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Straight Up

Page 3

by K. Evan Coles


  “Everything has been prepped for your tasting, so why don’t you have a seat and look over the contract I’ve prepared.” Stuart handed Malcolm the sheaf of paperwork. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  Malcolm smiled at him. “Sounds great.”

  Stuart gave Malcolm one final glance before he walked into the kitchen. Delicious.

  Malcolm was not at all what Stuart had expected. For one, he was tall, at least an inch or so taller than Stuart’s six feet. And while Stuart had assumed anyone working for Corporate Equality would be clean-cut and well dressed, he hadn’t expected Malcolm’s square jawline or how well he wore his tailored blue suit. It wasn’t a stuffy look—he hadn’t worn a tie, and his shirt collar was open. Malcolm still looked buttoned up.

  And Stuart liked buttoned up.

  Maybe it was a throwback to growing up around Mormon men in black suits, crisp, starched white shirts and ties. Fucking well-dressed men felt dirty. Corrupting the incorruptible was a very enjoyable pastime.

  In his time off, Stuart loved to go to a nice bar and pick up businessmen looking to unwind at the end of a long day in the corporate world. In turn, they seemed to enjoy his rougher look. Black jeans, a tee and a leather jacket made his bearded face and tattoos edgier. The look put a lot of men off, too—he’d noticed the sideways glances from some who seemed to be wondering if he were going to pick their pocket—but there were always a few who responded favorably. Whose glances lingered. Who slipped Stuart business cards in the hallway leading to the bathroom or tucked one under his cocktail napkin as they got up to leave.

  Mostly, they met at hotel rooms or went to Stuart’s place. Discretion was key with these closeted and/or conservative guys. Oh, it turned Stuart on to suck off a guy in a suit. Shove his pants to the floor and bend him over a desk or bed and fuck him. Stuart liked watching in a mirror—seeing the guy sweat and lose his cool—and damn, if the image of watching Malcolm Elliott coming apart didn’t pop into his head right then.

  Working for Corporate Equality didn’t guarantee that Malcolm was gay, of course. It guaranteed he was at least open-minded. And Stuart had a hell of an urge to find out if Malcolm swung that way himself.

  In the kitchen, Stuart gave the tray a final critical glance and nodded. The food arranged on it was small, simple and neat. Exactly as he’d asked.

  “Looks good.” Marisol scrutinized the plating. “Not that you need my approval, of course.”

  He knocked elbows with her. “I still like to hear it.”

  She snorted. “Your ego doesn’t need any more inflating, hot shot. Go knock his pants off.”

  Stuart lifted the tray. “I think the phrase is ‘knock his socks off.’”

  Marisol grinned at him. “Yeah, but I know you.”

  Many people considered Stuart remote or serious. Marisol was one of a few who brought out his lighter side and made him laugh. He was still laughing when he stepped back into the dining room, and Malcolm looked up and smiled, his solemn expression lightening, as if Stuart’s laughter was contagious, though he hadn’t heard the joke.

  “Had a chance to look over the contract?” Stuart set the tray on the section of table he’d cleared before Malcolm’s arrival.

  “Yes. I have a few, very minor notes. Overall, it looks great.” Malcolm gestured to a notepad in a leather-bound folio to his right. The notes were written in blue ink, marching neat and tidy across the lines of the paper. Very unlike Stuart’s slanted scrawl that decorated the myriad papers in the office.

  “Glad to hear we’re in agreement on the terms. I’m happy to discuss any tweaks.” Stuart took a seat across the table from Malcolm. “For now, let’s focus on the food. This is a duck confit bruschetta.” He pointed to one of the hors d’oeuvres. “The focaccia toast is layered with triple crème brie, a slow-simmered duck breast and julienne apples.”

  Malcolm lifted the food to his mouth and took a careful bite. He chewed slowly, his face expressionless at first before a small smile bloomed across his face. “Oh, I like that.”

  With a nod, Stuart gestured next to a mini stemmed cordial glass. “Red snapper ceviche marinated in citrus and cumin seed and topped with avocado crème.”

  Once again, Malcolm seemed to savor the food, taking his time over it. Stuart liked that.

  “Mini profiterole buns,” he said as they moved on. “Stuffed with New England lobster salad dressed with Meyer lemon and herb aioli.”

  “Now this Carter is going to love.” Malcolm offered a small shrug when Stuart shot him a questioning glance. “He and Riley went to Harvard together and they’re obsessed with New England seafood.”

  “Ah.”

  Despite Carter’s impressive pedigree and social standing, Stuart had found him very approachable and easygoing during their cooking lessons. He’d been quite aware that he worked for Carter and wasn’t his social equal, of course, but Carter had never treated Stuart as anything less than an equal, and Stuart couldn’t say that about many of his upper echelon clients.

  He led Malcolm through the remainder of the dishes and Malcolm sampled them with a studious thoroughness that Stuart enjoyed watching. He even liked that Malcolm nixed two dishes and made intelligent suggestions for others, too.

  “Maybe another vegetarian option, something low carb. And something else gluten-free, too.”

  “Our kitchen is not totally gluten-free,” Stuart warned. “There are always trace amounts on equipment and we can’t certify anything.”

  “Understood,” Malcolm said. “We’ll be sure to include a note on the menus and that the waitstaff knows.”

  “Good.”

  “And you can arrange all of this in time?”

  Stuart grinned. “I wouldn’t have agreed to it if I couldn’t.”

  Malcolm flushed. “Yes, of course. I apologize. The last-minute cancellation was a nightmare and—”

  “That was bad luck,” Stuart agreed. “Although I’m not sorry it led you here instead.”

  “Yes. I think this is exactly what we have in mind for the fundraiser.” Malcolm’s tone was friendly but bland. As if he were ignoring Stuart’s flirtatious tone.

  “Are you satisfied with the options, then?”

  “After you make the modifications we discussed? Absolutely.”

  “Great, I’ll revise the contract and send it your way. Email all right?”

  “Email’s perfect.” Malcolm slid a business card across the table to him. “You have my address already, and I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  Stuart leaned forward. “You said you have bar service covered, but our sommelier and head bartender would be happy to work with you on your options.”

  Malcolm laughed. “Are you familiar with Under?”

  Stuart had heard of Under. He’d never been in the place but knew its name and reputation as top-notch, so if they were serving drinks for the event, Stuart trusted they knew what they were doing. He nodded.

  “Two of Carter’s best friends own the place and they’ll be working with us,” Malcolm continued. “Trust me. We have drinks more than covered.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I’d like to set up a meeting for all of us in the near future, actually. To coordinate drinks with the menu and discuss logistics.”

  “That sounds great to me.”

  “I’ll pull together some possible dates and get back to you shortly with details.” Malcolm tidied the stack of paperwork and tucked it into his leather folio.

  “Perfect. I think we’re all set then, unless there are any other questions you have.”

  Malcolm scrutinized him. “Will you be there the night of the event?”

  “Would you like me to be?” Stuart injected a flirtatious note into his voice again, to see if Malcolm would take the bait.

  “It would be nice to know you’re there to take care of any issues that arise.” Malcolm’s tone was decidedly not flirtatious. It was almost impersonal.

  “I can be, if you’d like.”

  “That woul
d be great.”

  Technically, Stuart should charge more if he was on-site for the event, but he liked Carter—and Malcolm so far—and it would be a good way to advertise King’s and his own personal brand. Whether he ever opened his own restaurant or not, he wanted to have the option if he chose to go down that road someday. And in this industry, it was all about who a person knew. Besides, this event was a fundraiser for a non-profit that he was enthusiastic to support. Waiving the fee was his way of contributing.

  Unfortunately, Stuart was having trouble getting a read on Malcolm. Usually, he could tell if a man was interested in him. Plenty of those buttoned-up businessmen had been closeted—maybe cheating on their unsuspecting wives, in fact, though Stuart had never asked—but even with them, Stuart had known. With Malcolm? Nothing.

  There had maybe been a small hint of something for the briefest second. Not enough to be sure, however.

  “Thank you again.” Malcolm stood with a smile and Stuart followed, taking Malcolm’s offered hand and allowing the handshake to linger a little longer than necessary. An expression of surprise flickered across Malcolm’s face before he let go.

  Stuart wouldn’t mind getting to know more about the man who stood in front of him. Malcolm intrigued Stuart, and few people did. Maybe, if Stuart played his cards right, he could peel Malcolm out of that very nice navy-blue suit.

  Stuart was a professional, but he didn’t mind mixing business with pleasure.

  * * * *

  Pushing open the restaurant’s back door, Stuart stepped into the March night, tired and content. The air outside was pleasantly cool after the heat of the kitchen. A Thursday evening wasn’t the worst by any means, but there had still been a hundred and fifty covers—guests—and they’d easily cleared ten thousand dollars in sales. His feet hurt and his back ached and he was still buzzing with the adrenaline from the steady rush of orders on top of the meeting with Malcolm that morning.

  Nearly everyone else had trickled out of the kitchen after closing—or rushed out in a few cases—but since Stuart had opened, Hugh, the other sous chef, would close. Hugh would be there at least another hour, making sure everything was in order for tomorrow.

  “Drinks?” Danny, the P.M. prep cook, asked.

  Stuart went out with the line crew fairly often after shift or sometimes wandered off on his own to pick someone up. Tonight, he craved solitude and shook his head. “Nah, I’m beat.”

  He walked down the block and around the corner to where he’d parked his bike and he patted the leather seat of the Suzuki C90T before he climbed on. Until recently, Stuart hadn’t been in the market for anything more extravagant than the full-face helmet he slipped over his head. However, when he’d paid a visit to the dealer to buy the new helmet, the simple, classic style of the cruiser had spoken to him, and after a test drive, he’d traded in his old ride and walked out with a new helmet and bike. Now, he twisted the key in the ignition and the long-stroke V-twin engine roared to life, the vibration settling into Stuart’s bones as he accelerated slowly onto the street.

  The trip from the restaurant to his place in Little Italy took less than ten minutes, but after a long day in the kitchen, it got Stuart’s blood pumping again. He turned left onto Greenwich Street, leaning into the turn and smiling at the feel of becoming one with the bike. He needed to get out for a longer ride soon. He’d been craving it for a while.

  Unfortunately, his joy was short-lived.

  By the time he found a rare spot in his neighborhood that hadn’t been taken already, Stuart’s mood had soured. He parked the bike at an angle to the curb, anchored it with a heavy-duty chain lock and crossed his fingers he wouldn’t get a ticket. He’d paid for more parking tickets than he cared to count over the years. Parking regulations were convoluted in the city and the parking enforcement officers were all too happy to slap a ticket on the windshield at the slightest provocation. There were days he swore he’d just sell the damn bike and take the subway like everyone else. In the end, he never went through with it. To Stuart, the bike meant freedom.

  He’d left Utah and his ex-wife riding a used motorcycle he’d bought on the fly, the saddlebags empty but for the money he’d stashed away and a few personal items. He’d traveled two thousand miles of road, just him and the bike. With the face shield down, no one had seen the turmoil or fear in Stuart’s eyes. Or the tears on his cheeks as he’d left everything behind, shedding his past like layers of clothing.

  Elijah Stuart Morgan had been an upright Mormon citizen. A man who didn’t drink or smoke. Didn’t wear tattoos. Married a woman who had their whole lives planned out. Temple on Sundays. Children as soon as possible. Fulfilling their duties to God and family.

  In New York, Stuart had become someone new. Elijah hadn’t fucked men. Stuart did. Stuart also drank like a fish, and he screwed around a lot during that first year of freedom to make up for lost time. He’d worked hard, too, using the carpentry skills his father had taught him to make enough money for culinary school and cover his body in ink. And they were more than rebellion.

  They were a reminder.

  Like the bike, the tats were a signal to himself as much as to the rest of the world that Elijah Morgan was dead. Stuart Morgan, on the other hand, was very much alive.

  Now, he unlocked the door between the beauty salon and the dry cleaner, then walked up the steps to the fifth floor to an apartment that was—in Marisol’s words—a shithole. The three-hundred-fifty square foot studio had a bathtub in the kitchen for Christ’s sake and she’d been horrified when she’d seen it.

  Still, it was home. Stuart set his helmet on the dresser and dropped his keys beside it. His place was quiet. Safe. Private. No risk of anyone poking and prying into his personal life or his belongings. So what did it matter if he stared at the stove while he bathed or that the curtain never quite protected the refrigerator from the spray of the showerhead?

  Stuart squatted down, then pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser and stared down at the tangle of silky fabrics. He itched to take the lingerie out. It had been a while. Wearing them always brought up such weird feelings, unfortunately. Shame mostly.

  Despite his upbringing, Stuart had reconciled his feelings about being gay. About wanting to be a chef instead of a carpenter. Even about walking out of a disastrous and short-lived marriage. But this? This went deeper.

  Every time he’d brought up his kink to guys he dated, in the hopes they’d accept it—even if they didn’t embrace it—their reactions had shoved him further down that spiral of shame. No one understood why it turned him on. And they sure as hell wanted nothing to do with Stuart after they discovered that truth.

  Stuart couldn’t just enjoy it the way he wanted to. And he’d given up hoping that he’d be able to share it with anyone.

  Chapter Three

  “Crap, crap, crap.” Malcolm took the subway stairs two at a time, muttering under his breath.

  He’d arranged the Thursday meeting with Chef Morgan at Lock & Key, expecting forty-five minutes would be plenty of time to commute up from Midtown. However, a mechanical problem had plagued his train and he’d spent the crawling ride exchanging messages with his mom, trying to get her to apply for job openings he’d found in the neighborhoods around Staten Island. Now Malcolm was nearly fifteen minutes late and almost sprinting along Broadway in his loafers and business casual duds, messenger bag bumping his hip.

  Malcolm hated being late, particularly when it came to his job. He’d texted the chef with a heads-up he was running behind but still felt wretched and unprofessional. He also knew this would make a poor impression on a man who had high expectations of the people around him. Stuart had been friendly—even charming—when he’d introduced himself to Malcolm, tattoos peeking out from beneath the chef’s white jacket. His demeanor had changed the moment the talk had turned to food, however, shifting into a thorough confidence that was reflected in the quality and plating of the food he’d put in front of Malcolm. Everything had been luscious—
both aesthetically and in taste—and Malcolm had known from the first bite that the chef and his staff at King’s would do impeccable work for the CEC fundraiser.

  The steel in Stuart’s expression as he’d spoken about food and his work had reassured Malcolm. He understood how to interact with a man who was all business. He’d been less sure of how to handle the moments when Stuart had smiled at him, however, and the way that warmth had made his brown eyes dance. The chef’s touch had tingled against Malcolm’s skin when they’d bid each other goodbye, too and…well. Malcolm really didn’t know what to make of that.

  He caught sight of a huge motorcycle parked by the curb as he neared Lock & Key and slowed to a walk. It was a beautiful machine, gleaming black and chrome in the late afternoon light, and Malcolm could imagine the kind of man who rode it, clad in a leather jacket with tattoos on full display.

  I’ll bet Stuart Morgan wears a leather jacket.

  Malcolm nearly tripped into Lock & Key’s door. Where the hell had that come from?

  Seconds later, his errant thought literally came to life and Malcolm blinked at the sight of the chef seated at Lock & Key’s bar, a tall glass of water in hand and motorcycle helmet by his elbow. Stuart wore a black leather jacket, just as Malcolm had imagined, and a scowl so mighty he looked almost like a stranger. Malcolm’s stomach flipped.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said in a rush. Moving quickly, Malcolm waved hello to the bartender, then pulled the strap of his bag over his head and stepped up beside Stuart. “I meant to be here to meet you, Chef, but the train—”

  Stuart cut in, his voice gruff and grumpy as Malcolm had expected. “I get it. Public transportation sucks.”

  “It’s unpredictable,” Malcolm replied. “Anyway, Under’s head bartender is waiting for us downstairs.”

  “Downstairs?” Stuart waved at the room around them with one hand. “Downstairs from here?”

  “Um, yeah. This is Lock & Key. Under’s located in the basement.”

 

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