Don't Try This at Home

by Ellee Hill

  The cop looked down at my leg.

  “When did that happen?”

  “At the same time he broke his arm.”

  “Hold on a second.”

  He spoke into his shoulder mounted radio.

  “Forrest? Can you contact Mad Dog at the hospital and ask if two men came into the ER today with a gash to the leg and a broken arm? Yeah, I’ll wait.”

  The awkward silence made the minutes seem like hours. The police radio beeped.

  “Yup. What were their names? Did they say they were renting here at the beach? Uh huh. Thanks.”

  The officer looked at me.

  “Looks like you’re in the clear. Your neighbors reported seeing a suspicious character lurking around and thought it was either a college prank or a Peeping Tom.”

  “Glad to know people around here watch out for each other, officer.”

  “Can you get into the house?”

  “I think the patio door is open. I was just about to check when you stopped me.”

  “Go check then.”

  I silently prayed that the patio door was still open. The way this weekend had gone, I could not be sure.

  Please, powers above, if you have any decency, please let the door be open.

  The officer followed me to the patio door.

  The door was open.

  Ha-lay-fucking-lu-jah.

  “Next time, to avoid getting caught with your pants down, put some clothes on before you toss the garbage, and make sure the door is unlocked.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  “Thank you, officer. Have a good evening.”

  “Good night, Mr. Bills.”

  I closed the patio door and sighed. Fucking nosy neighbors. I swear the cop smirked as he walked away.

  “Scott?”

  “Yeah, I’m here, Colum.”

  “You out skinny-dipping in the moonlight?”

  “Yeah, with some hot dude in uniform. Sorry you couldn’t join us.”

  Colum smiled as I sat next to him on the couch. I slipped my hand in his.

  “I love you, Scott. We make quite a team.”

  I laughed.

  “Yeah, we do.”

  “I don’t know anyone else I would rather face the future with than you.”

  “Those are the drugs talking.”

  “Yeah—truth serum. My life would be boring without you.”

  “It would be a lot less painful and exciting.”

  “It’s all worth it. Wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

  I smiled. Colum seemed to drift off again, and I just began to drift off myself.

  “What do you want to do on our next break?”

  “I think we should stay at home and fuck our brains out.”

  Colum snorted.

  “What’s the fun in that?”

  “Yeah,” I answered, “what’s the fun in that?

  VENONA KEYES is a modern woman who believes in doing it all; if doing it all is only in her head. She amazes people that she can be wholly unorganized yet pack a perfect carryon suitcase for a ten day trip to Paris. Ms. Keyes is a believer in the just in time theory, and can be seen sprinting in airports to the gate before the plane door closes.

  Venona has experienced love and loss at the deepest level, and is thankful for writing and daydreaming, for it kept, and still keeps her sane. Writing also introduced her to some of the most supportive and wonderful people, to which she will always be grateful.

  Venona is a voracious reader, loves her two feline boys, volunteers at an animal shelter, is an accomplished speaker, enjoys swimming, biking, skipping, and her beloved overgrown garden.

  You can find Venona Keyes on Facebook and can e-mail her at VenonaKeyes@yahoo.com.

  DESPERATE MEASURES

  E.T. Malinowski

  PARKER DEVEREAUX looked up as the door to his office opened. When Jade Marconi strode into the room, he immediately rose to his feet. His employer smiled at the slightly outdated but still sweet action. He just couldn’t help it. A gentleman stood when a lady did. He moved around the desk.

  “How may I help you, Ms. Marconi?” he asked politely as he held one of the leather wingback chairs for her.

  “I won’t beat around the bush, Parker. I have a problem and you’re going to fix it for me,” she said directly. “Gitano Firenze made a rather unexpected trip to meet with us. I don’t need to explain what he means to our overseas interests. He can make or break our project in Italy.”

  “I see,” he said, his mind whirring as he worked on the problem. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Ever the knight in shining armor.” She chuckled. “I will bring Mr. Firenze to your house for dinner at seven. He’s old-fashioned to a certain extent, so home-cooked would be best. Do you know your way around a kitchen?”

  “It won’t be a problem, Ms. Marconi,” he said with utter confidence. Greg, on the other hand, was going to kill him.

  “That’s good to hear, Parker,” she said as she rose from the chair. “And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Jade?”

  “It just doesn’t seem… proper,” he protested.

  “Appropriate or not, I’ve asked you to call me by my first name. ‘Ms. Marconi’ makes me feel old somehow.” She chuckled. “I’m off to the airport to meet Mr. Firenze’s plane. We’ll see you at seven sharp.”

  Oh yes, Greg was going to kill him… slowly.

  GREGORIO MONTESANO was a simple man. He worked hard and planned for the future. He wasn’t perfect, just good. He was the type of man who would help old ladies across the street and beat up the jerk who took candy from a baby. He tried to remember all the manners his Nanna had drilled into his stubborn head, such as a gentleman never used vulgar language in the presence of a lady. Fortunately, Mrs. Demopoulos was inside making lemonade while he was buried under the hood of the piece of crap land boat she insisted on keeping, even though he swore it was older than she was at sixty-three. He swore this dinosaur car was nine years younger than dirt.

  Being an automobile enthusiast and mechanic extraordinaire, humility was his middle name; he didn’t normally mind being shoulder-deep in engine grease and oil. The thing was, today was the day from hell. Nothing had been going right from the moment he’d bothered to climb out of bed and put his feet on the floor. At this point, all he wanted to do was go home and curl up under his covers, preferably with Parker right next to him, ready, willing, and able to fuck his brains out and then cuddle until they both passed out. Looking at what was supposed to be a catalytic converter, he knew he wasn’t getting away any time soon.

  Straightening up, he managed to bang the back of his head on the hood for the fifth time in the last two hours. He had fixed the gas intake valve, repaired the hoses for the windshield wipers, aligned the wheels, replaced the breaks, and managed to turn the car from a death trap into a functioning vehicle, for the most part. He was going to have to run to NAPA or American Auto parts or AutoZone, maybe even Pep Boys, depending on which one had the parts he needed at a price he was willing to pay. Greg was a bit of a tightwad on occasion. Most of his clients were middle class people like him, and they were looking to save money. He wasn’t going to charge them for the more expensive parts just because it wasn’t his money. He charged what he wouldn’t mind paying, and that was that. That was just the way the Montesanos ran their business.

  He closed the hood and went to knock on Mrs. Demopoulous’s screen door. She bustled over, speaking in a mix of Italian, Greek, and English as was her wont. He answered her in Italian, knowing it was easier for her to communicate that way. She smiled brightly, and he could see how Mr. Demopoulous had fallen so hard for her. Her brown eyes twinkled merrily and her smile was bright. Here was a woman who enjoyed every moment of her life.

  “You fixed it?”

  “Not quite yet. I’m going to have to get a few other parts, but I won’t leave until it’s done.”

  “You're a good boy, Gregorio, like my Nico.” She laughed.

  �
�I try. How else am I going to win you away from him?” he teased with a wink, and she giggled.

  “You have a nice young man; do not flirt with this old lady,” she admonished playfully.

  “Old lady? Where? I see only an angel,” he said innocently.

  “Ha.”

  He took her hand and placed a kiss on the back of it before heading back out to his car. Glancing at the list in his hand to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, Greg pulled away from the curb with the rumbling purr of a well-tuned muscle car. His grandfather had purchased the vehicle for him when he’d turned sixteen. They had towed it home and Greg had started the tedious, yet loving, process of restoring her to mint condition. He was one of the few people who had an original Ford Mustang.

  As he was driving, the low battery alarm on his cell phone rang. He swore under his breath as he tried to find the car charger. Another curse followed as he realized the stupid P.O.S. was broken. It was just one more thing in a long list of annoying crap. He decided to let it go because it wasn’t worth worrying about right at that moment.

  Another three hours and two more trips to the auto parts store, and Greg had the car fixed. He informed Mrs. Demopoulos and told her he would send her the bill when he got back to his garage. She handed him a basket full of food with an admonishment to eat more and sent him on his way. The drive home was peaceful and, amazingly enough, uneventful.

  PARKER nearly slammed the phone down in frustration. Where the hell was Greg? More importantly, was he all right? He sighed, trying to ease the worry inside him. His boyfriend never failed to answer his cell phone now that he had the Bluetooth headset. It just wasn’t his way. On another sigh, he tried the house phone again. He’d already left a message on their answering machine and Greg’s cell, and at his office. It was bad enough to spring this on his partner, but it would be even worse if the notice were too short. Sometimes, his Italian lover had quite the temper… although making up afterward always left him extremely sated. A smile graced his handsome features as he recalled the last time they’d had make-up sex. It had been a teensy bit uncomfortable to sit down for a while afterward.

  Shaking his head to dispel such lustful thoughts, Parker pushed a hand through his short hair and tried the office number again. He had to get ahold of Greg soon. This unexpected dinner was too important to mess up. He wanted to make sure the other man was presentable and not running around the house in his boxer briefs when Ms. Marconi and Mr. Firenze arrived. Although he didn’t mind being greeted by such a hot image, he was pretty sure their surprise guest wouldn’t be amused.

  GREGORIO pulled the tie out of his hair, letting the dark-brown strands free from their confinement. He kicked off his grease-stained work boots in the laundry slash mudroom and walked into the kitchen, unbuttoning his gray work shirt as he went. Shrugging it from his shoulders, he tossed it through the open door, not caring where it landed. He’d do his laundry later. He paused on his way to the refrigerator, yanked off his socks, and tossed them toward his shirt. He had two hours before Parker came home, and he wanted to sleep, but first he needed food. Five minutes later, Greg was scarfing down the best pasta salad next to his Nanna’s… and his, but it was still a mean salad.

  After he had finished his snack, put his dish in the dishwasher so Parker wouldn’t freak, and thrown back a can of Pepsi, Greg padded into the den and hit play on the answering machine. Sixteen telemarketing calls later, he was startled by the sound of Parker’s frantic voice.

  “Greg, where are you? I tried your cell a billion times. Listen, we’re having important company for dinner at seven tonight. It has to be home-cooked and it’d be best if it were traditional Italian. Please dress nice, not like you usually do at home. Oh, and pull some wine from the cellar. I’ll see you a little after six.”

  Greg stood there in stunned silence, not even hearing the other ten messages his partner had left. A traditional Italian meal in—he glanced at his watch—about three hours? He was going to kill Parker. They were down to bare minimum for food in the house, which meant he’d have to go shopping first, after he came up with a five-course menu. He was definitely going to kill him… slowly.

  Ten minutes to shower and change and Greg was rushing out the door, still writing his grocery list. It was a good thing he was head-over-heels in love with the exasperating man or this would really chap his ass. He jumped into his car, still furiously thinking and planning. Timing was important. If he’d had a little more notice, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Now? Not so much.

  PARKER still hadn’t reached Greg, and he was freaking out. He speed-walked to his car, checking his phone for messages yet again. He was already running late. A conference call with a project foreman and a supplier had kept him tied to his chair until five thirty. This day had spiraled into madness after Ms. Marconi had left his office just after lunch. That he couldn’t get a hold of Greg was adding an edge of worry to his chaotic thoughts.

  Almost breaking land-speed records to get home, Parker burst through the door and tore through the rooms like the Tasmanian devil, only to find the house empty. He yanked out his cell and dialed Greg, only to get voice mail again. He was ready to scream and tear his hair out. He was going to have to do it, he realized. Somehow, he was going to have to cook something edible. Of all the times to have to rely on his nonexistent cooking skills, this would not have been his choice. If Parker were the type to break down under stress, he believed he would actually be crying right now. Instead, he grabbed one of Greg’s pun-emblazoned aprons and, tying it around his waist, looked through the cabinets.

  GREG was not a dumb man and making Parker happy, among other wicked naughty things, was his prime directive. Therefore, when it came to this little cuisine emergency, he had done what any sane man would do. He went to his Nanna. Between the two of them, they had four of the five courses done in no time. The last item, called il dolce, would have to be finished at his house. Soufflés, while not Italian, were impressive, but very delicate things. What he didn’t expect was to see black smoke billowing out of the kitchen door and windows. Seeing Parker’s brilliant green Miata in the garage, he knew exactly who had happened.

  “What did you incinerate now, you lovable idiot?” Greg said to himself with a chuckle.

  Climbing out of his Mustang, he rushed inside to the blaring smoke alarm and found his lover waving a towel at the smoking stove, coughing and wearing his “Forget the tip, give me the whole thing” apron.

  “Parker,” he laughed. “What in the world were you thinking?”

  The other man raised his light-green eyes to Greg. There was flour streaked across his forehead and right cheek. An unidentifiable substance made his normally silky ash-blond hair stick out and clump together at the same time. There were smoke marks splotching his smooth bronze skin here and there. His usually pristine shirt was wrinkled, stained, and would never be the same. In short, Parker was a mess.

  “I was trying to make dinner for Ms. Marconi and Mr. Firenze as I had no idea where you were, which scared me half to death, by the way,” Parker said, his voice getting higher and a bit strident as he spoke. “I followed all the directions. I just don’t understand why I can’t make a decent meal.”

  Greg gathered his lover into his arms and kissed him gently. He brushed strands of blond hair away from a flour spot. Then he placed a kiss on the tip of Parker’s sexy nose.

  “Parker,” he said with a smile. “It’s impossible for you to be perfect at everything. Otherwise, what would you need me for?”

  “I just, this is important,” he whispered. “And I couldn’t get a hold of you.”

  “My phone died,” Greg explained as he released the other man. Glancing down at the apron, he grinned. “Go upstairs and shower. I’ll give you the whole thing later.”

  “Letch,” Parker said with a small smile.

  “I just have a very healthy sex drive.”

  “Oversexed, maybe,” the blond muttered.

  “If you don’t leave r
ight now, I’ll show you just how hard I am and how badly I want to fuck you. A mussed Parker is a very sexy sight.”

  “If it wasn’t almost six thirty, I’d call your bluff,” his lover muttered; then he was out the door and jogging up the stairs. Greg smiled as he watched the flexing of his lover’s delectable ass. There were just some things he refused to miss and watching Parker move was one of them.

  PARKER took a moment to let the hot water stream over him. Things had gone from bad to worse. He finished his shower only to realize he’d left Greg to clean up his mess. He never liked letting other people do that. He got out of the shower and padded, naked, into the bedroom. Slate-gray dress slacks, a light-green dress shirt, and shining black dress shoes were waiting for him on the bed. Looking good always made him feel good. Only Greg made him feel better than that.

  He quickly donned his clothing and headed back downstairs to help Greg. When he got there, the brunet was putting several dishes in the oven to, apparently, stay warm. He’d taken off his shirt for some reason Parker couldn’t begin to guess. Not that he was in any way complaining, mind you. Gregorio Montesano with his shirt off was not a sight to miss, in his opinion. There was just something about the man, shirtless in a pair of worn jeans with the button undone and bare feet, that revved his engine. As much as he would love to jump his partner of four years, they didn’t have the time.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as he grabbed the last of the containers from the counter and, with a glance at the lid to see a tag marked “freezer,” put it away.

  “Keeping dinner warm,” the other man answered as he bent over to pick up a fallen dishtowel. Parker groaned in response and shifted his position. Now was not the time.

  “Is there a problem, Parker?” Greg purred, surprising him with how close he was.