The Last Drop

by Layla Reyne

  “That’s what all the banging was about this morning?”

  Greg cast his gaze aside and pushed food and water toward Tony. “Didn’t want to spook you.”

  Tony’s fingers closed around his wrist. “That’s not what’s going to spook me, New Orleans.” His fingers ghosted across the inside of Greg’s wrist, and Greg nearly broke his promise again. Tony released him before he could pounce. “You don’t have to carry that shit alone. We’re partners in this, yeah?”

  Greg gulped down his glee at hearing Tony’s words and wrangled his emotions into a nod. Then drowned them in meat and cheese. Tony seemed to do the same, attacking his burger with gusto. He let loose a pleasure-laced moan that had Greg rounding the island, needing to hide his body’s reaction. Fucking hell, what was he thinking? How was he supposed to keep this professional? He more than respected Manhattan’s professional prowess, but all that competency, watching him work today, was seduction in and of itself.

  Greg took another bite of burger. Focus on the food, he coached himself. Not the handsome hipster an arm’s length away with grease running down his chin, over fingers he’d like to— Fuck! He needed to cook, needed to distract his mind and his hands before they reached out and grabbed what he wanted.

  He made quick work of the rest of his burger, washed his hands, and grabbed his chef’s coat off the wall peg. He snagged the apron beside it and tossed it to Tony. “You might have to size this down a bit. Dad is even bigger than I am.”

  “Cooking family, then?”

  “Everyone but my mom.” He shrugged into his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “She says she thanks God daily for blessing her with a husband and son who can cook.”

  Tony laughed all the way to the sink.

  Greg dumped their boxes and made space for them to work. “How long do you need for the first drink?”

  “Five minutes or so,” Tony said as he donned the apron. “I think this one will be quick.”

  “Okay, I’ll follow your lead and do something quick as well.”

  Five minutes later, Greg was sipping a divine twist on the French 75, while enjoying endive leaves stuffed with duck rillettes and topped with a drizzle of honey.

  “This is amazing,” Tony said around a bite.

  “As is your drink.”

  “I saw the lavender this morning, and it reminded me of all the purple and yellow around here.” He flicked his fingers at Greg’s LSU tee. “I wanted to riff on that.”

  “It’s the right vibe to go with something like this.” He lifted another duck-filled leaf. “Simple, yet elevated. A twist on a classic and a tribute to local ingredients. What are we calling it?”

  Tony licked the honey off his fingers, and Greg had to force himself to concentrate on the hipster’s words. “Twisted French?”

  “Uh-huh.” Greg finished his last bite and returned the torture, pleased and amused by Tony’s strangled noise and quick redirect toward the crate of oranges. Greg was rubbing his hands together when Tony turned back around, and that only made Manhattan blush harder. Maybe Greg wasn’t the only one operating with a semi. He gave them both an out, equally encouraged by their culinary progress. “What’s next?”

  “This one might take a little longer,” Tony said. “I’m still working it out.”

  “Sounds good. I’ve got a couple things I want to get started, a few sauces for you to taste that I’ll use on pork. A Drambuie glaze for ribs and a mojo for pork shoulder. I think they’ll go well with the flavors you bought.”

  Tony paused and the look of wonder he gave Greg was downright intoxicating. “The flavors I bought. Not the food.”

  Greg snatched an orange from the crate and tossed it in the air. “I see the fruit first, of course. It’s the word association we’re taught first. But a split second later, I think about the flavors, which is the association I obsess over. Take this guy.” He tossed it in the air again. “Tart, citrusy, but with an undercurrent of sweetness, a berry flavor almost, that other varieties of oranges lack. From there I think about what will balance that out or what will bring out more of the unique flavors.”

  Tony was smiling and nodding. “That’s why I picked up the elderflower. Add the prosecco for a spritz, maybe also one of the more herbal gins to round out the sweetness but keep it fresh.”

  “I can also use the fruit for a vinaigrette. Pair it with bitter lettuces and a pungent cheese to balance out the dressing and the drink.”

  Tony’s smile widened. “Fuck yeah. This is totally gonna work.”

  Better than they both anticipated, if Greg had to bet.

  “This isn’t what I ordered!” Greg’s voice reached Tony’s ears over the whirring fan of the temperature-controlled wine closet and over the sultry notes of Adele filling the pub. “You sent me glass shelves. I ordered hammered copper!”

  In the two weeks they’d worked together, Greg frequently got loud, but it was always with excitement. Boisterous was an apt adjective for the big man. Before today, Tony had never heard Greg’s voice raised in anger, his drawl brimming over with frustration and disappointment.

  He settled the last bottle of Grenache in its wooden cubby, stepped around the case boxes littering the floor, and popped into the dining room to see what was going on.

  Greg stood behind the bar, glaring at two cardboard boxes lying open on the bar top. “I’ve got custom gaps in my mirrored backbar wall where copper plates and shelves are supposed to go.” As if the person on the phone could see him, Greg lifted out an L-shaped piece of glass, rotated it, and held it up to one of the gaps. “These are glass, and they don’t fucking fit. Where are my shelves?”

  He was right; there were four to six inches of wall showing below the glass L-shelf, right where the wider copper plate and shelf should have fit instead. The large backbar mirror and backing brace had been custom designed and cut with beveled openings for the staggered shelves, which would hold different types of liquor. Hammered copper shelves, which had been custom ordered to match the copper Haven etched in the stained-glass transom above the front door.

  Tony glanced back and forth between the two—the gaps in the wall and the stained-glass window—racking his brain for a solution… and finding it in the kaleidoscope of light cast by the transom. It could work. In fact, it could amplify the haven message he and Greg wanted to project for Dram, maybe even better than the original design.

  “Portland! What the fuck are they doing in Portland?” Greg’s knuckles blanched around the edge of the glass shelf he held. “When can you get them here?”

  Expecting the worst, Tony hustled behind the bar and laid a hand on Greg’s back, making his presence known. With the other, he tugged the glass shelf out of Greg’s hand.

  Just in time.

  “Eight weeks?” Greg shouted. An angry blush streaked across his cheekbones all the way up to the tips of his ears. “I can’t wait eight weeks. I open in four… No, don’t put me on ho—Fuck!”

  Tony carefully laid the shelf back in the box—they’d need it; they’d need all of them—and skirted under Greg’s raised arm, around to his front. “Hang up the phone, New Orleans.”

  Greg stared at him like he’d just suggested pairing Cabernet with caviar. “I waited fifteen minutes to talk to a human. I can’t hang up now.”

  “Hang. Up.” Tony grasped his bulging biceps and tugged it down, pulling the phone away from his ear. “I’ve got an idea. I think we can make it work.”

  Frustration bled into panic as Greg waved a hand at the boxes of glass. “But this isn’t the design. Those pieces don’t fit.”

  “You’re right, they don’t.” Tony placed his hands on Greg’s chest, aiming to calm him. Distract him, if nothing else. Never mind how solid, how warm the hard muscles were beneath the chef’s threadbare tee. Never mind how much Tony would like to see and taste that chest again, run his tongue over darkened nipples and faded ink, bury his nose in the crease between thigh and groin and smell—Greg’s sharp inhale yanked Tony out of the fanta
sy, out of the chaos heating his own blood and back to the chaos that needed avoiding here. “I can make them work,” Tony said. “Maybe even better than the copper. Do you trust me?”

  Dark, anxious eyes stared down at him, a plea in them that Tony was desperate to answer. More than anything, he wanted to help this kind, talented man make his dream come true. A dream that was also becoming his own. Tony swallowed down that fearful thought and held Greg’s gaze.

  A giant breath later, Greg ended the call and tossed the phone between the boxes on the bar. “I trust you.” He covered Tony’s hands, holding them against his chest, and lowered his forehead to rest against Tony’s. “I just wasn’t expecting the eleventh-hour setback.”

  “It’s a restaurant opening. Where have you been?”

  Greg chuckled. “I know. We’ll probably have another hiccup or twenty before eleven fifty-nine. I just want this to be perfect.”

  Tony drew back before the warm breath skirting over his lips tempted him closer. “I know you do. So do I.” Greg’s hopeful, trusting gaze tempted him still, almost enough for Tony to make the first move, but he stopped himself. Barely. One hurdle at a time. He took another step back but left a hand in Greg’s, tugging him away from the near-disaster and out from behind the bar. “I can fix this if you’ll come with me.”

  Greg’s roughly uttered “Anywhere” was the most tempting torture of all.

  Chapter Seven

  Greg was seriously regretting his promise to not make the first move. To not reach out and touch, to not taste, to not bend Tony over the bar and take him with his cock that had been half-hard every day since Tony had walked through the damn door.

  Every day working together had been heaven and hell. Close quarters in which to watch Tony’s nimble fingers mix cocktails, his lean muscles bunch and stretch whenever he shook a drink, his brows furrow and long lashes lower as he concentrated on recipes. The thoroughness with which he walked the bar staff through his bible, the patience he exhibited when explaining the suggested pairings to the servers, and the care he showed to Greg’s kitchen staff making sure they were always apprised to any changes and stocked with the non-alcoholic drinks they needed while working, only proved the kind of man Tony was, on top of all that talent and sexiness.

  Absolute torture.

  It wouldn’t last long. A thought Greg kept reminding himself of because this—working with and being around Tony—felt more right every day. Especially as they neared Dram’s opening and things kicked into high gear. One week until they ripped the brown paper off the front windows and soft opened for the critics. A week later, they would open to the general public.

  “Hey, Earth to New Orleans.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Greg snagged another bottle from the box—Craneo Mezcal—and passed it to Tony, who was halfway up the ladder stocking shelves. Eyes lifted, they drifted to Tony’s ass in another pair of snug fitting cargo shorts.

  “You’re checking out my ass again.”

  “Do you have any idea how good it looks? And where the fuck did you find cargo shorts that tight? Kind of defeats their purpose.”

  Tony threw him a wink. “Depends on the purpose.”

  “Cheeky, Manhattan.”

  “Yes.” He grinned and added an extra wiggle of his ass as he descended two ladder rungs. “Next bottle?” he said, hand outstretched. “Should just be the Appleton Joy left.”

  With a barely restrained growl, and the barely restrained desire to launch himself at the gorgeous asshole who’d become his friend and right hand, Greg handed him the squat bottle of aged rum. “Yep, that’s the last one.”

  Tony scaled the ladder a final time, up to the top shelf where he placed the rum, then climbed down a step and leaned back, balancing on one foot. “Not too bad.”

  “Not too bad” was an understatement. The bar was everything Greg had wanted. From the hand-assembled bar, to the cocktail menu Tony expertly crafted, to this amazing display and the bottles in it. An understated and limited collection—spirits carefully chosen by Tony for their contents and bottles, works of art in and of themselves. And beneath each glass shelf, in that space that had nearly given Greg a heart attack, were mosaics of stained glass, the color denoting the spirit, and arranged across the wall to form the overall impression of a rainbow. It was subtle and understated, but a clear tie to the stained glass above the door, and as Tony had predicted, an amplification of their message. New Orleans’s LGBTQ community was welcome here. A safe haven in which to gather, to celebrate momentous occasions, to meet the person of their dreams. Like Greg had nearly a year ago in a different bar. The man who’d come up with this idea and worked it so seamlessly into Greg’s vision for Dram, bringing it all together, like Greg knew he would.

  He laid a hand on Tony’s calf. “It’s gorgeous, baby.”

  Maybe not the best thing to do or say with Tony balanced on one foot, on a ladder. The bartender wobbled, foot slipping, arms flailing, and the next thing Greg knew, his arms were full of hipster. His nose full of the smell he hadn’t been able to shake for months—bergamot soap, sweat, and charred whiskey barrels. He leaned forward to take a taste—Tony’s neck was right there—but stopped himself just shy of lips hitting skin. “I’m sorry, I just…” He lifted his head and looked at the bar, rather than at the man whose face was achingly close to his. “It’s perfect.” Warm breath washed over Greg’s temple, nimble fingers curled around either side of his neck, and Greg gave in a little, glancing back at Tony. His black curls were wild, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes were the color of the rum he’d just handled. “You’re perfect.”

  Tony shifted in his arms, bowing his back and gliding his hands higher to cradle the back of Greg’s head. Tony brought the corner of his mouth into teasing contact with Greg’s. “Fucking hell, New Orleans, just kiss me already.”

  First move made, Greg was happy to make the next, sealing their mouths in a kiss that sent lightning spiraling through his body, the strikes brightest in his heart, gut, and dick. He wanted this perfect man more than he’d wanted anyone. Right here, right now.

  Tony obliged, wrapping his arms around Greg’s neck and rocking a thick erection against his middle. Greg grasped his ass harder, spreading his cheeks, and Tony groaned. Not missing an opportunity, Greg dove his tongue between Tony’s parted lips, tasting and tangling, claiming what he could now that Tony was back in his arms.

  Mouths still greedily devouring, Greg spun and set Tony on the bar top. Stepping between his dangling legs, Greg dragged his hands up Tony’s thighs.

  Tony broke the kiss on a gasped curse. “Fuck, I missed those hands.”

  Greg would have snuck them under Tony’s shorts if they weren’t so damn tight. But the snugness made the erection straining behind the zipper all the more impressive. Greg framed it with his hands, thumbs teasing the crease of Tony’s balls and the length of his cock.

  Keening, Tony braced his arms behind him and arched his back, thrusting Greg’s direction. Greg spread his legs farther, leaned down, and mouthed his cock through the material on either side of the zipper. “Still pissed I didn’t get longer with you that night.”

  Tony’s arms began to slip, his lower body writhing. “Please. Just fuck me. Now.”

  “You’re not getting off that easy, Manhattan.” Greg moved to Tony’s fly, unbuttoning and unzipping, and nudged his shorts down enough to repeat his earlier motions over the fabric of Tony’s briefs. It was his turn to tease, to tempt, to torture. He was gonna love every minute of it, and Tony would too. He nudged under Tony’s cock, gave his balls an open-mouthed kiss through the cotton, and blew hot breath across his taint. “I’m gonna eat you out.”

  Tony shivered. “Fuck…”

  Greg moved back up and nipped along Tony’s cock. “Then I’m gonna suck your cock.”

  Whatever Tony mumble-groaned was unintelligible.

  “And then I’m gonna fuck you.” Greg grabbed the backs of Tony’s knees, yanked him forward, and thrust his own hips up, his rock-
hard cock notching against Tony’s taint. “Right here on our bar.”

  Through the haze of lust, it took Greg a moment to realize Tony hadn’t reacted the same way to that last promise as he had the others. The muscles under his hands were stiff, the groans and pleas had stopped, and when Greg looked up, Tony’s gaze was cast aside, his face turned away, like he no longer wanted to witness these proceedings.

  Greg instantly righted himself and stepped back. “Baby…”

  As if the spell-turned-nightmare had been broken, Tony wrenched himself up and off the bar. Greg caught his wrist, stopping his retreat toward the exit. “I’m sorry,” he said to Tony’s back, the other man not turning around. “Whatever I said or did, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  Tony shook his head. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” He turned, and the deep sorrow and sadness in his amber eyes made Greg stumble back a step, then forward two, wanting to comfort. Tony, however, held up a hand, and Greg halted. “You’ve been wonderful,” Tony said. “Dram is going to be wonderful. But I think it’s time for me to go.”

  Greg’s insides twisted like a pretzel. “Please don’t—”

  Tony cut off his words with a kiss, gentle and fleeting. “I’m sorry, New Orleans. I can’t do this. But you can. Number four is going to be the one.”

  Greg was still speechless, and freshly hopeless, as the door swung shut behind the man he no longer wanted to do this without. His one.

  Chapter Eight

  The phone rang, and Greg lunged, snatching it off the bar top and checking the caller ID. His heart fell. Not the call he wanted. Fast on the heels of disappointment careened guilt for ever dismissing a call from his best friend.

  “Hey, buddy,” he answered, feigning nonchalance.

  Not well enough. “Uh-oh, what’s wrong?” Miller asked.

  He could lie, or he could tell the truth and talk this out with someone who knew the stakes, better than most. “Another fucking hiccup.” Not quite eleven-fifty-nine but close enough.” He ran a hand over his head as he wove through the pub tables. “I fucked up, Miller. This is going to fail.”