Hottest Heat Wave
Page 32
Ethan rose too and accompanied her to the trailer’s detachable front stoop. “Ten thousand dollars is an exceptionally generous donation,” he told her. “At the risk of sounding ungrateful…how shall I put this? Are you quite sure?”
“He was most insistent,” the Mysterious Benefactress told Ethan, patting him on the cheek. Her eyes suddenly went wide. “I mean I, of course. I am most insistent.”
“Thank you very much,” Ethan said. “Let me get you a receipt.”
“Oh, don’t bother,” she said, waving off the suggestion. “I’d only lose it.” Swaying on her towering heels, she hurried across the uneven asphalt to an orange moped. She pedaled it for several yards until the little motor kicked over, then swiftly arranged herself sidesaddle on the leatherette seat, and, with a wave, tooled away down the hill.
* * * *
“You’re an idiot. You know that, right?”
Spencer had been mildly surprised when his doorbell rang in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, and flabbergasted to behold that it was Ethan of all God’s children who had rung it. He was elated at the sudden and unexpected prospect of a second chance with the beautiful big lug, but if it was only a second chance to be scolded for acting like an asshole, he’d just as soon skip it; he got plenty of that from his dang self every day. But Ethan was very nearly smiling, so Spencer figured he could hear him out. He said simply, “Go on.”
Ethan made to hand him the cashier’s check. “Would you kindly inform Anonyma S. Donor that, while we are grateful for her consideration, the church is unable to accept her donation?”
Spencer laughed without taking it. “That’s the name he gave you?”
“I got the impression he hadn’t planned on being asked for one. Points for thinking on his feet, though.”
“Yes, very convincing.”
“For real,” Ethan said, pushing the check into Spencer’s hand. “What are you doing?”
Spencer clenched his hand into a fist to refuse the check. “Keep it,” he said.
“I will not. This is your restaurant money. You’da won it even if we had cheated.”
Not exactly a bludgeon; more of a swat. He wouldn’t stand on his own front porch and be verbally eviscerated for what he had already admitted was a mistake, but Ethan had certainly earned the right to a dig or two.
“I want you to have it,” Spencer said.
“Which is sweet,” Ethan acknowledged. “If a little nuts.”
“I know you need it.”
“Has your little buddy told you what a disaster area it is up there? You have no idea how badly we need it.”
“So take it.”
Ethan shook his head. “You need it, too. It’s your money, Spencer; it’s your chance. Open your restaurant.”
Spencer laughed and rolled his eyes. “Like anybody’s gonna come to my restaurant after last night?”
Ethan grimaced in sympathy. The Bone Lickers episode of Crosstown Smackdown had aired the night before. Francesca—who had been downright neighborly in real life, sending Spencer a colossal basket of baked goods and champagne with an effusive thank-you note that she may as well have printed on a red flag—had not been kind to Spencer in the editing booth. According to Yum!TV, he was a big bad gay Godzilla, stomping the pitiful town of Innocent Christians, roaring “Somebody bring me some water!” and “Where’s my sauce?” at the top of his voice. The camera cut to the same shot of Ethan’s dad histrionically covering his ears with his barbecue mitts every time the network slapped what Spencer thought was an unnecessarily harsh bleep over the word asshole, which he only remembered saying once, but which Francesca had taken great care to show him saying just before every commercial break. All of which was fine—it’s not like nobody ever ate at a restaurant run by a raving lunatic chef, as Gordon Ramsay’s banker could tell you, probably via e-mail from his glamourous Caribbean villa. Spencer was able to roll with the mustache-twirling entertainment value of it all until the last two minutes of the hour, during which a plainly stricken Ethan tells his father and their barbecue crew that the church is burning down. Francesca—who may have had nothing to do with any of it, Spencer understood, but he had no one else to blame—cleverly cut in some local news footage of the church, first on fire, then smoldering in the ruined woods, before she unveiled Spencer’s apparent response to the calamity:
“In your face!”
Twice she showed him saying it, then she cut back to his gloating “cheaters never prosper.” The subsequent shot of Ethan gamely fighting back tears as he scanned his phone for news—and he knew it was a shot taken completely out of context, at an unrelated time, in a different part of the park—made Spencer hate himself. He was a pitiless heathen monster; nobody in Southern Colorado would darken the door of any restaurant he would be fool enough to open except to throw eggs—eggs if they were lucky—at the people heartless enough to work for him. They hadn’t even rolled the credits when Spencer told Carter he’d decided to donate the prize money to Ethan’s church.
Carter, gaping in shellshock at the television, had simply patted Spencer’s knee and said, “Yeah.”
On Spencer’s front porch, Ethan rallied. “I mean, that show’s not exactly Game of Thrones,” he said. “It’s not like the whole world saw it.”
“Whatever,” Spencer said. “You were there, you know what happened, the actual order of events. You’ve tasted my food and you’ve had sex with me. Would you come to my restaurant after last night?”
“I see your point.”
“Yeah.”
“So have Carter run it,” Ethan said with a shrug. “People will line up to support that kid.”
“Yeah, cuz they feel sorry for him for having to deal with me in his life. Look, will you just take the money? There’s not gonna be any restaurant. I’m hoping if I shave the beard I’ll at least be able to go out in public without a little old church lady hitting me with her cane. I’ll use a fake name, get a job at Home Depot or someplace.”
Ethan laughed. “That’s the spirit. At least put the money in the bank. Open your restaurant next year. It’s not like they made you get ‘As Seen on TV’ tattooed on your forehead.”
“Why don’t you want the money?”
“Oh honey, I want it. I want it real bad, and I’m kind of blown away by the offer. It’s unbelievably sweet, Spencer, and hugely generous. But I want you to have it. I want you to open your restaurant. I want you to follow your dream. Come on, dude, what the hell kind of chaser are you? You think a fat guy would rather have a church or a restaurant to go to?”
That got a laugh out of Spencer, which got a smile out of Ethan.
“Can I give you half the money?”
“No, you cannot. We have insurance, we’re going to be fine. I need you to know I’m immeasurably grateful for the offer, but accepting it is out of the question.”
“Can I let you eat at my restaurant for free?”
“Only if you open it first,” Ethan pointed out.
Spencer nodded, chuckling. “Fine. Geeze. I’ll open a stupid restaurant.” He cocked his head, looked at Ethan sideways. “Why are you being wonderful? I was terrible to you.”
“You were,” Ethan agreed. He smiled gently. “But you’re not a terrible person.” Here he laughed. “Besides, what’s the point of plotting my revenge now? There’s nothing I could possibly do to you worse than what that show did to you last night.”
“So, what…” Spencer hazarded. “Do you think we might have a chance?”
Ethan shrugged. “We might. I mean, I guess we could find out, right?”
“Like if I asked you to dinner…?”
Ethan pretended to consider this. “I’d probably say yes.”
“I just came into some money,” Spencer said, at last taking the check from Ethan and slipping it into his pocket. “Sky’s the limit. Where you wanna eat?”
Ethan stepped forward and put his arms around Spencer’s waist. “I was kind of thinking maybe we could eat in.” He kissed Spence
r, then nibbled greedily at his neck. He moved his hands and gave Spencer’s ass a squeeze, hefted his cheeks and pulled them gently apart when he asked, “You got any of that sauce left?”
About the Authors
Drew Hunt
Fed up reading about the super-wealthy, impossibly handsome, and well-endowed, Drew Hunt is determined to write more believable characters. He lives a quiet life in the north of England and someday hopes to meet the kind of man he writes about. Visit him online at drew-hunt.co.uk.
* * * *
J.D. Walker
J.D. Walker likes to keep her stories short and sweet. A multi-published author, she is also a musician, artist, and lover of all things knit and crochet. Visit her online at lifebyjo.com/jdwalker.
* * * *
J.M. Snyder
In the past, J.M. Snyder worked with a variety of publishers and her short stories appeared in numerous anthologies. In 2010 she founded JMS Books LLC, and publishes exclusively through her own press now. Visit her online at jmsnyder.net.
* * * *
Jeff Adams
Jeff Adams is the author of the Hat Trick series as well as several M/M romance shorts and young adult titles. Jeff and his husband Will live in northern California, where there’s a peaceful environment to write. Visit him online at jeffadamswrites.com.
* * * *
Terry O’Reilly
Since retiring, Terry spends his time writing, working with animal rescue groups, walking his four dogs, and riding his Quarter Horse. Visit him online at terry-oreilly.com.
* * * *
Michael P. Thomas
Michael is a flight attendant whose passions include the coffee in France, the hundred-yen stores in Japan, and the men in Argentina. He lives in Colorado with his husband. Visit him online at misterstewardess.com.
* * * *
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!