by Cara Dee
I didn’t begrudge them for a second. They deserved every ounce of joy. I just… Fuck it. It was evidently not in the cards for me to get something similar for myself.
Gideon had already reached out to me for advice on what to give Nicky for his twenty-eighth birthday.
When I turned forty-three a couple weeks ago, I’d had dinner with my family and topped the evening off with a breakup.
Cazzo, I’d turned into a bitter bastard.
I blew out a breath and got in my truck but didn’t close the door.
Nicky’s eyes flashed with concern and curiosity.
“You know I’m happy for you, bambino,” I stated quietly.
He nodded hesitantly. “You miss that fucking loser, don’t you?”
That one gave me a laugh. That Nicky detested my ex had always been clear as day. And no, I didn’t miss Shawn at all.
I shook my head and smiled faintly. “I don’t miss him. But I am lonely.” It stung to admit it out loud. “I just need some time to regroup, that’s all.”
“I get it.” Nicky nodded again. “But so you know, being down in the dumps has turned you blind. You don’t see the men eyeing you.”
I gave him a wry look. I didn’t need my kid brother to play matchmaker.
“I’m serious,” he claimed. “I think that’s why our parents were blessed with two gay sons, so that I can use my gaydar to find your next—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I chuckled at his ridiculousness and started the engine.
Nicky backed away and smirked. “Made you laugh.”
“Mm.” I withheld a snort and buckled my seat belt. “I’mma head home. Good luck with the house hunting.”
“Thanks. See you tomorrow, big brother.”
I inclined my head and shut the door, then backed out of my spot.
Of-fucking-course the elevator had to be broken today, too. On the other hand, the rickety old thing usually was. But dammit, maintenance had fixed it just last week. I’d hoped to have a few more weeks before something went wrong again.
I trudged up the stairs to the third and top floor, my mood getting so sour that not even I wanted to be near me.
My home was usually my bright spot. The one place where everything was the way it was supposed to be. More than that, the one place the bank didn’t own. Not many residents in Brooklyn could say the same.
I stepped inside my condo and threw the keys on the hall table. Shoes kicked off, jacket shrugged out of—carefully, so I didn’t drop everything I was carrying—and then I trailed across my living room and into the adjacent kitchen. I flicked on lights along the way and breathed in deeply. At least the foul scent of Shawn’s cologne was gone now. We’d never lived together, but he’d stayed over often enough to make people think so.
The tiniest thing did give me a pinch of satisfaction. The remote to the TV was still on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, and it was where I wanted it. Shawn would always move the remote to the coffee table, but this was the spot where I had breakfast in the morning and watched the news.
Everything work-related ended up on the kitchen bar too, before I turned on the TV to get some sound in here.
I kinda missed having my brother around. Nicky had lived in my guest room until he’d met Gideon.
Nicky had cooked too…
All right, three exciting things happening tonight. Shower, eat, work. In that order. Wait—what time was it? I checked my watch and felt another pinch of something that wasn’t awful. Camden Adair released a video today. Every Tuesday at eight o’clock, so it should be live already.
I decided to shower first, though. It’d been a long day, and I’d worked out during the “free period” I had before my last class for advanced drummers. A class that Nicky would take over for me soon.
After taking out a Tupperware container from the freezer, I went upstairs and, as fucking always, almost hit my head on the wooden beam crossing the ceiling near the landing. People thought it was charming as hell to have a one-and-a-half-story condo, complete with exposed brick walls, open-plan design, and rustic flooring. And I loved my home. But this shit… The ceiling up here was too low for anyone who was taller than six feet. It was also hotter than hell in the summer when all the heat from the building crawled up into my bedroom.
My new bed was made. I’d splurged after my breakup and bought a new one, and I made it every morning. Shawn had always “forgotten” and called me a neat freak for giving a crap.
Stop thinking about him, you whiny fuck.
I winced and pulled my hoodie and tee over my head.
Hot shower. Maybe it would help.
I hummed to myself and tightened the drawstrings of my sweats on the way downstairs after my shower, and as I spotted my phone on the counter, the screen flashed with a message.
The food went into the microwave, and I grabbed a beer before I sat down on a stool and opened my phone.
Nicky was letting me know that Gideon, for once, liked a place. I should hope so since they’d returned for a second viewing.
There was a message from Pop too. He was once more asking when we were heading to Nashville. Nicky and I had never traveled much, so us leaving the city was a big deal to our father. I did my best to be patient, and I responded to him.
I’m leaving next Thursday, a week before Nicky and the others.
I’d received my ticket to the food festival I was looking forward to attending, and more importantly, the confirmation that I was one of the six participants in a cooking class. I knew where to be and when. The festival started next Friday, and the cooking class was on Saturday. It was a promotional event for a famous chef I followed on Insta. I’d started out thinking maybe I could learn how to cook something worth eating. In the end, I ate my leftovers and just watched him cook. His hands and the way he used them were nothing short of pornographic.
August King. Even his name exuded power and assertiveness, and it was how he cooked. Combined with a warmth that felt entirely Southern. Unfortunately, he only released videos once a month.
It was through him that I’d found Camden Adair, King’s husband.
Unlike King, who was a renowned chef and had four restaurants across the country, Camden was an amateur. He’d given me some hope that you didn’t need a fancy education from a culinary school in order to make a nice dinner. But then I’d watched more of his videos, and safe to say, I’d never be that creative or skilled in the kitchen.
In short, my midlife crisis, which had prompted me to reinvent myself and learn new things, was going swell.
Similar results in my attempt to learn leather crafting. I was already a decent woodworker, so I’d thought working with leather would be simple. And maybe it was. I wouldn’t know. I’d just ended up watching the guys work with their hands. I’d picked up jack-shit in actual knowledge.
I had a thing about hands.
While I tucked into Nonna’s turkey casserole, I went on to my Instagram app and scrolled through my notifications first. I had students who enjoyed tagging me in their practice videos, and I had to admit it was the highlight of my day. My kids were all special to me.
Today, eleven-year-old Tatiana had tagged me in a video where she rehearsed with her clarinet for an upcoming recital. She had tagged Micaela too, her instructor and one of my friends. I played a dozen or so instruments, but the clarinet wasn’t one of them.
I trapped my spoon in my mouth and typed out a quick comment to the girl.
Great job, Tatiana. You’ve come such a long way.
The next student who had tagged me was James. I knew I wasn’t allowed to have favorites, but Madonn’. This kid. James had been one of my very first students at the Initiative, too. Back then, a six- or seven-year-old boy on the autism spectrum. Now, I had no words. Music was his therapy, as had been my intention with the school from the get. Music wasn’t the only thing I loved. I’d studied psychology in college and early on noticed the profound impact music could have on chil
dren with cognitive disabilities.
I had nothing left to teach James. He’d grown up to become a well-spoken—albeit shy and anxious—young man who’d recently been accepted into his dream college. It wouldn’t be much longer before I could sit in an audience somewhere and watch him perform in concert.
I chewed around a spoonful of food and closed my eyes as I listened to him play the piece he’d focused on the most this month, one of Chopin’s nocturnes.
The featherlight notes filled my soul and brightened my mood more than any hot shower could, and I took my first easy breath in several days. James had adopted a similar style to Chopin and shared the composer’s playfulness and lightness.
I remembered James had come to me one day before class, excitement written all over him. “I figured it out, Mr. Fender! The music—it doesn’t come from the piano. It comes from me. If I feel the music in my fingers, I can pour it out over the keys.”
Just like I had run out of things to teach him, I’d exhausted my vocabulary for praise. There were only so many ways I could express how impressed I was before I started to feel repetitive. But I gave it a go in a comment anyway.
You continue to amaze me, James. I notice you’ve worked on the transitions. It’s much smoother now when you reach bar 47. Keep up the good work.
Taking a swig of my beer, I returned to my notifications to see if there was anything else. A couple new followers, one of whom was a student. She’d told me yesterday that her parents had finally allowed her to start an account to upload rehearsal videos so long as she kept it private. I sent her a request to follow back, figuring she’d want feedback if she ever tagged me.
I didn’t recognize the other follower, not the username or the profile photo. Just in case it wasn’t a random follower, I clicked on the profile and felt my eyebrows crawl up toward my hairline.
Definitely a random NSFW user. I didn’t follow those. My account was essentially the official account for the Initiative, and God forbid a student checked out who I followed.
I scrolled down a little, because why not, and shifted in my seat.
Someone was into kink. Gay kink, to boot.
I had two friends who were into this too. By day, Greg and Moshe worked in accounting and education, and they raised two children together. When they had babysitters, Greg was a Daddy Dom who called Moshe his little boy.
Having always loved taking care of people, pleasing those I held dear, I did see the appeal of that kind of dynamic. But I couldn’t say it was directly up my alley. What I wanted couldn’t be split into left or right, dominant or submissive, black or white. I wasn’t what a kinkster friend might call Switch either.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate BDSM porn…
All the photos on this account were black-and-white, not to mention heavily shadowed. Both sexy and beautiful. One hinted at a man kneeling in front of another, and he had his cheek resting against the dominant man’s thigh. Without revealing any details or features, the picture had peacefulness written all over it.
Must be a nice feeling.
Oh, hands. I clicked on a photo displaying two hands, one gripping the wrist of the other, and I squinted at a small tattoo. Hadn’t I seen that before? I assumed it was the submissive guy who had his wrist in someone’s hold, and he had a small snake that slithered up along the side of his thumb. I was sure I’d seen it before. Maybe it had something to do with a kink. Kinda like what everyone my age did twenty years ago, a star inked somewhere to show they were gay.
I didn’t have one of those stars, thankfully. They didn’t look very good today.
I yawned and left the profile. That user would undoubtedly unfollow me soon. Most of these random accounts just wanted a follow-back. Nicky had taught me.
I went to Camden Adair’s account instead and clicked the link in his bio. Only snippets of his videos were posted on Instagram, with the full-length ones waiting on his YouTube. I brought my beer over to the TV and slumped down on the couch. Feet landed on the table. I took a swig of my beer and pressed play on the clip, and soon Camden’s face appeared on the screen.
He was a gorgeous young man, and he had the most infectious grin.
“Hey! I only have a short video today, and I’m gonna copy something August did last year. I assume y’all remember his series of recipes you can make from Thanksgiving leftovers. Well, that’s what I’ll be doing today with food left over from Easter. But, you know, with my own twist.”
His smirk was as cocky as it was sweet. He was an absolute goofball, one who’d earned an impressive following because he was funny, very down-to-earth, and…well, he cursed a lot. Even by a New Yorker’s standard.
Sometimes I wondered if that was part of a PR ploy. His manners, the way he spoke and how he behaved… He just didn’t strike me as someone foulmouthed.
I listened on one ear as he rambled about deviled eggs and slow-cooked ham, choosing to pay more attention to how he moved around in his kitchen. I knew from having followed both him and King for months now that the two lived on a big ranch outside Nashville. They’d cooked in their state-of-the-art kitchen, in their barbecue area by a massive pool, over an open fire on their land, and once on a camping stove set up near an actual barn.
The large window behind Camden revealed a view of nothing but green hills and one long, winding dirt road.
“Fuck me, Easter bunny,” I heard Camden exclaim when he’d dropped an entire egg into a batter of something. A string of other curses followed as he fished out the egg to crack it, and it was impossible to miss the rich chuckle coming from the background. August. “Do as I say, not as I do,” Camden advised smoothly. “We can just cut this out later.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned editing something out of the video, and he clearly never did.
“So the reason I chose crepes,” he went on, “is because after Easter, I think most of us have leftover eggs that we bought too many of. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we all love deviled eggs, but it takes one egg before my stomach is full.”
I smiled. Maybe it only required one egg because he was little and fucking precious.
Despite living together, and despite that one could often be heard in the background of their partner’s videos, August and Camden had only appeared together in a single clip. At which point their height difference became abundantly clear. I pegged King to be a couple inches taller than my six-two, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Camden were under five feet.
“Make sure you don’t use too much heavy cream for the filling,” Camden said, focused on whatever he was mixing in a bowl. “As you can see, I’m using one cup. Because I don’t want the flavor of the smoked honey glaze to disappear—motherfucker. I forgot the mustard. Clara, can you get a close-up of the filling? I gotta get the mustard.”
I had a problem. He disappeared from the screen for five damn seconds, and it was enough to make me impatient for his return. Some bastards obsessed over porn; I obsessed over cooking tutorials.
It was like reading a great book series and getting attached to the characters, only these were real people. It was a real guy who had charmed the fuck out of me with his impish grins, shaggy, nearly black hair that always got in his clear blue eyes. And his mouth…and how he used it.
A detox was what I needed.
Maybe that was another marketing strategy. Viewers were often asking them to make videos together, and I could admit it was one of the reasons I kept tuning in every week. Camden was the little clown, the comic relief, and King was plain strength and grace. And the warmth. Couldn’t forget that. From the Southern drawl and hazel eyes to the kind smiles and ever-present tan. Camden’s accent betrayed his heritage. He was from the East Coast. Maybe even New York. August King looked like he’d been born on their ranch and worked there all his life. Manual labor had formed his body, not a gym. Sleek muscles, broad shoulders, silver in his hair—
“Detox,” I snapped under my breath, momentarily repulsed by my fixation.
&
nbsp; I closed the video and tossed my phone on the table, then folded my arms over my chest and glared at nothing.
I shook my head.
This wasn’t fucking healthy.
I needed a life.
I…I needed to look up gay bars in Nashville. I needed to be out there, not holed up in my home, living like a senior citizen.
Chapter 2
Wanted Man
As soon as the first song ended, Luiz started counting us in on the hi-hat. Sylvia was quick on the synthesizer, generating a wailing sound through the crowd, and once Luiz kicked it up with a galloping beat on the drums, everyone came to life.
“Evening, Nashville, you feelin’ all right?” I spoke into the mic as we kept raising the tempo, and the audience got loud—it was an unforgettable sound that shot energy straight into our veins. I grinned and looked down at the strings. “That’s enough talking.” I gave Nicky a quick nod. “One, two, three, four!”
I sang of how good the world looked from where I was standing, and it was true, wasn’t it? Everything that had happened… Even with the uncertainties we were facing, life was invigorating.
Come and get me.
Spending my lunch break two days later with my grandmother at Sahadi’s probably didn’t count as “being out there,” but if the woman needed my help, so be it.
I’d made the mistake of admitting to Nicky yesterday that maybe, down the road, we could go out sometime so I could meet new people. I liked my own buddies and suffered no shortage in that arena, but most of them were married. I also preferred not to shit where I ate. Some lines weren’t meant to be blurred.
But leave it to my little brother to go bananas. Seemed like whenever we saw each other in the halls at the academy, he was sliding me comments about the type of man he wanted to find for me.
So it was either a lunch hour of him completely failing at profiling my Mr. Perfect or helping Nonna shop.
