by Mia Kerick
Only one goddamn bedroom?
So caught up in their domestic chitchat, the loving couple didn’t even notice that I leaned as far back as I could on the couch so I could sneak a peek through the slightly open bedroom door. And that’s how I managed to see it—one fucking queen-size bed!
There was only one fucking bed in that one fucking bedroom!
What the fuck was going on here?
That was when I noticed a persistent brushing against my shin. It nudged and pushed more and more forcefully until I finally broke out of my daze and glanced down. A huge black cat pressed its forehead into my dangling palm.
“His name is Runaway. We found him in a box behind the S-Squared Diner when he was just a kitten.” Savannah leaned over and picked up the monstrosity of a cat, and soon she was nuzzling him as Tristan fondly looked on.
How fucking sweet—the happy couple had a baby!
Now, seeing as I’d just become aware of the cozy love nest shared by the girl I was dating and the guy I was apparently lusting after, I didn’t have too much left to say to them.
“Don’t you like cats, Robby? Oh, no… you’re not allergic, are you?” Tristan held his breath, waiting for my answer.
“No, no, cats are fine. I’m fine with cats.” That’s about all I was fine with in this apartment, though. I stood up.
Tristan, Savannah, and Runaway all leaped to their feet (and paws) as well.
“Where are you going?” Tristan looked alarmed.
“I thought maybe we could all watch a movie together.” Savannah did her best to catch my eye, but I was having none of it. “I rented You, Me and Dupree—Owen Wilson’s in it.” I needed to go home, to be alone, to think this fucked-up shit over.
“I, uh, have to go, um, to my sister’s for breakfast, like, real early… the breakfast is.”
Those brown eyes fell softly on me; I could almost feel their weight. But still I focused my eyes on the door.
“It’s early, Robby. Stay a while.” Tristan and those fucking gorgeous eyes moved between the door and me. But I shoved past him and didn’t glance back to see the hurt on his face.
“I said I had to go.” And I was out the door.
Chapter 7
Robby
WORK was dragging. And Mikey was driving me fucking crazy, whining about how “frigging starving” he was. Christ, his mother owned an Italian bakery. That spelled free food too, didn’t it?
“You oughtta take me out to dinner, seeing as I charmed that old hag of a veterinarian into spilling the name of the contractor who they were gonna hire to do the addition.”
“You did a good job by getting that information, Mikey, but Dr. Peverly isn’t exactly an old hag.” I’d long thought that comments like this one about Dr. Peverly came from Mikey’s misguided attempts at being funny. It crossed my mind that I’d been giving him way too much credit.
“Well, she sure ain’t no cougar. I wouldn’t do her unless I was drunk or high. Now, ’bout my dinner….”
I didn’t tell him to shut the fuck up and take what he’d said back about the good doctor. No, instead I just bent my ass right on over, figuratively speaking, and made myself an easy target. DeSalvo was about to con me into buying him yet another meal. I stopped for a second to wonder if it still counted as a con if I was fully aware that it was happening to me. That was when the brilliant idea hit me. “All right, Mikey, dinner’s on me, but I’m choosing the restaurant.”
“You ain’t gonna take me to the Burrito Shack again, are you? I swear last time I got food poisoning.”
Shaking my head, I replied, “No burritos tonight. How does Michael’s on the Waterfront sound?”
“Shit! You got yourself a dinner date, Dalton.” He was already rubbing his belly in anticipation. “Your treat, right?”
“It’ll be on the company.”
Mikey was definitely not one to decline a free meal. “Well, what are you fucking waiting for? I’ll drive, that way we’ll get there in half the time. You can call on the way over so they have a table ready and waiting for King Michael DeAmazin’.”
I managed to laugh, but it came out sounding more forced than usual. Whatever. Tonight I was going to take a look at Tristan Chartrand when he wasn’t all wrapped up in his security blanket, who just so happened to be named Savannah Meyers. What kind of guy was he when sweet, loving Savi wasn’t around?
Tristan Chartrand was probably an asshole just like the rest of us.
I anticipated tonight’s dinner with much more than a simple yearning for fine seafood.
I’D TAKEN a few girls to Michael’s on the Waterfront over the past several years in my rather apathetic quest to get laid. Ironically, I was here tonight to check out a dude. But I managed to push that less than comfortable thought from my mind with great haste as I entered the vast and elegant establishment, which was located directly on the Boston Harbor.
Loosening my tie, I wandered around the regally decorated lobby, easily locating the bar, where Mikey had already started sucking down the liquid portion of his free meal while I’d parked the Jeep. “Finish your drink, man. I’ll go see about our table.”
As I made my way to the hostess desk, I pulled off my suit jacket and pushed up my shirtsleeves.
You’re merely treating a good employee to a well-deserved dinner, I told myself breezily. But the undeniable truth of the matter was evident in my darting eyes, my rapid breathing, and my sweaty palms. I was behaving like some schoolboy with a terrible crush, ever on the lookout, more than well aware that his beloved roamed the same hallways. Yes, I was on alert for any sign of Tristan Chartrand.
I leaned against the high mahogany desk where a pert red-haired hostess stood studying an oversized seating chart. “Hello, ma’am. I called about thirty minutes ago and requested a table for two under the name DeSalvo.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Ahhh, here it is.” Pointing to a spot on the chart, she batted her baby blues rather invitingly up at me.
But I wasn’t biting. “One more thing, I have this friend who works here and I wanted to know if we could be seated in his section, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. But I’d rather you not tell him I’m here. That would ruin the surprise.”
She nodded. “Yes, I see. Who is your friend?”
I leaned in toward her a bit more, lowered my voice, and cupped my hand over my mouth. “Uh, he’s a waiter. His name is Tristan Chartrand.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the hostess said with a tilt of her head and a flirtatious tug at her pearl necklace. “You’re going to have to speak up.”
“His name is Tristan. Tristan Chartrand.” I felt like I was yelling, but I was barely speaking at an ordinary volume. “Can you just seat us in his section? Please.”
“Tristan? Oh, God, he’s such a sweetie! I think there’s room in his section.” With a bob of her red curls, she picked up two heavy menus and said, “Follow me.”
As I walked in the hostess’s wake toward our table, I found myself glancing this way and that, checking to see if Mikey was…. Oh, okay, if I was going to cut the shit, I’d confess that I was scanning the restaurant for a certain tall, dark-haired man with sensitive, chocolate-colored eyes.
From the small corner table at which I was seated, I spotted Tristan’s perfect profile silhouetted against a spectacular view of the Boston Harbor, which was visible through one of the restaurant’s enormous picture windows. He was lowering a heavy tray of piping hot food onto a waiting stand, wearing the most (annoyingly) engaging smile I’d ever seen on a waiter.
It pained me to admit that Tristan looked fantastic. He was dressed in the typical waiter attire, but to it he’d added his own urban flare. His white oxford was tailored perfectly to fit his sleek frame, his tie was solid black and narrow and was tucked into his shirt between his third and fourth buttons, and he wore jet-black skinny jeans that clung to him in all the right ways. If I don’t say so myself.
Was the guy Euro? Emo? Homo? For a moment I speculated about his Metrosexu
al style.
After serving meals to the party of four by the window, asking them if there was anything further they required, and wishing them an enjoyable meal, Tristan looked up, and somehow directly into my wide-eyed gaze.
If I’d thought his smile was stunning when he’d opened the door to his apartment that night last week, well, all I can say is it couldn’t compare to the grin that spread over his lips right now. And before I knew it, he’d practically run over to my corner table. “Oh my God, Robby—you’re here!” He grabbed my hand right off of the menu on the table and shook it vigorously. “It’s so great you came here, man!”
So it had been established: Tristan was happy to see me.
I stuttered out my prepared excuse. “I-I’m here for b-business—to, uh, to m-meet with an employee.”
Tristan swiped the menus off of the table and grabbed my arm. “Well, you certainly won’t be sitting way over here. Come on!” He led me to a table for four directly in front of one of the huge picture windows. “This is much better.”
After seating me carefully, like I was made of fine china, he picked up the two extra place settings from the table.
“You really don’t need to go to this trouble for me.”
“This is no trouble whatsoever, Robby. I’m just so glad you chose Michael’s for your meeting tonight! Now listen, I want you to just relax, take in the view, and sip on your water; I’ll be right back with crackers and cheese. Oh, and let me put in an order at the bar for you while you wait for your associate.”
“Oh, well, sure. Grab me a Heineken, I guess.”
Just then, Mikey swaggered over to our new and improved table. “Nice spot, D-man. And by the way, I think that perky little hostess over there wants my meat ’tween her thighs.” He used both hands to create a disturbingly vivid visual image of exactly how he’d get that job done. I’m pretty sure I blushed in response.
Tristan’s eyes widened measurably at Mikey’s vulgar display, but he politely inquired as to what he could get my asshole coworker (my words) to drink and headed off to the bar.
As soon as Tristan was out of earshot, I admitted the truth to Mikey. “Our waiter—he’s the other man.”
“Come again, Rob-ster?”
“The waiter who just took your drink order. He’s Savannah’s roommate.”
Momentarily, an expression of genuine injury crossed Mikey’s face, which actually surprised me. “So, you’re saying we’re not here to celebrate my ‘job well done’ and we’re actually here to check out some fucking queer dude?”
I looked around us coyly to be sure no one had overheard Mikey’s latest verbal blunder. “Keep your voice down, DeSalvo. And remember, it’s still a free meal—and a damned good one at that.”
Mikey yanked his napkin out from underneath his silverware and dropped it onto his lap without taking his eyes from mine. “This is frigging bullshit.”
“Hey, man—”
“Just shut the fuck up, Rob. I shoulda remembered there’s no such thing ’s a free lunch. Or dinner. But I s’pose I’ll get over the pain once I taste the surf ’n’ turf.” He was definitely still pissed off, but at least he seemed willing to work with me on this.
For the rest of the evening, Tristan treated us like royalty. Now, I was there to do a job, to evaluate Prince Charming when Cinderella wasn’t in the vicinity, so although I was enjoying myself thoroughly (the food was magnificent and the service impeccable), I took mental notes on Tristan’s behavior. Over the course of our very extensive meal (Mikey was paying me back for the insult to his pride by ordering just about everything on the menu) Tristan showed his true colors. And it appeared that his inner shades were as glowing as his outer ones.
Tristan was consistently prompt, patient, courteous, efficient, and generous. His warmth and friendliness knew no boundaries. And he showed these qualities not only to Mikey and me, but to all of his other customers, each and every member of the restaurant staff, and even to a random little old lady who dropped her cane on her way to the ladies’ room.
Three baskets of rolls and butter (I actually thought Tristan was going to butter my roll for me). Humongous salads, extra dressing, even additional croutons (I’d merely mentioned to Tristan that I liked the croutons, and he’d gone and returned with a soup bowl full of them). Enormous dinner portions (so huge I found myself avoiding the envious stares of other diners).
Mikey and I were treated like kings, which didn’t stop my partner in crime from behaving like a complete asshole. When I introduced him to Tristan, Mikey refused to raise his eyes from his seafood chowder long enough to say hello. But he did manage to inform Tristan that his last drink was “way too frigging weak”, and could he please tell “that fucking barkeep to stop being such a cheap prick wit’ the booze.”
“I am so sorry, Mr. DeSalvo. I’ll make your next drink myself,” Tristan responded with patience. I barely resisted the urge to insist that Mikey shut the fuck up.
And when Tristan came back with Mikey’s made-with-love-and-extra-tequila drink, he said so sweetly it made my teeth ache, “Now, let me get you gentlemen some dessert. I would highly recommend the cannolis—they’re amazing.”
Despite the fact that the eating machine sitting across from me was still salivating at the prospect of more free food, I politely refused. I’d finished observing Tristan. My question had been answered: the man was a virtual saint, whether or not Savannah was present. Plus, we were both stuffed to the gills. “No, thank you. We’re fine. You can just bring me the che—”
“We’ll take our dessert to go. Pack ’em up in a big box and don’t forget to put in some tiramisu.”
Mikey, Mikey, Mikey. I shook my head in frustration.
“That sounds like an excellent plan, Mr. DeSalvo. I’ll send the busboy over with your dessert when it’s all packed up. And Robby, there won’t be a check. You gentlemen are my guests tonight.”
Uh-huh. Saint Tristan of Somerville. “No way—just bring me the check, man.”
“This is my treat. Please, Robby, I want to do this.”
“I didn’t come here to suck a free dinner out of you!”
“Of course you didn’t.” Momentarily, Tristan appeared offended. His brown doe-eyes clouded over, and then briefly dipped to stare at the floor. But he recovered quickly. “You came here for a business meeting. And I want to show you how grateful I am that you chose Michael’s for your meal.”
Christ, Mikey and I had chowed down like two fucking pigs before the slaughter and it was all going to be at Tristan’s expense.
“Thanks a shitload, uh, Tristan. That’s your name, right?” Mikey was in top form tonight. “And, on second thought, can you stick a few slices of sweet pie in the box too? I’m having me a craving.”
I shot my dining partner an annoyed glare. Actually, it was more of a look to kill. Mikey smiled back at me innocently.
“Of course, sir. It’d be my pleasure.”
Both of us watched as Tristan headed off to the kitchen. And I didn’t waste a minute before I leaned over the table and asked my dinner guest in a scheming whisper, “So what do you think? Is he gay or not?” I waited for his answer with bated breath, knowing that this should not matter so much to me. It wasn’t as if I’d fallen in love with Savannah and my entire future hung on her pretty roommate being gay. Nonetheless, for some reason I wanted so badly for Mikey to bellow, “That boy’s as gay as a frigging spring parade!”
Sucking on his fingertips one by one, Mikey appeared to be seriously considering my question. Finally he replied, his tone nonchalant, “I sure’s shit don’t have a clue if that dude’s a faggot or straight as you and me, but I gotta say, he’d make somebody a frigging perfect old-school Italian wife. He lives to serve.”
And no, Tristan didn’t bring me a fucking check, but on the outside of the box from the bakery, he’d drawn a smiley face and scribbled, Give Savannah a call! T.
Chapter 8
Robby
AS IT turned out, Savannah calle
d me.
I wasn’t sure if getting together with her again was such a good idea, for a multitude of reasons. Nonetheless, here I was, bottle of wine in hand, standing at Savannah’s apartment door waiting eagerly for her to answer my knock, although my slumped shoulders represented my battle-worn brain. Violently conflicting thoughts had been doing battle there since she called last night, inviting me to dinner at her place. I was just so fucking torn, and not in the “I’m just not that into her, so what should I do now?” way I was accustomed to. No, I’d finally met a girl who was perfect for me; she was smart, committed to her own worthy causes, not at all needy. Well, not at all needy for me—I wasn’t certain precisely how much Savannah needed Tristan. And how much I wanted Tristan. Therein lay the problem.
As expected, she looked ravishingly beautiful. Savannah was one of those girls who seemed effortlessly flawless. Tonight was apparently “denim night.” A loose cowboy-styled denim shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a lacy bra-thing, torn denim jeans rolled up at the ankle and snug where it counted, hair pulled up tight into a high bun, and tons of homemade-looking beaded jewelry adorning her wrists, neck, and bare ankles. I was happy with my jeans and white T-shirt choice for tonight. It was going to be a casual dinner.
“Robby.” She always said my name in this certain way I couldn’t exactly put my finger on. It was kind of like she was partly saying hello or good-bye, depending upon the circumstances, partly giving me a little pat of approval and partly just barely tolerating me.
I leaned in and gave Savannah a quick kiss in an attempt to assure myself that it was strictly the “hot chick” I was here to visit. But I couldn’t help glancing around to see if we had an audience.
“He’s not here,” she said mildly as if in answer to a question. “Tris has to work tonight.”
