Home for the Holidays: Mr Frosty Pants, Mr Naughty List

by Leta Blake

  But there was no way he’d ever do that. Not now. He wanted to find out about Casey’s idea of a date more than he’d wanted anything in years.

  “I’m going to romance you.” Casey smiled, touching Joel’s chin again. “I know they still have ice skating in Market Square for the holidays. Have you been?”

  Joel squeezed his eyes closed, willing his mouth to say no, to tell Casey to fuck off with his romance and his amber eyes and his sweet smiles. Instead, he said, “Brandon takes over today around five. I need to go home and take care of a few things, but I can be ready by six-thirty.”

  “Perfect.”

  Joel groaned as Casey’s lips found his again. How did he do that thing with his tongue? It made Joel shiver and lean in closer.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I need help with a tree.”

  Joel jerked away to see Angel standing by the door with one dark brow raised and a shit-eating grin on her face. With his mouth wet and his heart racing, he rose shakily from the table, only to realize that his cock was hard and pressing against the front of his jeans. He jerked his jean jacket closed and buttoned it up over the evidence of what Casey Stevens’s mouth did to him.

  “I’ve got work to do,” he said huskily. “You should go.”

  Casey stood and started bagging the leftover food. Joel realized he hadn’t eaten his entire sandwich or more than one of the cookies. He regretted that Casey was probably just going to throw it away. But if he stayed even a second longer on the patio, if he asked to keep the leftovers so that he could put them in the small fridge in the back office for later, he’d end up kissing Casey again.

  And if he kissed Casey again?

  Then he’d probably be the one to initiate it. And somehow that felt too real to him. It was easier when kisses were things that happened to him.

  Angel really did need help with the customer. The tree was awkward to fit on the top rack of the Mazda Z the middle-aged customer was driving, and by the time Joel had worked it up and started strapping it down, Casey walked out of the store with a poinsettia plant and a big smile.

  “I left money for it on the counter, and I put the leftovers in the fridge in the back office,” he called as he opened the door to his SUV. “I’ll see you at six-thirty.”

  Joel said nothing, returning to his work and trying to shove down the riot of emotions in his chest—explosions of anticipation and fear and anger and frustration and horniness. He couldn’t even catch his breath from one before the next began.

  “So that’s what your creepy smiles were about,” Angel said from the other side of the car where she stood uselessly, grinning widely. “He’s hot, boss. Congratulations. It’s about time you got laid. How long has it been? A year?”

  “Shut up and help me strap down the tree.” Joel glanced toward the customer who’d wandered off to look at wreaths. “Or see if you can sell him one of those.”

  “More than a year, then,” Angel said knowingly. “I’d say it’s shocking, but then again, who’d want to sleep with a Mr. Frosty Pants like you?”

  Who indeed?

  Joel worked to make sure the tree wouldn’t slide off at any sudden stops or starts. Maybe Casey Stevens wanted to sleep with him, and maybe he didn’t. But if he did, and if Joel said yes, would his heart survive? He had his doubts.

  He hadn’t done too well the first time Casey left him behind.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Bruno, down,” Joel said gently.

  He shoved his cold hands into his jean jacket’s pockets and watched his happy, welcoming dog try to wreck Casey’s nice clean jeans. “At least his paws are good, even if his behavior’s not. Wrinkles and dog hair aren’t a big deal, but red clay mud doesn’t come out.”

  They stood by the stairs leading up to the front of Joel’s mobile home, lit only by the front door lights. Bruno wriggled wildly at seeing Casey again so soon on the equally exciting heels of Joel’s arrival home from work.

  “Back inside, buddy. I’ll give you something special later,” Joel promised when Bruno gave him sad eyes and trotted up the stairs. He followed him up and stuck his head in the door and saw him settle down in his bed near the entrance to the kitchen.

  “If you need us to stick around here awhile for Bruno’s sake, I wouldn’t mind having a beer or something before we head out,” Casey offered.

  Joel stiffened at the idea of inviting Casey into his trailer. It was messy, and he didn’t have any beer, and, okay, fine—he was embarrassed.

  Casey lived in that glittering hulk across the lake and drove a freaking Lexus. The idea of inviting Casey into his two-bedroom, one-bath mobile home made Joel sweaty all over. And no matter what Casey wanted with him, or how he felt about him, or how many times he kissed him, there was no way he wouldn’t judge the way Joel lived. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

  “Nah, he’s fine. Let’s go.” Joel stalked away from the trailer, hands in his pockets.

  “You didn’t lock up.”

  “Nothing to steal, unless they want some beat-up blue jeans and a crockpot.” Joel tweaked a smile, hoping to defuse the weirdness of his refusal to invite Casey inside. “I guess they could take my decade-old computer and Goodwill TV set. Why not? Have at it.” He reached out to jerk open the passenger side door of Casey’s Lexus. “Besides, I figure a thief will take one look at Bruno and—”

  “Get cuddled and loved to death?”

  Joel snorted. “Probably. That beast thinks he’s a lap dog.”

  Casey smiled and rounded to the driver’s side. Joel wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and willed his fluttery gut to calm the hell down. He was just going on a date. That’s all. People did it all the time. There was nothing to be all worked up about.

  “Nice ride,” he commented.

  “Thanks. It was a gift from my folks. It’s not very practical in New York City between paying for parking and navigating the streets, but my parents have never cared about practical.”

  “Just whether or not it’s classy,” Joel murmured.

  Casey snorted again.

  The drive to downtown Knoxville was quiet. Casey seemed a little tired and Joel didn’t quite know what to say either. He hoped the evening didn’t continue on this way because it was verging on awkward pretty quickly. At least Casey’s SUV had those amazing seat warmers that heated his ass up so fast that, for a second, he feared he’d somehow pissed himself. That was something.

  “I’ve never been inside a mobile home,” Casey said finally.

  “They’re pretty much like they look in the movies. Nothing exciting.”

  “Are you embarrassed for me to come inside?”

  Joel sighed. “What do you think, Prince Moneybags? Of course I am.”

  “We should address this. It’s not healthy. Ann calls this sort of thing internalized self-loathing, and most of us have some, but I don’t want you to have it about where you live.”

  “Oh, what should I have it about then?”

  “I don’t know. Smoking?”

  “You want me to loathe myself for smoking?”

  “No!” Casey blew out an exasperated breath. “I don’t want you to loathe yourself for anything. But if you have to internalize some kind of self-hatred, then maybe hating yourself over smoking is better than hating yourself over where you live?”

  “Tell your therapist—what’s her name? Ann?—tell Ann to get a new job. And tell yourself to never, ever, ever consider psychology as a future ‘passion career’ because you’re terrible at it.”

  “I’m just saying that I’d like to be invited into your home, Joel. That’s all.”

  “Weird. It sounded like you were judging me for my smoking and suggesting I must hate myself for where I live, but if all you really meant is that you want to come hang with me for a while in Down-Class-Burbia, then I can issue you an engraved invitation tonight. Maybe you can attempt to impugn my honor while appropriating my poverty and indulging your classist savior fantasy.”

  Casey bugged his ey
es out. “Wow, are you sure you didn’t attend my liberal sociology course up at NYU? Because you’d fit right in.”

  Joel scrubbed a hand over his face. “I should have invited you in for a beer and to hang out with Bruno a little. Yeah, okay, fine, I’m embarrassed about living in a trailer. It’s not that I’m ashamed. There’s a difference. I did what I needed to do for my father, but I’m not exactly proud of my circumstances either.”

  “At least they’re your circumstances, created by your own choices.” Casey’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “My circumstances are handed to me, and I don’t even know if I want them or not.”

  “I didn’t choose my father’s stroke.”

  “No, but you chose how to handle it, and I’m proud of you. I think you’ve done a good job. You’ve kept Vreeland’s going, and you have a shelter that keeps you warm, a dog that loves you, and I’m guessing you’ve taken the best care of your dad that you could.”

  Joel narrowed his eyes. “This conversation sucks. It feels more like a therapy session than a date.”

  “What would you know about dates? Or therapy sessions? Have you ever been to one? And yeah, I know you went on a lot of make-believe dates in high school, but have you ever been on a real date?”

  “I’ve seen them on TV, and they don’t go like this,” Joel said, rubbing his hands on his jeans again. “No one starts out talking about their hardest, deepest, darkest thoughts and fears. Not on the first date anyway. Maybe at the end of, like, the second or third date. Just before they kiss.”

  “I’m doing things all out of order, apparently. I already kissed you. Twice.”

  Joel flushed hot as the memory of both those kisses swept over him. In the span of less than twenty-four hours, he’d gone from never-been-kissed to having Casey Steven’s tongue in his mouth two entirely different times, and now he was on a date. Life was weird. He didn’t even know if he liked the way that it was weird, but he was on the ride for better or worse now.

  Rather than park in the garage near Market Square, Casey used his father’s pass to pull into the private underground lot reserved for bigwigs at the petroleum company that held the top five floors of one of the tallest office towers in downtown Knoxville.

  When they exited the echoing, empty garage onto a side street that led to the main road through downtown, the happily named Gay Street—inspiration for teenage boys’ homophobic queer jokes for over half a century—Casey’s hand brushed the back of Joel’s. For a shivery moment, he thought Casey was going to take hold of it. In public. Like a couple.

  His mind galloped with the idea, and he wondered if it was even possible. Knoxville wasn’t the worst place in the world to be gay, but he didn’t exactly see men holding hands in the city either. Not even the men everyone knew were gay because of their flamboyant hips and flying, birdlike hand gestures. What would happen if he and Casey held hands? Would anyone care? Would someone say something?

  The sidewalks were more crowded than he expected for a Tuesday, but when they crested the hill and got a glimpse of Gay Street proper, he understood why. It was the night of the annual Christmas parade, and folks lined up and down the sidewalk, cheering as pickup trucks full of grinning cheerleaders and slow-moving floats of waving Boy Scouts drifted past.

  Christmas carols combined and clashed between floats and trucks, rattling down the street and echoing from the buildings in a clamor of bells and horns. Almost against his will, a festive feeling descended, quickening Joel’s heart, and his lips lifted in a closed-mouthed smile.

  “Oh, look, baby ballerinas,” Casey whisper-shouted in his ear to be heard over the cheers and music.

  A class of about six five-year-old girls and two boys marched—or rather pranced, skipped, jumped, rolled, danced, and sang—their way down the street. They wore red, green, and white leotards, tights, and sweaters, and all of the girls and one of the boys wore white, glittery tutus. Five adults trying to corral them and keep them on track surrounded them on all sides.

  “Cute,” Joel said, laughing at the boy without the tutu. The child had shoved his hand into his tights to scratch his privates without a care in the world.

  Casey slung an arm over Joel’s shoulder, and Joel stiffened, looking around to see who was watching. But no one seemed to care. Everyone was too busy enjoying the baby ballerinas and their wranglers’ struggle to keep them moving forward to notice two guys touching.

  “C’mon.” Casey tugged him away, heading north toward Market Square. “I have reservations.”

  It was too loud to talk as they walked on the main road, but once they passed the four-story, light-bedecked Christmas tree at the entrance to Krutch Park—a small swath of nature through the center of town—the noise level dropped drastically. The trees had been liberally decorated with white twinkle lights and additional decorated Christmas trees lined the walk past the creek, which babbled cheerily from the shadows.

  “Romantic,” Joel said. They hadn’t spoken much since the conversation in the car had gone too deep for comfort, but in the illuminated darkness, the awkward vibe had dissolved into a kind of fluttery coziness. Like maybe this was a thing that was really happening, something they both wanted. At that thought, Joel tamped back a strange urge to yelp and run.

  “I told you I planned to romance you. I don’t know why you’re surprised. Haven’t I always been honest with you?”

  “Uh, no?”

  “Withholding information isn’t lying. You, however? You’re quite the liar.”

  Joel couldn’t reconcile the tender fondness in Casey’s voice with the ugly accusation. He swallowed hard, throat clicking nervously, and then he gasped when Casey really did reach out to take hold of his hand.

  They weren’t alone on the path, but it wasn’t crowded either. A small family of four approached, and none of them gave a second glance to where Casey and Joel’s fingers twined together.

  “You’re not going to argue it?”

  “Why should I?” Joel said huskily. “It’s true. I lied about myself—to myself even—for years. I can’t pretend I didn’t.”

  “Why did you lie?” Casey asked, pulling on Joel’s hand until they came to a stop, standing face-to-face beneath the glitter-light trees, with the creek babbling next to them. “RJ was out as gay. Becca was out as liking girls. What did you think was going to happen if you told us?”

  Joel’s throat went tight. “You’re one to to talk.”

  “True. I already told you what I thought would happen, though. I thought I’d lose you. If you’d have come out, I wouldn’t have been so afraid of that. I lost you anyway, sure, but—”

  “There you go again. Ruining my first date ever with all this deep digging. You’re supposed to tell me things that make me laugh so I’ll toss my head back and chuckle like this.” He threw his head back and faked a laugh.

  Casey mimicked him, though his laugh sounded genuine.

  Dropping the too-real conversation, they continued walking. Joel pointed out the newest sculptures along the walk, and Casey began chatting easily about art he’d seen when he was in New York. “The best show was this insane one by Paul McCarthy—”

  “The Beatle?”

  “No. That’s McCartney, you heathen. And to think you were ever in a band!”

  “I was teasing.”

  “Right.” Casey squeezed his hand. “Anyway, it was a perverse exploration of the story of Snow White and Walt Disney. Grotesque in this dark way that I associate with some of my uncle’s descriptions of cinematic art from the 1970s and the early 1990s.”

  “Which uncle?”

  “Robert.”

  “Oh, ‘the pervert.’”

  “He’s gay. Like us.”

  “I guess that was hard, huh?” Joel asked. Along with the opinion that Manor Crest and Belmont Hills boys shouldn’t be friends, Casey’s dad and Joel’s pop had shared a penchant for casual homophobia. “When you came out? Remembering how your dad had called Robert a pervert for all those years?”
The things Pop had said about Joel’s mom’s brother had certainly always stung.

  “That’s third date conversation,” Casey said teasingly.

  “Sorry. I’ve never been on a date before. I’m taking my cues from you.”

  Casey shook his head wonderingly. “That blows my mind. Why hasn’t anyone ever asked you out?”

  “Something about my sweet and tender demeanor scares guys away,” Joel snarked. “Maybe they think I’m too angelic to fuck or something.”

  “Ha.” Casey pulled them to a stop again. They’d almost made it to the exit of the park near Market Square, but he held Joel back, just out of the brighter light of the street lamps. He touched Joel’s chin gently. “Some guys just don’t get how sweet a grumpy asshole can be.” He glanced up then, dropping his hand quickly. He nodded at an elderly man and woman who stepped onto the pathway.

  Joel got a distinct anti-gay vibe from the looks sent their way, but the couple said nothing, continuing their romantic Christmas walk without the taint of completely ruining someone else’s.

  “So, this show I saw. It was just filthy,” Casey went on as they crossed the street from Krutch Park and into Market Square.

  He described the art show at the Armory on Park Avenue, getting more and more animated as he did. “There was a video art component to it, with films on a loop, showing the most disturbing things you’ve ever seen. Snow White having sex with all of the dwarves and smearing herself all over with chocolate syrup, wearing a diaper. And then in another room, there was a video of Snow White’s prince masturbating, and I just…couldn’t look away. It was depraved, but I sat on the bench across from that screen and watched him for as long as I could stand it. It was compelling and somehow more intimate than porn. Like exhibitionism without the exhibitionist actually being present. People came and went, but a few women stayed to watch it too.”

  “That sounds messed up.”