seems more like a vow than a promise.

  “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

  Quentin’s hands drop from Landon’s body and hang at his sides. Landon feels the loss of his touch so acutely, he nearly reaches out and drags them back. But he doesn’t. He’s probably already revealed enough today about his own impossible-to-control feelings. It’s really hard to care about falling too hard and too fast when it feels so damn good.

  They kiss one last time, Quentin practically wrenching himself away from Landon at the end, as if he can’t bear to stop. When he walks away after a whispered goodbye, he doesn’t look back, and Landon wants to believe if it’s because if he glanced back at Landon, he’d not be able to leave at all.

  At least that’s the way Landon feels.

  He seems to be positively overflowing with feelings, as when he gets home, he digs out his guitar and the ragged notepad he’d been scribbling the lyrics of the embarrassingly sappy song into.

  A few hours later, he’s developing a few rather painful blisters from the guitar strings, but he’s still got what he thinks could be a pretty killer song. It’s sentimental as hell, of course, but after his conversation with Quentin today, Landon is beginning to wonder if that’s such a bad thing.

  Unfortunately he can’t exactly ask Quentin because the song is basically a big sappy cliché of how hard Landon is falling for him.

  Before he can chicken out, he does a quick recording of himself playing through the song and he sends it to Ian. He falls onto his bed fully clothed a few moments later and falls asleep almost instantly.

  When Landon lets himself into their green room the next day, it turns out that even though he’s a whole ten minutes early, Quentin is even earlier.

  Landon looks up into Quentin’s smiling face, the dimple threatening to emerge and his gorgeous eyes glowing, and he wonders if they really, truly have to film today. Can’t they just lock themselves away in this room and forget the rest of the world exists? Landon doesn’t feel capable of cooking today—not that he truly feels capable of cooking any day—but it seems like a truly impossible task when all he truly wants to do is lose himself in Quentin.

  “Landon!” Quentin beams at him, practically a human version of sunshine, and Landon prides himself on very staunchly resisting climbing Quentin like a tree. However, that doesn’t preclude a very friendly greeting and he’s just about to fall into Quentin’s arms and not even feel the tiniest bit embarrassed about that when there’s a voice behind them, coming from the still-open doorway.

  Ian’s voice.

  Damn it. Landon barely manages not to glare at his agent when he whirls around.

  He’s just about to launch into an interrogation when a look in Ian’s eyes stops him up short. “What?” he demands.

  “Your song was really persuasive.” If it’s even possible, Ian sounds even more satisfied than he looks.

  “I thought Epic was already in the bag?” Landon asks just as Quentin pipes up with, “What song?”

  Ian thankfully ignores Quentin and addresses Landon. “I sent it over and they were suddenly ready to reconsider a few key points of the contract that I didn’t feel were as favorable to you as I’d like. But that’s all changed and now we’re ready to have you sign.” He pauses and suddenly, a huge smile breaks out across his face. “You’re very persuasive, kid.”

  This would all be really great news except Quentin asks again, “What song?” Because apparently he is nothing if not persistent.

  Landon wants to bury his head in his hands. Maybe it would be okay for Quentin to hear the song eventually, but he is not prepared to let him listen to it today. Not when in approximately twenty minutes, Alexis Leavy is going to be torturing them with kitchen implements and Landon is probably going to have to figure out how to turn the oven on.

  Naturally, ignoring Landon’s extremely dirty look, Ian whips out his phone, beaming like a proud papa. “You haven’t heard it yet?” he asks. “Just wait. It’s really his best work. You’re gonna love it.”

  Landon snatches the phone out of Ian’s hand with mere moments to spare before he is completely humiliated. “It’s not . . . just, it’s not ready for anyone to hear yet,” Landon explains lamely, sure he is turning red.

  Quentin raises a single eyebrow. “Ian’s heard it,” he points out calmly but seriously. “Apparently a bunch of bigwigs at Epic have heard it.”

  Landon doesn’t want to fuck anything up. He doesn’t want Quentin to hear it yet, but he is also fairly certain that deliberately not sharing is going to look shitty. He feels stuck between a rock and a hard place, with no idea which way to turn.

  He looks over at Ian, hoping he’ll rescue him, which is only fair since he’s the one who got Landon into this mess in the first place. “Maybe after the show, yeah?” Ian suggests kindly but firmly. All agent-y. “You’ve only got a few minutes to get your game faces on.”

  Landon tries to ignore the way Quentin’s face closes off. He’s never seen it do that before. He tells himself that Quen’s just disappointed because he wanted to hear the song. Just a little disappointment that’ll easily be forgotten in the chaos of the next few hours. Hopefully, the next few weeks, if Landon has any say in the matter.

  He’s almost convinced until Quentin’s slightly forced grin. “And Landon is gonna have to cook his sweet ass off,” Quentin responds.

  “I know how to turn the oven on!” Landon retorts in a high squeaky voice, which isn’t even entirel
y true. It’s so transparent to deflect onto his own shortcomings, but Landon needs to say something.

  Ian laughs, and Landon wonders if it’s one of those moments when someone is laughing more at you than with you. Before he can get a chance to say so, Ian’s gone, and it’s just him and Quentin again. Quentin’s staring at him with a fond, soft look. Landon can almost forget the forced smile from a moment ago—almost. He crosses the few feet between them in a second, wrapping his arms around the other man.

  “I missed you,” Landon whispers into the soft, elegant curve of Quentin’s neck.

  “Missed you too.” Quentin’s voice is equally as fervent, leaving Landon more certain that the awkwardness will blow over.

  Landon is silent for a moment, letting himself breathe and relax, using the warmth and solid presence of Quentin’s body to center him.

  “I still don’t know how to turn the oven on,” Landon finally admits softly, almost too quietly to be heard.

  But Quentin is always paying attention. He catches the quiet confession and just hums with complete unconcern. “We’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” he reassures Landon.

  Landon just hugs him tighter.

  The five-minute knock comes far before Landon is ready for it, but just before they’re about to let go of each other, Quentin leans down and whispers, “I got tomorrow off. My place tonight?”

  Landon doesn’t really feel exactly confident as they walk down to the soundstage, but guilt is a good distraction. He’s hiding his music—music that’s about Quentin—while Quentin is planning dates.

  His respite is short-lived. By the time Alexis Leavy is standing in front of them again, that sly smile seemingly permanently etched on her face, Landon’s palms are sweaty and damp and his heart is thumping irregularly in his chest.

  As he glances down the row of chefs and their celebrity partners, he sees a reflection of his own terror. It was easier last week, he reflects. Easier because they didn’t know what to expect. Landon grips his palms together behind his back and prays that he doesn’t have to turn the oven on.

  “Welcome back,” Alexis says, and while her voice is smooth and creamy, there’s that edge to it and a gleam in her eyes that Landon knows means nothing good.

  Landon glances over at Quentin and sees him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing briefly but sharply. He’s nervous too, and that doesn’t help Landon feel any better.

  “Today, we’re going to visit the Far East, celebrating these fantastic cultures by preparing your favorite Asian cuisine.”

  He must be numb because Alexis’ words just slide right over Landon. Asian food. And Quentin is a pastry chef. A great pastry chef, but still a pastry chef. Landon tries not to sweat any harder than he already is; the last thing he wants is to look moist on TV.

  “As always, we will have a single challenge, as well as the auction items. For today’s challenge,” Alexis pauses diabolically, “the celebrity will be doing the shopping.”

  Landon freezes in place. He is sure that the camera will probably catch a look of sheer, unmitigated panic on his face, but he can’t make himself care about that right now. He’s going to have to go grocery shopping. Grocery shopping.

  Landon doesn’t think he’s been past the wine and the cereal aisles in the grocery store for longer than he can remember. Suddenly, though, he remembers Quentin forcing him to use the pantry to find ingredients for his grilled cheese sandwich and Quentin insisting he understand exactly how the groceries are laid out. He might not have an advantage, but he’s probably not at a disadvantage.

  “Now for the auction items,” Alexis continues. “We have two today. Both, I think, will prove rather counterproductive while creating your Asian-inspired cuisine.”

  For the first, she whips out a large cardboard container of aluminum foil. Quentin looks a little white around the mouth. Landon resolves to bid on this item even if Quentin won’t. Whatever they have to do with the foil, Landon wants no part of it.

  “You will be required to make all cooking vessels and utensils out of this lovely foil. Opening the bidding at $500,” Alexis declares.

  Landon bids for his first item with a thousand bucks, and the bidding continues at a fast pace between Landon and Paul and Oliver. Rory drops out when the bidding reaches $2,000 and Paul finally calls it quits at $3,500, making Landon breathe a sigh of relief. He’d decided to hold himself to $5,000 and he’s really happy he didn’t even have to go that far this first time.

  As for deciding who gets the wretched foil, it’s really pretty easy. Landon remembers distinctly what Quentin said in the bakery this week about who he fears the most and that’s who he saddles with it, Reed and Diego looking on in horrified shock as Alexis generously gifts them the entire jumbo-sized box.

  Landon can’t help but smirk as Reed’s face goes blank and pale and even Diego, who seems about as clueless in the kitchen as Landon himself, look on with barely concealed panic. It’s a good moment, maybe the first of the show when Landon feels like he and Quentin have finally wrestled their fate back from anyone who might try to control them.

  Quentin must feel it too, because when Landon glances over, there’s definitely a gleam of hard-won success in his eyes and in the curl of his lips as he smiles.

  The next auction item turns out to be a microwave. Actually, Alexis explains with way too much delight, it’s only a microwave.

  As in the team saddled with the device will only be able to use the microwave as a heat source.

  Landon loves his microwave. He would probably starve without it. But he assumes from the look of distress dawning over Quentin’s features, a microwave is not the most desired appliance for preparing an Asian-inspired meal.

  Landon, spurred on by the worry creasing the delicate skin between Quentin’s brows, is a bit reckless and bids on it.

  “Five hundred dollars!” he announces, and continues until the bidding reaches $1,000, and when Paul and Carson and Oliver and Nora won’t seem to let it go, lets them fight it out. He hopes that whoever buys it will be angry enough at the other team for driving the price up that it’ll be a knee-jerk reaction to gift it to them.

  It turns out that Carson and Paul are a little more strategic than that. Landon still breathes a sigh of relief as Carson condemns Rory and Kimber to using the microwave for the entirety of the challenge.

  It’s only when the bidding is over that Landon realizes he’s still going to have to go grocery shopping. He and Quentin have about thirty seconds for a hurried consult on what he should grab. Quentin whispers to him what feels like a very long list of ingredients and Landon only hopes that he’s equal to the task.

  The sixty seconds in the pantry passes in a flash; there’s shoving and pushing and Landon isn’t only on the receiving end. He focuses on getting the most important ingredients and when he’s sure he’s secured those, he just starts stuffing random items into his basket. Still, when he reaches Quentin and sets the basket down on their prep station, out of breath from the short run to the pantry and back, Quentin gives him a huge smile.

  “You did so good,” he says loud enough for the cameras to pick up. “Dream Team!” Quentin holds his hand up for a high five and Landon glances at it for a moment before tugging him into a tight hug instead. He’s fairly certain the camera caught his body pressing hard against Quentin’s, and if it doesn’t end up in the footage selected to air, he would be shocked.

  He already knows the camera loves him, and there’s no way it doesn’t love Quentin too. Look at him, Landon thinks with a lovesick sigh as Quentin sorts through the basket of ingredients with a focused expression, the curve of his neck and jaw exposed with his hair pulled back into a puffy bun that Landon is quite desperate to dig his fingers into. He’s just gorgeous and Landon is beginning to suspect that Quentin is all his to enjoy.

  “So what are we making?” Landon asks.

  “A staple. Kung pao chicken.”

  “I order that all the time from the Chinese restaurant down the str
eet,” Landon admits. “I like it spicy, though. Should we make it spicy?”

  Quentin holds up a hot pepper and the bottle of sriracha that Landon picked up during the quickest sixty seconds of his life. He doesn’t even remember putting them into the basket. “Spicy like you,” Quentin giggles, his expression melting into a big puddle of fond.

  Landon rolls his eyes. “I’m not spicy!”

  Quentin leans over the cutting board and smirks. “Oh, darling, you definitely are. And I love it.”

  Landon mock sniffs, trying to ignore the way his blood is beginning to simmer a bit from the heat in Quentin’s gaze. “Okay, Spicy, what should I be doing?”

  “Can you make rice?” Quentin asks.

  Landon levels a frank stare at Quentin and he blushes.

  “Okay, no rice. Can you cut the chicken up into small pieces, and then chop the peanuts?”

  Before Landon can even answer, Quentin’s bustling around, setting up a different cutting board on the prep station, and hacking their chicken into rough sections with an enormous cleaver that scares Landon just by looking at it.

  So he glances away, taking a moment to look at the rest of the groups. Reed and Diego are in the kitchen next to them, and so Landon gets a front row seat on how their battle with the foil is going.

  Landon is somewhat dismayed to discover that for his $3,600, he can watch Diego meticulously assemble somewhat sturdy-looking cooking vessels and utensils out of foil as if his hands were pure sculptural magic.

  It’s hard, but he barely avoids a massive pout on camera. He isn’t pleased that the very first sabotage they’ve bought doesn’t appear to be slowing Reed or Diego down at all. If anything, all it’ll prove is that when Diego isn’t busy creating the next blockbuster script, he’s got a future as the next Martha Stewart.