by J. M. Snyder
When he was sure it wasn’t going to go out on its own, he pulled the mesh iron curtain across the fireplace, then set the metal grate into place. He sat on the coffee table and sipped his wine as he watched the flames dance. They gave off a heady warmth, and were mesmerizing to see.
From the kitchen, Braden called out, “Almost ready, Dad.”
Remy moved from the coffee table to the edge of the couch. Lane was still asleep—his eyes were shut, his brow unwrinkled, his hair disheveled where it had been pushed up against the arm of the couch. The blanket covered his body from foot to chin. He looked so peaceful, Remy almost hated to wake him.
But the clatter of silverware in the kitchen set him into motion. “Lane,” he murmured, brushing a hand across his lover’s forehead. “Dinnertime.”
Lane stirred and rolled against the back of the couch, but didn’t wake.
Remy leaned closer and blew softly in his lover’s ear. “Lane,” he whispered again, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Lane’s ear. “Hey, babe. Time to get up.”
With a moan, Lane pulled the blanket up over his face. “Few more minutes,” he mumbled.
Remy smoothed down his hair. “Come on, lover boy. I brought you a glass of wine.”
The blanket folded down, exposing Lane’s eyes. He blinked sleepily and sat up a little. “Wine?”
Remy handed him one of the glasses. Lane sipped at it and sighed. “You should always wake me up with a glass of chardonnay. What’s for dinner.”
It was hard to keep the smile off his face. Remy said, “Guess.”
Lane sipped his wine as he let himself wake up slowly. “Hmm,” he said, settling back against the arm of the couch. “I saw you bought some steaks. And you started a fire. Are we grilling out inside?”
From the kitchen, Braden laughed. “Dad, that would be cool!” he hollered.
“No!” Remy said, before the idea could take hold. To Lane, he reiterated, “No. The steaks are for outside. We’re not grilling in here.”
“So we are having steak?” Lane asked, hopeful.
But Remy shook his head. “Guess again.”
Lane drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I smell some kind of meat. What is that?”
“You give up?” Remy asked. He no longer tried to hide his amusement; he grinned broadly. It was the wine that must have thrown Lane off. It suggested a much more elegant dinner than what he had planned.
Correction: what Braden had planned.
The look of confusion on Lane’s face was so cute, Remy leaned in to steal a quick kiss. “Tell me,” Lane said as Remy sat back.
“Well,” Remy drawled, “I’ll give you a hint. Braden’s cooking.”
Confusion turned to fear. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” Remy said. “This is one of his favorites. He calls it his speciality.”
He pronounced it the same way his son had earlier. Speciality, not specialty.
Lane nodded as if he were impressed. “Okay, I can’t wait to hear what this might be.” Lowering his voice, he added, “He’s what, eight, right? He isn’t like some little Masterchef Junior or something, is he?”
Remy rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It’s SpaghettiOs and hot dogs,” he replied in the same lowered tone. “But he’s really proud of the fact that he made it all by himself, so pretend you like it, okay?”
“I won’t have to pretend,” Lane assured him. “I love SpaghettiOs.”
Wrinkling his nose, Remy asked, “Really?”
“Best. Food. Ever.” Lane took a large swallow of wine and sighed. “And you paired the perfect wine with it, too.”
Remy wasn’t sure if Lane was putting him on or not. He thought maybe so—when had he ever seen Lane eat SpaghettiOs? Or anything that came out of a can, really. Lane was Mr. Fresh Fruit, Mr. Organic, and the one time early in their relationship when Remy made the mistake of putting a can of mushrooms in their shopping cart, Lane never let him forget it. “Bits and pieces?” he had cried, in a voice just loud enough to make everyone in the aisle look their way. “You call yourself a gay man and you eat mushrooms in bits and pieces out of a can? No. Just no.”
“They’re on sale,” Remy had offered. He didn’t mind canned mushrooms—he wasn’t exactly a gourmet when it came to food—and he really didn’t need Lane to broadcast his sexuality to everyone in the damn grocery store.
But Lane was adamant, and put the can back on the shelf with a solid thud. “No boyfriend of mine is eating fungus out of a can,” he said. “It’s fresh mushrooms, or we just stick with marinara on the pasta. We’ll pick some up when we get to the produce. We need tomatoes for the sauce, anyway.”
Remy had been afraid to point out that spaghetti sauce was also sold in a can, but he soon learned Lane liked it made fresh. It simmered on the stove all day and tasted wonderful, and after a few months, Remy started turning his nose up at canned food, too. He had only let Braden pick out the SpaghettiOs because he thought his son would like them for lunch now and then. He hadn’t expected to be served them for dinner.
Just to make sure, he asked Lane, “So you’re okay with eating this?”
Lane grinned over the top of his wine glass. “Sure. Everyone splurges at the holidays. I’m almost hoping that big can he wrapped up for me is a tin of popcorn. You know, the kind with three different flavors? Cheese, butter, and caramel? Yum.”
“Yeah, don’t get your hopes up,” Remy warned him. He clapped Lane’s leg through the blanket. “Come on, let’s eat.”
* * * *
Dinner wasn’t as bad as Remy had feared. Braden seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself, and grinned goofily every time Lane moaned, “Mm-mm!” While his son wasn’t exactly best friends with his lover—yet—Remy was glad to see that at least Braden had left his earlier attitude in the dust. He might not be chatting heartily with Lane, but he was no longer glaring and moping around Lane, either.
Still, some of the old emotions flared up when Remy poured the two of them more wine. “Do you want me to fill you up?” he asked, already pouring Lane another glass.
Lane arched his eyebrows and teased, “I’d rather wait until we’re alone.”
Braden looked from Lane to Remy, confused.
With a wink, Remy purred, “I’m not talking about later. Right now I’m just talking about wine.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Braden muttered.
Lane had raised his wine glass and was taking a sip when Braden spoke. Now he sputtered, wine dribbling down his chin, as he tried not to laugh.
Braden frowned. “What?” he asked. As Lane chuckled and cleaned himself up, Braden turned to Remy. “What’d I say?”
“Nothing,” Remy assured him. “Someone’s just being a little silly, is all.”
Braden’s eyes narrowed with distrust. “Don’t talk about me like that!”
It was Remy’s turn to be confused. “What? No—I’m not talking about you at all. I’m talking about Lane.”
Braden’s anger simmered just below the surface; he glared at his father as if unwilling to believe what he heard. “What about him?”
Remy nodded at his lover, still mopping wine off his chin and neck. “Look at him. He’s being silly, don’t you think?”
“You started it,” Lane growled, but he grinned and leaned over to kiss Remy’s ear. Before sitting back, he whispered, “I’ll get you back tonight.”
Lane’s wine-laced breath warmed Remy’s ear and curled inside, sending a delicious shiver along his spine. “You better.”
From where he sat at the end of the kitchen table, Braden watched the exchange, gaze flicking back and forth between the two men as if he were watching a tennis match. It took him a moment to work out what he might have heard Lane said, but the moment Lane sat back, Braden asked, “What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing,” Remy said again. He dove into the remaining SpaghettiOs on his plate and scooped up a huge spoonful. “Have I told you yet what a great cook you are,
kid? These are amazing!”
“They’re really good,” Lane added.
Braden puffed with pride. “I can make this and toast. Oh, and Mom lets me heat up Hot Pockets when we have them in the freezer. So what are you doing tonight?”
Remy and Lane exchanged a glance. Though it was quick, Remy saw lust smoldering beneath his lover’s handsome face, and he hoped maybe later, they would finally get a chance to connect on an intimate level. That was the real reason for this trip, after all, wasn’t it?
A faint smile toyed at the corner of Lane’s mouth. “We’re going to relax,” he said. “Isn’t that right?”
Remy nodded. “Yeah, relax. Glass of wine, a little cuddling in front of the fire, maybe something a bit more…relaxing in bed.”
“Ugh, bor-ring,” Braden announced. “Next time, make sure we get a TV.”
Next time, Remy thought, amused. At least it was a step up from yesterday, when Braden hadn’t even wanted to come along for the ride.
* * * *
Later, Remy’s idea of a relaxing evening came true. The heat was down, the fireplace roared, and the lamps on either side of the couch were off. The only light came from the flickering fire and the steady twinkle of the lights on the Christmas tree. Beyond the sliding glass door in the kitchen, the night was limitless and dark, a maw of black nothingness that pressed in on their quiet comfort.
Braden was in his room doing…well, something. Remy wasn’t sure what, and wasn’t about to say or do anything to remind him he wasn’t alone in the cabin. If he would just stay in his room for a little longer, maybe Remy and Lane might really be able to relax.
Which, in Remy’s mind, meant the two of them twined naked in the sheets of their bed. But first things first. A little foreplay in front of the fire, perhaps. Some hugging, some kissing, some more wine.
Remy brought the bottle with him from the kitchen. Lane was already settled on the end of the couch closest to the Christmas tree. He stared into the flames in the hearth and nursed what remained of his wine. Coming over to him, Remy held out the bottle and said, “Let me top you off.”
“Calling dibs on a position already?” Lane joked. “And here I was thinking it was my turn to top you.”
“I’m talking about the wine, babe.” Remy refilled Lane’s glass almost to the top, and poured the remainder of the bottle into his own glass. Sinking to the couch beside his lover, he snuggled in close and sighed as Lane draped a protective arm around his shoulders. “We killed two bottles in one night. If we keep drinking like this, I’m going to have to find someplace to restock that’s open on Christmas.”
He rubbed a hand over Lane’s thigh, then eased his fingers between his lover’s legs. Against the heel of his hand, a firmness began to form at Lane’s crotch. Remy leaned his head back on Lane’s shoulder and pushed gently in the V of Lane’s jeans.
His lover’s eyes closed. “Hmm,” Lane sighed.
“Like that?” Remy asked.
He was rewarded with a slight nod, and Lane slid down a little further on the couch, knees opening a little to let Remy in. With his thumb, Remy traced the seam in the middle of Lane’s pants, from the zipper down between Lane’s legs. When he came back up again, he felt a familiar hardness that excited him. Lane turned towards Remy, his head resting against his lover’s. Remy craned his neck to press his lips to Lane’s. Their kiss was tender, teasing, a promise of more to come. At Lane’s crotch, Remy caught the zipper with his fingernail and tugged it down slightly. He felt the pressure building beneath it and Lane’s moan of pleasure fill him as they kissed.
Suddenly Braden’s voice spoke directly above their heads. “Dad, do you want to play a game with me?”
Remy groaned in frustration as he sat back, removing his hand. Lane smirked and pulled his arm off Remy’s shoulders to hunch forward so Braden wouldn’t see him pull up his zipper. Turning, Remy stared at his son, who leaned on the back of the couch with his Nintendo DS clasped tightly in both hands.
“Can’t you play by yourself?” Remy asked.
Lane snorted into his wine—again.
With a glare Lane’s way, Remy warned, “Keep choking on it. Just because I bought it at Wal-Mart doesn’t mean it was cheap.”
Lane clapped Remy’s knee. “Down, boy. No reason to get pissy about it.”
Actually, Remy saw every reason to “get pissy.” Couldn’t they have two seconds alone without Braden barging in? To his son, Remy asked, “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“No school tomorrow,” Braden reminded him. “It’s Sunday.”
“Santa won’t come if you’re still awake,” Remy pointed out.
Braden shot back, “Santa won’t come tonight anyway. Tomorrow’s only Christmas Eve. Besides, he can’t come down the chimney if you have the fire going.”
“Then he’ll knock,” Lane said. “He has to make sure he gets in because he only comes once a year.”
“I’m beginning to feel his pain,” Remy muttered.
Undeterred, Braden skipped around the couch. He chose a spot between Remy and Lane, and plopped down half in his father’s lap, then wriggled until Remy moved over to make some room for him.
“You have to sit right there?” Remy asked.
Braden’s reply was innocent enough. “So you can both see the screen.”
But Remy wondered how old Braden would be before he could take a hint.
Chapter 12
Lane wouldn’t call himself a wine connoisseur, but he liked to drink a glass or two with dinner. It loosened him up, turned him on, and usually led to a little hanky-panky with Remy.
Of course, usually they didn’t have guests to entertain, friends or family. And here they were with Remy’s own son, Braden.
There was no real way to play any of his video games with him; Lane settled for sipping the last of his wine and watching Braden play on the tiny screen Lane himself could barely see. The more wine he drank, the blurrier the screen became. He knew Remy wasn’t holding his alcohol any better—whereas wine made Lane horny, it made his lover sleepy. Two glasses were the most they could have and still hope to come together in a climactic rush.
But this was the last of the second bottle, and every now and then, Lane glanced over to find Remy dozing on the other side of his son. Wine glass forgotten in one hand, chin fallen to his chest, eyes slipping shut. If Lane nudged his foot, Remy would wake with a jerk and blink as he looked around. Then he’d see Lane’s grin and smile himself, a little puzzled perhaps, as if he wasn’t quite sure what the joke was but he was sure it had to be a good one. He’d swallow more wine and try to focus on Braden’s game until his eyes started to close once again.
Since Remy was Braden’s father, Lane didn’t feel it was his place to put the kid to bed. And Braden was right—it wasn’t a school night, so he could stay up a little past his usual hour, only Lane didn’t know what time that might be. When he was Braden’s age, he had gone to bed after watching The Dukes of Hazzard, but almost thirty years later, he didn’t remember the time.
Still, it was getting late. Lane let the fire burn down low in the hearth and finished his glass of wine. He nodded whenever Braden asked, “See?” even though he really didn’t know what the kid might be talking about. At one point he stood and stretched, then used the bathroom—wine made him horny but also seemed to make him always need to pee. When Lane returned to the cabin’s main room, Remy was snoozing over the remains in his wine glass. Braden had turned off the video game and lay against his father’s arm, obviously tired, too.
Lane clapped his hands to wake them both up. “All right, kids. Time for bed.”
This time, Braden didn’t argue. He shook Remy awake. “Dad, hey.”
Remy started with a jolt. “I’m up,” he said, blinking as he looked around. Lane reached for his wine glass and Remy surrendered it without argument. He took a deep breath and stretched. “Okay, good. Your game finished?” he asked his son.
“Time for bed,” Lane said again. He drank dow
n the last bit of wine from Remy’s glass, then took it and his into the kitchen. “Remy, why don’t you help Braden get ready for bed?”
The kid was already in his pajamas, but he tugged on Remy’s hand to pull his father off the couch. “Come on, Dad. Can you read me a story? Mommy always does.”
“Did you bring any books?” Remy asked. His voice was thick with sleep, and he sounded as if he might just stretch out wherever he was and drop off again at any moment. “Lane?”
From the kitchen, Lane called out, “In here.”
Remy winked and pointed at him. “Okay, cowboy. Let me put this kid to bed, and then I’m going to rock your world.”
Braden stopped tugging on his father’s arm to ask, “What’s that mean?”
“It means bedtime,” Remy told him. Hands on Braden’s shoulders, Remy steered him into his bedroom.
Lane heard a thump followed by childish laughter and Remy’s muffled curse after knocking into something. “Shit! I’m okay.”
With a grin, Lane filled the sink with hot, soapy water and started to clean the dishes from dinner. He could run the dishwasher, but why bother? There was only the three of them. Soon the plates and silverware were drying on the dish rack, along with their wine glasses and the pots Braden had used to make dinner. For some reason Lane couldn’t figure out, there seemed to be too many—a pan with burn marks on it in the shape of the hot dogs, a pot with burnt SpaghettiOs crusted to the bottom of it, and another, larger pot that had SpaghettiOs sauce in it but otherwise didn’t appear used. The next time he made dinner, Lane would limit him to two pans. Or, better yet, not let him cook at all.
Lane heard Remy’s voice coming from Braden’s bedroom. No words, just the deep cadence of it, the flow of words as he read from whatever children’s story Braden had chosen. Lane wiped down the kitchen table, straightened the chairs around it, then moved into the main room with his washcloth to wipe down the coffee table, too. He knelt in front of the fireplace and, using tongs and a poker from the set of tools nearby, separated the logs to spread out the flames. It would extinguish quicker that way, and to help it along, he shoveled ashes over the larger pieces of wood. Then he closed the mesh curtain and shut the glass doors to block out the air. The screen went back in front of the fireplace, but by the time Lane pushed himself to his feet, the fire was already dying.
