by L E Franks
Currently, it was Emerald who was FatBoy’s worst nightmare—and maybe mine too. But if I was being honest, I was enjoying a tiny bit of schadenfreude at his expense after the last couple of days.
“Yes, Emerald?” His drawl was smooth, calm perfection of fully engaged Southern charm.
“Emmy,” she reminded him, leaning forward, her voluptuous form threatening the plate of jelly packets stacked in front of her.
He just smiled, letting a hint of dimple show—something he usually reserved for me.
Bastard.
“Blake mentioned you went to Knoxville to bring your girlfriend home to meet your family. I’ve been absolutely dying to find out how that went!” Emerald gushed.
I couldn’t wait to hear for myself.
FatBoy didn’t flinch, and I made a mental note to never play poker with him.
“Just my gran, actually—she lives outside of Knoxville—but in answer to your question, my friend couldn’t make it at the last minute so I had to drive by myself.”
“I don’t think we’ve met her—have we met her?” She turned to Blake, a little crease between her brows ruining all the work her plastic surgeon and his little bottle of Botox had done.
“Have I?” Given the right bait, Blake was as curious as his wife. I could see the wheels spinning before he shrugged it off, as if keeping the love lives of his staff straight wasn’t worth his time. He seemed to fall back into safer territory. “I thought your people hail from Memphis, Davis.”
“They do, sir. Now. But the previous seven generations all farmed the land around Seymore. My gran still has the house in town.”
“Your daddy is a lawyer if I recollect rightly.”
“Judge. He was elected my freshman year at UT. He stands again next year.”
FatBoy looked unhappy, and I wanted to reach across the Formica tabletop and squeeze his hand. I also wanted the grilling to continue.
“What’s her name?” I asked, innocently reaching for the creamer and pretending I wasn’t being lasered to death with his stare.
“I never said.” He calmly pushed the silver pitcher closer to me, the barest touch passing between our fingertips, and as he did so, I felt a spark, flaring in my gut. It was either a latent static electricity discharge or the three mouthfuls of pancakes weren’t sitting well—I refused to consider anything else. It was too soon so I defected.
“I’m guessing sorority sister. We have enough of those crowding the bar on the weekends trying to get your attention.” That last part might have come out a little bitchier than I’d intended, but only FatBoy seemed to notice, a frown forming between his sandy brows. There was a message for me in his gaze, but I couldn’t read it.
“Nick—” Was he trying to sound conciliatory?
“Let me think. Wasn’t there a blonde all over you the other night? What was her name… Jennifer? Jeanine? Jezebel…?” I couldn’t resist needling him as I thought back about the silence he’d punished me with.
“Nick—” And I was having a hard time remembering why I’d started the day with a plan to woo this man.
I ignored the warning. “Wait—not a J name, no… it was a B-something… Barbara? Bunny? Ah… Bambi! Am I right? Bambi from last Saturday? She came with her posse… frosted blonde tips, a rack from Daddy as a present for passing her midterms with a C-average?” I couldn’t stop myself.
“Nick—” No. Not conciliatory then.
I was about to open my mouth to suggest new names for his invisible-blonde-bombshell-of-a-faux-girlfriend-that-was-not-me, when Emerald rode to the rescue and cut in.
“What about your people, Corwyn—where do you hail from?” Emerald rolled the unfamiliar phrase around in her mouth, and I winced.
Hearing Emerald’s attempt at modulating her rich Latin tones into some order mirroring Blake’s deep Southern roots was like watching someone use a garter snake as a croquet mallet. Theoretically possible if the snake was made of wood and actually shaped like a mallet.
No one else seemed to notice. Blake was busy gazing at Emerald in either adoration or with the desire to throw her over the table for a quickie, I wasn’t sure which. I still occasionally had a hard time with hetero-cues, even after all these years behind the bar.
FatBoy seemed to be thinking of new ways to end me, if the glower was anything to go by, and I briefly considered asking him if strangling his secret gay boyfriend in public before his second cup of coffee would negatively impact his father’s reelection campaign.
Corwyn, however, had been busy working his way through a six-egg omelet, and Emerald had caught him with his mouth full. It was going to be a miracle if we all survived this breakfast without paramedics or police being called in to assist.
“Dublin,” Corwyn gutted out from between swallows. “Ever since the Troubles.”
“Troubles?” Emerald actually patted his hand and nudged me under the table like this was an etiquette lesson that I was failing. Probably was.
“Troubles?” I aped obediently, resuming the exploration of my plate.
“Aye. Some of the uncles got caught up—easier to disappear in a city, though losing the land was a blow—not that Gran would ever say—hard one, she is. Back then Dublin was just tenements and hunger keepin’ company with the dirt and blood of the streets. Nowadays the worst is gone and my cousins are all paid Gardaí, and the roads are filled with tourists looking ta find their roots.”
Some memory fell into place, and I was interested, despite myself.
“So are your uncles still IRA? Do you still have them?” I asked, perking up for the first time since sitting down.
Corwyn looked dumbfounded.
Actually, they all seemed to be staring at me over their breakfasts like I’d grown a third head or had broken out into Swahili.
“Nick!” This time it was Emerald.
Corwyn wiped away the egg clinging to his lips and carefully smiled, dropping his eyes back to his plate as if to divine how to answer me in the remnants of his breakfast.
“Which? My uncles or the IRA?”
“Either? Both? Well, I meant the IRA… asking if your uncles were still alive seems a little rude.”
“Ya think, Nick?” FatBoy delivered his opinion with a hard, flat stare that froze my tongue, but Corwyn’s smile was kind and I assumed he’d fielded similar questions ever since arriving in the States.
He nudged me with his shoulder as he answered, and I relaxed into its warmth—a nice change from the glacier forming across the table. Leaning back, Corwyn flashed me a smile.
“Haven’t ya heard? There’s no such thing as the IRA—it’s just politics these days. Or so they claim…”
“And nothing ruins the digestion of a good meal faster than the mention of politics or religion before your first sip of bourbon for the day,” Blake replied and even I could see the subject was closed.
Corwyn waved his empty cup at a nearby waitress, and Emerald turned back to FatBoy. “Davis, You’re at the bar every weekend. Have you noticed any men pining after our Nick?”
She said all this with a straight face, carefully cutting her melon into microscopic bites and looking even more like a panther waiting to pounce. Skewering a piece of fruit, she delicately removed it from the tines with her teeth, the fork never coming close to her carefully applied lipstick. I shivered.
For his part, FatBoy never paused in the methodical dissection of his breakfast, and I wasn’t sure if he was planning on eating the omelet, or writing a dissertation on it. In either case, I was betting he was coming down with a case of spontaneous hearing loss when he made me a loser—again.
“I haven’t, Emmy. Why do you ask?” Picking up another surgically excised portion of egg with his fork, FatBoy resumed eating.
How he said this with a straight face I’d never know. I tried not to think his casual lie was just another symptom that I’d irrevocably screwed up any chance we had at making a go of this… thing between us.
“It’s time Nick settled down,
” she said, her fork slowly circling above her plate. I knew exactly how the cantaloupe felt as she stabbed another glistening orange bite.
“Isn’t that up to Nick?” FatBoy wiped his mouth, pushing the rest of his uneaten breakfast away. His large tan hands wrapped around his mug, hiding the Blue Bean logo with just two fingers, and I stared at them. Remembering the feeling of them cupping my face as he leaned in to kiss me.
“—can’t keep it in his pants…”
What? I must have zoned out, but for how long?
FatBoy was leaning over the table glaring at Corwyn. I glanced over at the Irishman, noting his smirk unfurling into a full-blown grin at my attention.
“Who can’t keep it in his pants?” I was afraid of the answer, but ignorance of the facts was even more dangerous, given the parties seated at the table.
“Apparently you, according to some…” Corwyn purred next to me.
“Corwyn, that’s not true—” Emerald leapt to my defense, patting my arm before turning on her husband. “Blake, don’t exaggerate. Nick just needs to find the right man. Someone who will hold his attention… someone that will look beyond what he does for a living… or his beautiful face. Someone who will see him for who he truly is, see his beautiful soul…”
“What’s wrong with what I do—” I cut off at the simultaneous squeezes from hands resting on either side of me.
I felt my cheeks flush under the collective stares of our group. Only one touch lingered on my thigh and not in comfort. I moved Corwyn’s hand away as Emerald continued her speech.
“He needs to find true love like I did.” Turning to Blake, she reached across the table and he reached back, taking her hand in his. It was very touching or would have been if Corwyn wasn’t leering at me and FatBoy didn’t look like he’d just found a roach at the bottom of his cup.
“I think Nick is doing fine on his own.” FatBoy’s tone was firm. Final.
I tried to interpret the meaning of his words ‘on his own’. Was it that I deserved to remain alone and unloved for the rest of my life? Or maybe that I didn’t need help finding a man to love me, I could do it myself? Or that I’d already found one—no more looking required? Was he telling me that he loved me or that I was unlovable?
My pancakes churned, and I couldn’t bring myself to look directly at FatBoy in case the answer was in his eyes.
“I think Nick’s fine—full stop.” Corwyn’s brogue settled on me. Small comfort, but welcome all the same.
“Of course you’re fine, Nick. We adore you. We just think it’s time for you to stop wasting your life on the pretty little boy-men and fall in love with someone worthy of you. Someone who will appreciate you—”
“—for who you are.” Emerald trailed off as Blake finished for her. “But you know that. I suspect you already have your eye on someone.” He took a sip of coffee, drawing out the suspense as if it were the drawing room scene in a cozy mystery and Blake was Miss Marple.
“You didn’t come here and accidentally bump into all of us, did you?” All eyes previously on Blake swung to me and I shifted nervously on the red leatherette bench. Whatever was next out of his mouth wasn’t going to be good for me.
“We’ve stumbled into your date, haven’t we?” Blake was smug, and Emerald seemed to glow with intent—muscles quivering in anticipation of her pounce.
FatBoy faded before my eyes—the color leaving his face, his body turning to stone as I watched helplessly. Only he knew that any date with me should have been with him, and once again, I cursed my life.
“Well, that’s very interestin’.” Corwyn’s eyes seemed to glitter with mischief as he looked around the table, and I smothered the urge to slap him.
“Do you know something?” Emerald leaned closer, conspiratorial.
“I imagine so,” Blake intoned, amusement and inference lying thickly over his words.
“Not that I’m not dying to make an honest man of him…” Corwyn let the words slither out, his eyes fixed across the table at FatBoy, and dread seemed to settle over the other man’s features.
I glanced at Emerald, a thoughtful expression replacing the predator’s mien of earlier, and held my breath as I waited for the rest of Corwyn’s words to fall.
“… but as for a pre-arranged assignation… you’ll have to ask… the others…” Corwyn swung his head from FatBoy’s direction to mine and I swallowed hard, feeling Blake’s scrutiny. Emerald was too busy eyeing FatBoy shoveling cold egg in his mouth to pay me much mind. Whatever was in her head wasn’t good.
Corwyn continued. “As for me… I’m afraid it’s pure chance I arrived when I did. My gran would even say it’s… fate.” The smirk was back. He relaxed into the booth and slung a heavy arm across my shoulders, tucking me into his side, the stiffness of my limbs no deterrent.
“Tell me, Nick, is there room in your heart for a poor Irish lad?” He ran a fingertip along the side of my neck, and I shivered at the touch. “Mayhap we are fated to be together ’til the end o’ time. Will ya not run away with me, Nick?” The brogue was heavy, barely attempting to hide the mockery behind words spoken for the benefit of FatBoy and not me.
There was a moment between them—gazes locked together, but it passed, and as it did, FatBoy became the implacable force most often seen leaning against the wall of Frisson in his role of bouncer.
FatBoy rose from the table. “I’m afraid it will take more than a few sweet words to make an honest man of Nick.”
The implications stung.
Pulling a few bills out of his wallet, he dropped them on the table, and waving off Blake’s attempt to pay, he bent down, raising Emerald’s hand to his lips in farewell, and I wished it was my hand, instead.
No, I wished it were my lips pressed against his. And not in farewell.
I watched him turn away, a nod in our general direction. For a casual acquaintance, it was enough, but for those who knew us, it was starkly apparent that he’d been ignoring me and I could see that Emerald had taken note of that as well.
I’d waited maybe another three seconds, watching FatBoy wind his way through the dining room before acting. I was done fending off handsy Irishmen and nosey bosses.
Tapping my spoon nervously against the side of my cup, I cleared my throat and immediately felt like a transparent idiot. “Well… this was fun…” I lied, trying not to bolt after FatBoy.
Shifting in my seat, I pulled out my phone, pretending to check messages. “Um, actually… I need to go as well…”
I stood after a hard shove had Corwyn sliding out of my way. “I have a few errands to run before work…”
“And unlike that overpaid bouncer you hired, I’m happy to let the Boss Man buy me breakfast.” I squeezed Blake’s shoulder, hoping my grin was the one I normally used on him, but I was too much of a coward to look him the eye to check. Instead, I gave Emerald a kiss for cover, whispering, “Don’t worry about me. I’m happy as I am.” and left before I said anything else, trying not to run.
* * * * *
All I wanted was to breathe in FatBoy’s cologne and feel his arms wrapping around, pulling me against his body.
Truthfully, I wanted more than that, but I was aware that we had a lot of ground to recover—getting him alone in the same room at the same time would be a start.
I caught up with him in the parking lot.
“Hey! Can I get a ride to work?”
Every muscle in FatBoy’s body recoiled at my words.
“Isn’t that your truck?” He turned his head, and I followed its trajectory across the lot, in the general direction of where I’d parked.
I had nothing. “Uh… yeah?”
Silence stretched.
He stood frozen in place, facing his truck, ignoring me, before finally dropping his head to rest against the roof in a classic pose of defeat. He stood so still that he reminded me of a piece of Greek statuary depicting a warrior after battle—the faintest residual memory flashed—an image of Achilles from a college textbook I’
d read long ago.
One leg was propped outstretched behind him as if to brace himself against the coming onslaught, or preparing to lunge from danger like some superhero in the comics. His other knee was bent, wedged into the side of his cab as if to support the column of steel, rigid and unyielding as it moved up through his back, then collapsing on itself into a ruin of hunching shoulders and bowed neck.
Only his hands remained defiant in the face of the threat I posed—clenching and unclenching, his knuckles stretching his skin white as he gripped his keys.
Unlike the pieces from my art history class, FatBoy’s patina was rusted and pitted, not by time, but by me. Just breathing the same air was corroding his composure and throwing him off kilter.
I thought we’d stay there forever, the two of us caught up in the inertia of our fucked-up relationship. All I could do was stand quietly by, watching him, waiting for him to make the next move.
“I hate that little prick.”
The words gritted out, so unlike the man I’d come to know as kind and unflappable… tolerant. It was a shock to see the desolation reflected in his eyes when he finally turned to face me; it was eviscerating knowing that I was to blame.
“He’s harmless.” I moved a step closer and froze in the face of FatBoy’s mood: mercurial, shifting with the lightning speed of a cobra strike, stopping me short, revealing to me for the first time the face of the scary bouncer from the club. His pain, apparent seconds ago, was now replaced by contempt, chilling me to the marrow—Corwyn wasn’t the only one he hated in this moment. I took a step back.
Fuck.
“I think we’ve gotten off track…” I floundered, reaching my hand out in entreaty to his unseeing back.
“Ya think, Nicky? Shit…” He shifted a little, his pose softening as he spoke to the gravel at his feet.
Was it an opening?
“I really didn’t come here to—”
“It’s not about the Irish, Nick. I don’t give a flying fuck if that little shit comes sniffing after you six days to Sunday. He’s not the threat to us…”
FatBoy turned to face me with arms crossed. Resolute.
