by Beth Bolden
Damon sort of had, which had been part of his explanation when Xander had asked questions about it on their drive from Napa.
“As you might have guessed,” Damon finally admitted wryly, “we haven’t been close in some time. Well, more like ever, but yes, I did used to spend a lot of time here. My dad is a workaholic and the city was where he did a lot of his work. He came, so I came too.”
“Where was your mom?” Xander asked.
“Traveling back then, doing marketing and publicity for the winery. She didn’t want to hire it out because she thought she could do it better herself. Then, dead from a stroke.” Damon knew people believed that if you sped through bad news like it was rote and routine, then it made the terrible shit less terrible.
Damon didn’t believe that worked at all.
“God, I’m sorry,” Xander said, voice low. “I . . . I realized we didn’t know much about each other. Our families, that is.”
“And now you just realized why I don’t talk about them?” Damon laughed without humor. “Sorry.”
“Why don’t you give me the full tour?” Xander asked, turning on a determined and brightly sunny smile. Damon appreciated the effort, but he wanted to tell him that if it had ever been that easy to leave his family and their demons behind, he wouldn’t have ended up so dependent on the bottle.
“This way is the living room,” Damon said, reaching out and taking Xander’s hand. The touch of his skin wasn’t quite enough to dismiss his bad mood, but it helped. The sweet wry look Xander shot him helped too. That Damon had epic plans to fully corrupt every single room of this damn townhouse really helped.
Maybe they could start in the living room.
“Wow,” Xander said, turning toward the big picture window that looked out on the San Francisco marina. “This view just doesn’t quit.”
“When this townhouse came up for sale, my father bought it sight unseen,” Damon said. He’d told himself he wouldn’t mention any other Hesses for the rest of the trip, but being back in this place made it impossible. The memories—good and bad and every other shade in between—were hiding in the corners like ghosts. “He told the realtor to make the offer based on the address alone. When she asked him if he wanted to see the pictures, he told her that if he didn’t like it, he’d tear it down and build something else.”
Xander squeezed his hand. “It must have sucked growing up with someone who thought he could buy anything.”
When he’d thought of, and told, that story, Damon hadn’t been thinking of that bad habit of Nathan’s. He’d only been thinking it was one of the few stories he could think of that he found vaguely amusing.
But that had always been Nathan Hess’ problem. He’d worked hard and believed that every interaction was transactional. And Damon had never had anything his father had valued enough to trade with.
“Yeah,” Damon said shortly, regretting that he’d told the story. He’d always believed Xander was an intuitive person who was better at reading people than you’d expect someone who’d locked themselves away in a kitchen for a career could. From the first moment, staring at each other in the pouring rain, Damon had felt like Xander knew him.
Now it felt like he saw right through him, and Damon wasn’t sure if he liked it or if it scared the ever-living shit out of him. There were dark corners and cobwebs he didn’t want anyone—especially someone he could love—to see.
There was a Casset hanging above the fireplace, the only color shining bright on a simple white wall. Xander let go of his hand and went closer, eyes taking in every brushstroke. He didn’t ask if it was real—and Damon was grateful because then he didn’t have to answer.
They went through the dining room, with a spiky modern chandelier that Damon didn’t recognize. It looked like a trendy piece of destructive art. Perfect for murder in the middle of a dinner party.
Damon imagined what his father would look like with the spikes buried in his chest, and then abruptly swept the image away. He didn’t want his father dead; he wanted his father to have never existed at all.
The kitchen, which was a major part of why they’d come to the townhouse and not some random hotel in San Francisco, elicited a large enough gasp from Xander that Damon believed coming here was worth it.
The space was cavernous, bordering on nearly obscene, with acres of shining wood floors and rows of lake blue cabinets that perfectly matched the shutters outside. The blue was beautiful outside, but it was startling inside a kitchen, and even more startling was the fact that all the high-end professional appliances had been custom ordered in the exact same shade of blue.
Nathan had once told Damon that the color was the same tone as his mother’s eyes, but he’d always believed that was more of his father’s bullshit. Now he looked and he wasn’t quite sure.
“I know we’re going out to dinner a lot,” Xander said, fingers a death grip on Damon’s hand, “but I’ve got to cook in here. Please. Just one night.”
“Anything you want to do,” Damon said. “It’s all up to you.”
Xander reluctantly let Damon guide him out of the kitchen and upstairs. There were a series of bedrooms, each more luxe than the last, but culminating in the master with its textured blue walls and chinoserie hand-painted ceiling.
“This color,” Xander stated hesitantly, turning around the massive room, “it’s used a lot in this house.”
“The blue?” Damon repeated stupidly.
Xander’s frank look was a clear direction to cut the bullshit. But Damon wanted the bullshit; it was a lot easier to stomach than the truth.
“It was my mom’s favorite color,” Damon said softly. Which was one hundred percent true, no Nathan Hess bullshit needed to embellish it.
“It also looks a little like your eyes,” Xander replied.
It was impossible to miss the flash of guilt on Xander’s face, and no matter how painful some of this felt—dredging up so many old wounds that Damon kept hoping had healed finally—he’d come here for a reason. He’d wanted to share the best of his family with him, and he wanted to try to tell him some of what he’d come from. The good and the bad and the horrendous.
Xander was the kind of guy who wouldn’t take some of him. He’d want it all, when he figured out that’s where the two of them were headed, and Damon would have to give him as much as he demanded.
Some of it wasn’t going to feel good or cathartic. Some of it was just going to suck.
“Don’t feel bad,” Damon said, reaching out and pulling Xander flush against him. Xander’s head tucked under his chin, and a hand stroked up and down his back.
“I don’t feel bad,” Xander said in a muffled voice. “I want to fucking kill them for not giving a shit about you.”
Damon managed to laugh through the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”
“Is it . . . would it be okay if we stayed in here?” Xander asked with hesitancy.
Damon hadn’t had any intention of doing so, even though it had never really felt like his parents’ room, but he found himself nodding anyway. He’d never imagined that some things were better with the right person beside you, and just having Xander here helped. It hurt too, but Damon was beginning to believe it was the sort of catharsis he needed to grow. Even after therapy, he’d dragged all this baggage around with him—every inch of this house and the others he’d grown up in—but it was impossible to really move past it without ever looking at it.
“Are you sure?”
Damon sighed. “I don’t talk about this stuff, because part of how I’ve been sober is by pretending it didn’t happen. But it happened, and I can’t keep ignoring it forever.”
Reaching up, Xander’s hands cupped his cheeks, staring right into his eyes. “If you didn’t ever want to talk about it, that’s your prerogative. I don’t know everything you’ve been through, but figuring out how to stay sober makes you the bravest person I know. So yeah, you can ignore it as long as you fucking want to.”
It was impossible not to lau
gh at Xander’s indignant tone. He wasn’t going to let anyone judge Damon—even himself.
Damon pulled him close, hugging him tight. “You’re so great. How did I get this lucky?” he murmured into Xander’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure he wanted him to hear how he felt just yet, but it was also impossible not to say anything.
The honesty in Xander’s dark eyes was stark and bright. “I think that all the time.”
“You want to go to the Wharf? Stop by Ghirardelli?” Damon asked after a long moment where they just held each other. He’d never expected to have anyone again, not with his emotional baggage and his alcoholism, and Xander was so miraculous, he just wanted to bask in him. But they’d come to the city for a reason. “Tomorrow we’ve got some appointments to look at equipment.”
Xander slid away, right out of Damon’s grip. They weren’t perfect. Sometimes he still pulled away when Damon held him too tight. Another reason why he hadn’t confessed all his feelings yet.
“Appointments?” Xander lifted an eyebrow questioningly.
“The family name has a reputation people see coming from a long way off. I might not be my father, but being a Hess carries weight.”
“Right.” Xander, while really enjoying this house, didn’t seem to know how to accept that there were a lot of different facets of being a Hess. This house was definitely a benefit, but the expectations and strings attached could be a real bitch.
“The Wharf sounds great,” Xander said after a long pause. “We could swing by Boudin for lunch.”
* * *
Xander didn’t know why he’d suggested such a godawful tourist trap for lunch, but he’d sort of been feeling out this new Damon who’d emerged since they had arrived in San Francisco.
He was a Hess no matter where he was geographically, but standing in that elegant, insanely expensive townhouse, looking like he belonged even with his worn blue button-up and jeans, still bits of mud on the heel of his boots, had thrown Xander for a loop. He wanted the Damon he knew back—this newer, richer, darker Damon wasn’t someone he quite recognized and he definitely didn’t know how to deal with him.
It was even harder to convince himself that this Damon would happily publicly date someone like Xander. Someone who up until a few weeks ago had gotten his hands dirty on the regular in a kitchen. Someone who worked for an hourly wage.
Damon acted like it didn’t matter, but it mattered. At least to Xander. In his experience, only rich people thought money didn’t matter.
“Wow, it’s packed in here,” Damon said in a dismayed voice as he surveyed the packed Boudin café.
“It’s right by the Wharf,” Xander scoffed. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” Damon said, as they shuffled in the available next few feet, adding themselves to the winding line that went up to the bank of order stations. “It’s been years since I’ve been here.”
“Packed, but good bread,” Xander said. “Ready to carb load?”
Damon grinned, a spark of the man Xander had started falling for emerging. “Would I ever turn a good carb down?”
Xander had never seen him hesitate over anything he ate, but he also worked hard, and there were lots of instances where Damon mentioned hitting the weights. And Xander had definitely seen evidence that he didn’t need to worry about carbs. Not with Damon’s flat, muscular stomach, and rippling biceps and thighs. A spike of arousal echoed through Xander as he thought of what they were probably going to do in that gigantic raft of a bed later tonight.
He’d wanted them to go slow at first, but now that they’d started, Xander had discovered he wasn’t just hungry, he was starving.
“I’m going to get the chowder bread bowl and the roast beef sandwich,” Xander announced, making his position on carbs very clear.
Damon nodded, and as they finally got up to the ordering counter, he listed off a similar order, and after Xander ordered, whipped out his credit card.
When Xander shot him a look, Damon shrugged and mouthed, “tax deduction,” in his direction.
Xander didn’t think the IRS was going to necessarily approve of a tax-deductible trip in which they hopefully took advantage of that incredible townhouse to have sex on every single surface available. But he guessed if they produced enough receipts for the restaurant it wouldn’t matter.
Besides, a Hess would have a skilled and aggressive accountant on their payroll, Xander told himself as he went to find a table.
He finally located one in the faraway corner of the busy café, and they ate quickly without much conversation.
“You want to do the Wharf or Ghirardelli?” Damon asked as they walked back outside.
“You pick,” Xander said. He was full from lunch, but he could always make room for chocolate.
“I haven’t ever really done all this tourist stuff,” Damon confessed. “My father would have hated it.”
“Wharf it is,” Xander said. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Damon had mentioned his father more in the last twelve hours than he had during the whole time they’d known each other. He considered bringing it up, but he also didn’t want to push Damon. He was trying to open up, and he didn’t need to be pried open, all his bloody, dark insides spilling out. He’d tell Xander when he was ready.
Damon reached out and gripped his hand, nearly stopping Xander in his tracks and definitely vetoing any questions about his dad. “Is this okay?” he asked, a little self-consciously.
“Of course it’s okay,” Xander said. He didn’t ask if it was okay for Damon, because he’d been the one to reach out. But then Xander had made it very damn clear that he wasn’t into dating someone who he couldn’t take out in public.
He’d done that once before, and gotten burned, and he wasn’t into repeating the experience. Especially not with someone he could really care about like Damon.
“I know we’re not the most traditional of couples,” Damon said, and he still sounded nervous. His palm was warm and a little damp. Nerves? Xander wasn’t sure. “But I think this is nice sometimes.”
Xander spent a lot of time trying to pretend he didn’t need this sort of wooing—hand-holding, extravagant trips to the city, fancy dinners, expensive kitchen equipment—but that was a total lie. He liked it. He liked the certainty it gave him that he was who Damon wanted.
“I like it,” he admitted to Damon.
“So I shouldn’t stop?” he teased back. “You’re not gonna get sick of me?”
Never. But that was too soon to say, much too serious much too soon. “I’ll make sure to let you know if I do,” Xander retorted lightly.
But he felt all sorts of light and bright as they walked down along the bay to the Wharf.
* * *
He bought an ugly nautical-themed magnet, claiming he was going to stick it on one of the industrial-sized fridges they were buying this weekend. Even when Damon let go of his hand in one of the more crowded touristy stores, his hand lingered on the small of his back, leading him without being asshole-ish or obtrusive about it.
And Xander couldn’t help it. He kept seeing the future, laid out before them like a beautifully varied Persian carpet, dotted with milestones and the good and a little bit of the bad, but with love woven through it consistently and constantly. The more he imagined it, the more real it became, and the harder he continued to fall.
By the time they returned to the townhouse, a little sunburned and stuffed full of Ghirardelli’s ice cream sundaes, Xander was searching for some balance. Something to prevent the other shoe from dropping quite so hard.
It made perfect sense to drop their bags in the master bedroom, and for Xander to tackle Damon, somewhat successfully, to the bed.
“What are you doing?” Damon asked with a laugh as Xander settled over his big, muscular thighs. Thighs he definitely intended to get between very, very soon. Like right now soon.
“What,” Xander said, dipping down to plant a kiss on Damon’s lips, “do,” he repeated the action, feeling Damon smile under
his mouth, “you think I’m doing?”
“I have a few theories,” Damon drawled as Xander propped himself back up with a palm to his lover’s chest.
“Oh?” Xander used that hand to start popping open the buttons on Damon’s shirt, slowly revealing the worn, thin white tank that he was wearing underneath. “Jesus,” he exclaimed in a hushed tone, reverently stroking up and down the fabric that left very little to the imagination. Shirtless Damon was a revelation—there was no question of that—but with the dips and shadows outlined in the tight, nearly transparent cotton, he left Xander’s mouth dry.
“Like what you see?” Damon’s lips quirked up at the expression on Xander’s face. Though it probably wasn’t just at how turned on he definitely looked. Xander experimentally rocked his denim-clad cock against Damon’s taut, flat abdomen, and felt his muscles flex in response.
“You know I do,” Xander retorted, and there was heat, but it lacked his normal teasing edge. He was done teasing—both Damon and himself.
“Come up here and kiss me,” Damon pleaded, and it was impossible to deny him. Xander leaned out full length on Damon’s broad chest and kissed him. They’d both been thinking about this for days, and the kiss turned wild almost instantly, Xander’s tongue slipping inside Damon’s mouth, curling around his lover’s.
Damon’s hands clamped over his hips, and ground Xander and his cock into his stomach in a slow rhythmic motion that left him seeing stars. “Stop,” Xander finally had to say, tearing his mouth from Damon’s. “If you keep this up this is going to be over way too quick.”
“So? We have all night. I made dinner reservations, but I’d much rather stay here, with you.”
“No argument here,” Xander said, still gasping a little as Damon’s hands continued tormenting him.
“What do you want?” Damon asked then, a hint of hesitancy in his tone. He tried to act like this wasn’t all new to him, but it was. Xander didn’t always like taking the upper hand, but while Damon was still figuring sex with guys out, he was perfectly happy to lead the way. He shimmied down Damon’s body, dislodging his hands as he settled between his thighs. His fingers opened the button of his jeans and slid the zipper down.