The Holiday Toast Duo

by Nya Rawlyns

  Thanks to them, he had hope. He always had hope. The proof was just on the other side of the counter, chopping a red bell pepper for a salad.

  Earlier that evening, he’d tried hard not to do a double-take, to let his gaze rest squarely on each person in the classroom in turn. Make them feel welcome, at ease. It had been part and parcel of his job as head chef and owner, something he had to work at, that kind of bonhomie not coming naturally to him.

  There’d been smiles, titters, visible relaxing among the seniors. Then there’d been him … sandy-brown hair, wavy. A suggestion of a widow’s peak. Mouth wide, generous, with full lips, so tempting he nearly drooled. More hints … a five o’clock shadow, barely there. He wanted nothing more than to palm the square chin and deep dimple, to feel for himself if the bristles were harsh … or soft. He’d guessed soft, despite the man’s demeanor: uptight, prickly, wrapped in a cage of keep-away. Then he’d grinned and made his way to the front, the ladies jostling each other out of the way to provide room, their movements and postures all confirming “this is a nice young man.”

  He’d moved so his peripheral vision kept the man in his sights at all times. Watching him help the ladies, giving and receiving respect. When his instant obsession blanked, forgetting his own name, he knew … knew … he had to learn more, to get close. If he could.

  But he never expected this … sitting at the counter, talking about nothing much but not feeling awkward or pressured. Like old friends would do. Letting what wasn’t said be just as important as the words that passed between them. It was the kind of weight you bore with ease, like a comfortable blanket on a cold winter night. Like this night…

  Alan finished chopping the pepper. He shoved the lot into a neat pile next to mushrooms and cherry tomatoes, aligned precisely on the cutting board. “…so that’s how I learned to cook. Esther dragged me all over the place. Started when I was fifteen or so. When I finally admitted I was gay.”

  Jack chuckled. “Same here. Marie’s my older sister. She encouraged me to take home ec. Even signed me up for evening cooking classes. When Mom passed, I took over preparing meals. I kinda knew all along that’s what I’d do with my life.”

  Alan nodded. “You did good.” He smiled shyly, risking a quick glance in Jack’s direction.

  “Looked me up, did you?” Alan was chewing the inside of his cheek, looking taken aback at being found out. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. But yeah, it was good, right up until they shut me down.”

  “I know it’s none of my business… But, what happened?”

  Jack shrugged. “You know how they’re always telling you … choose wisely?” Alan nodded, listening as he arranged the salad greens in wooden bowls. Jack crooked his index fingers. “What they don’t tell you is how the hell you do that. I picked the wrong partner. Simple as that.”

  “Partner?” It was the tone of voice that gave him away. Alan was asking him if that extended to more than a business relationship.

  “With benefits.” There was no point in hiding it. Carmen had scratched his itch enough to satisfy his needs at the time. He’d stupidly assumed that had gone both ways. That he was wrong, dead wrong, wasn’t apparent until it was far too late. He stood up and moved to the other side of the counter. “Can I help?”

  “Sure. See what I have in the fridge for salad dressing. I should make fresh but I’m running low on EVOO. And if there’s a lemon in there, ignore it. I think it’s got issues.”

  The space was narrow, with barely enough room for one, let alone two six-footers. Jack eased past with a whisker separating the bulge in his jeans and the tempting hip blocking his right of way.

  “’Scuse…”

  “Sorry…”

  The fridge was a surprising French door version, taking command of the narrow end of the U-shaped kitchen. “Did this come with?”

  Despite the non-sequitur, Alan understood the question. “No, I replaced the original refrigerator after I moved in. Don’t much care if I live in a closet, but I do care about having adequate food storage.”

  For a studio apartment, the space was generous for a single person. For two it would quickly slip into cozy territory. He shut that thought down immediately and glanced behind him. Alan still had his head down, concentrating on the food prep area.

  “Good choice. Be nice if we had time to shop every single day for fresh ingredients, but…”

  Alan smiled. It lit the room and nearly sent his heart into defib. “Exactly. I have to work late. A lot. So I have to do most of my shopping on the weekends.”

  “Why’s that?” Jack extracted two bottles of dressing, a raspberry vinaigrette and a non-denominational honey mustard.

  “Most of our clients in my department are on the west coast.” He hunched his shoulders, enough to alert Jack that it was a sore point. Alan’s next words confirmed it. “Since I’m the only one who doesn’t have a family…”

  Jack muttered, “That sucks,” and shut the refrigerator door. He was about to set the bottles on the counter, when he glanced down at the trash can nearly overflowing with broken ceramic dishes. Late nights at the office weren’t the only issues facing his new friend. He decided to take a chance, to pry. It wasn’t usually his way, but for some reason, he felt compelled to learn more.

  He selected a shard off the top and asked, “Who was he?” That was a stab in the dark, but most people didn’t destroy every place setting in the kitchen just for the hell of it. That took anger, and lots of it, the kind that came during or after an argument. He poked at a few pieces, looking for blood on the chipped edges. If he found any, he was pretty sure it wouldn’t belong to Alan Liebowitz.

  Alan set the knife down, blade facing left, again the alignment precise and practiced. His lips quirked but not in a smile. Whatever had happened was painful to remember. Jack immediately regretted being so nosy.

  “Edward.” He swore under his breath, pointing to the piece in Jack’s hand. “That’s Edward. Or what’s left of him.”

  Reaching into the trash can again, Jack removed a large piece of what might have been a serving platter. “A little too floral. I can see why you decided to recycle.”

  Alan’s mouth continued to twitch, but this time the corner was in an uptick. He was close to smiling. Jack would give his left nut to see the man in a full-out grin. “Gift from my family when I got my own place.”

  “My sister’s got me in a four-poster with a quilt that’s got… Shit, I think they’re tulips. And goddamn wallpaper…” He shuddered.

  “Chicks with dicks.”

  Jack nearly choked. “Yeah, exactly right. God, they mean well and I love them to bits.”

  “…but they just don’t get it, do they?”

  “No. But it’s okay. They could all be like Ted…”

  “Ted?”

  “Brother-in-law. Homophobe central.” Except that wasn’t quite true. Jack placed the broken piece in the trash can and mumbled, “Sometimes I think he’s just jerking my chain for the hell of it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone, waved it in the air. “Gave me this.” He wondered if his face looked as perplexed as he sounded.

  Alan was facing him, wiping his hands on a towel. For the first time, Jack got a good look at the man’s eyes. They were sea foam, blue and green and stormy, if that was even possible. The glasses—with a thick, black, no-nonsense, I’m a professional frame—hid the luster of those mesmerizing eyes … along with a kindness and sheer niceness behind the rigid posture and semi-compulsive movements.

  The urge to pluck the glasses off Alan’s nose was overwhelming, as was the temptation of full lips now just inches away, that mouth begging to be kissed. Instead he managed to keep his voice even, pleasant. “They surprise you, don’t they?”

  “I like to be surprised…”

  Oh shit, oh shit, I want to…

  Whatever was happening ricocheted like energy bolts between them. Alan’s hands were clenched so tight his knuckles paled to parchment thin, the left hand b
arely scabbed over and raw. That caught and held Jack’s attention. Without meaning to, he reached for that hand and brought the damaged skin in closer, inspecting the tell-tale pattern, putting two and two together. There’d been more going on than just dishes slamming and shattering on the linoleum.

  Alan tried to pull away but Jack refused to let go. “Let me guess. Edward?” The man blushed to his roots. “Was it the wine?”

  “Curry.”

  “Ah. Well, almost as bad.” He’d gripped Alan’s hand, turning it to the light, his thumb gently running the moguls over bruised knuckles, pressure met with pressure. Bringing the wounded flesh to his lips, he murmured, “Can I ask a question, Alan?”

  “Anything.”

  “Is it over?”

  “It never started.”

  “Good.”

  Jack backed away, his heart hammering in his chest. They were moving too fast, even he could see that. All Alan had to do was twitch and he’d be in the man’s bed, taking, giving, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to feel those arms wrapping him tight, to spend the night with his head cradled on Alan’s broad shoulder, to know what it was like to experience more than just fleeting satisfaction.

  His belly clenched with greedy need, the roar in his ears unfamiliar and unsettling. How his pulse could hammer in his neck, yet leave him light-headed, his cock swollen to the point of pain and his ass talking lightning bolts of anticipation … none of that was remotely close to anything he’d ever experienced. Something was stripping the skin off his bones, laying him bare, flagellating him with so much lust he would swear he’d die of it.

  And one look at Alan’s face, at brows arched in dismay, mouth sucking air… He wasn’t the only one in the room about to be consumed, combusted, lost forever.

  The wall of wait, hold on, protect yourself, take it slow rose brick-by-brick. It was called good sense for a reason. The problem was … Jack was sick of being good, being sensible. It didn’t stop the hurt or the wanting. It did nothing to keep his emotions, his heart, from being savaged, no matter how much he tried to cage his feelings.

  “S-soup?” Alan’s voice startled him. It was tight, conflicted. He clearly carried bottled-up emotions that Jack wanted to uncork, knowing in his gut that once unleashed, there was violence and passion and just about everything he ever wanted for the taking.

  He understood passion, better than most. It was the single, most important ingredient he poured into every dish he prepared, pulling it from his soul, plating it with as much grace … as much elegance and style as he could muster. What he’d never experienced was how that might feel on the receiving end. When he looked at Alan, the man was exactly what he fantasized—a lover who could, who would pour his heart and soul into what mattered. His career. His avocation, his love for food. And maybe, just maybe, someone who might share a life with him.

  A man he just met, a perfect stranger. Intelligent. Charming. Drop-dead-gorgeous. Perfect.

  “It’s in the fridge, left side.” Alan swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. “Um, if you want it.”

  “I do … want it.”

  Thankful for the reprieve, Jack retrieved the container with the soup while Alan found a pot and a stirring spoon. The man backed away, keeping space between them, not so close as to assume intimacy, yet near enough that if the culinary gods and fate conspired, they had nothing but an eyelash of caution separating them. Jack was prepared to wait for that eyelash to blink. He prayed it wouldn’t take forever.

  Jack set the flame to low, stirring slowly, and enjoyed watching Alan’s twitchy efforts to appear normal when, in truth, nothing between them could ever resemble ordinary.

  He asked, “Do you have nutmeg?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Alan reached into a drawer, pulled out a grater, then found a sealed bag with whole nutmeg. “Will this do? I bought it a couple months ago, so it should still be okay.”

  “Perfect.” Jack inhaled the aroma of simmering cream of cauliflower soup. “Cumin?”

  “Of course.” He approached like a skittish colt, clearly not sure of his boundaries. “Does it need more half and half?”

  “I think it looks good.” Jack sampled it and smiled. “Just right as far as I’m concerned. It’s tricky getting the right balance, isn’t it?” He held back the grin of triumph as Alan sidled against him, bumping shoulders. “I think it’s warm enough. Why don’t you grate the nutmeg while I… Uh, you still have soup bowls?”

  “Oh fuck, no.” They both looked at the trash can.

  Jack laughed out loud. “Let’s call it camping in. Two spoons, one pot. Point me toward a trivet and let’s eat.”

  “I have mugs.” Alan said it reluctantly, offering the choice, just in case they’d both misread the situation. Jack had been down that road so often, it was easy to read between the lines.

  “I think I’d rather…” Jack gulped, then blurted, “I want to share it. With you.” He leaned in until their lips brushed, the touch so tentative it might never have happened.

  Alan whispered into his mouth, “I’d like that.” He stepped closer, his hand cupping the nape of Jack’s neck. “And I like this…” His tongue swept inside Jack’s mouth, probing gently at first, then becoming more demanding as their bodies drew together, hips and groins grinding in slow motion.

  Uncle Jack, how do you know it’s love? He’d had no clue how to answer his nephew’s question so he’d avoided it. Now the echo of that question dogged him. He knew about love, that passion and full devotion … for his family, his favorite recipes, certain tastes, aromas. Memories of good times and bad, the things that defined him.

  But in love? Ass over prick in fucking, balls-to-the-wall love? Right then and there, it tasted like sweet bell pepper and honey. It was awash in sweat and musk and testosterone amid the slick bouquet of lust. It was citrus tang and the cloying sweetness of desire. It was denim frying under the friction of cocks battling for release. It was the acrid bite of coppery iron as he claimed those full lips for his own.

  It was possession and sharing and wanting nothing more than right then. He didn’t need the promise of tomorrow, but he wanted it. Let tomorrow take care of itself, just so long as this man was part of it. Alan Randall Liebowitz … in his arms, saying yes.

  Uncle Jack … how do you know…?

  I don’t, Mark, I don’t… Damn it to hell, I wish I did, but I don’t.

  And Alan deserves more than that…

  That’s why this is wrong.

  If someone asked him how he found his coat or the door, let alone the stairwell leading to the street … he would have no recollection of doing any of that.

  What he did recall was sitting at the kitchen table, hot chocolate in a mug, with his sister standing next to him, her hand on his shoulder.

  “Do you want to talk about it, Jackie?”

  Did he? Was there anything to really say?

  “I screwed up, Sis.” I walked away. Like a coward. A loser.

  “Tell me…”

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “That’s not the right question, hon.” She sat next to him, took his hand, squeezed. “The real question is … do you?”

  “I dunno. Maybe.” He took the cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through a short list of numbers, looking for one in particular. When he found it, he tapped the screen and sighed. “Yeah, I think I do.”

  Chapter Five

  The Taste of Despair

  Ma or Esther? Both would still be awake. Alan cracked the laptop, found the headphones, plugged in and dialed. He could have phoned but he needed face-to-face.

  “Hey, Esther.”

  “What happened? Is it Mom?”

  “No, no, everything’s fine. It’s… yeah, fine.”

  “No, it isn’t. Spill.”

  Fuck, I can’t even lie.

  “It’s Edward, isn’t it? Is he gone? For good?”

  This was getting back to his mother, her sister, all the cousins. He’d place a
bet that by morning his phone would be melting under the sympathy calls and text messages. No one had liked Edward. Not even him. They’d be sure to point that out, as if it made a difference.

  “I’m so proud of you…” Yada, yada. “You’ll come here for the holidays. It’s not my turn, but Tony and me and the kids…” Blahty-blah. “G’night, sweetie. See in you a coupla weeks. Love…”

  He shut the computer down and wandered into the kitchen. The two bowls of salad sat limp and dejected on the counter. He picked at some endive, then gave up and stretched plastic wrap over the bowls. The soup was still simmering on low, the ratio of cauliflower puree to cream shot to hell. He dumped it down the sink and tried not to inhale the heady fragrance of nutmeg and cumin. Scents that would forever dog him, subtle reminders of him having driven away yet another…

  Friend? Sort of. Not lover, though. One smoking hot kiss with their tongues jousting for bragging rights? Nope. No way. Not even with his lower lip swollen and achy from being mangled into a bloody pulp and him sucking air, his prick ready to blow like Mount Eruptus and his ass on fire.

  He’d been ready to drop and spread his bum, right on the kitchen floor. Let Chef Jacques have his way with him, skewered and done to Pittsburgh rare. Bloody and raw and filled with hot, sweet cum.

  Footsteps on the stairwell had him racing to the door, yanking it open, nearly shouting, “Jack!” but it was his petite neighbor friend. Instead, he mumbled, “Oh, hi, Rae,” and backed away, embarrassed.

  Rae followed him into the living area, took her coat off and propped herself on the armrest of the couch. “Spill.”

  He sat on the edge of the sofa and braced his elbows on his thighs. That left him some latitude for brushing away the tears that threatened to breach the dam of propriety. He never cried, and he had no intentions of starting that night.

  “Sweetie?”

  That did it…

  “Do you believe in love at first sight, Rae?”

  “Oh hon, come here…”

  ****