by Nya Rawlyns
“Thank you, Mrs. McDonough. That was exactly right.” He looked at the afro and tried to recall her name. Total blank.
His chaperone came to the rescue once more. “It’s parsley, dear.” She looked at Jack hopefully. When he blinked in agreement, she smiled.
Thin Girl asked, “Can we try making this next time?” The other two turned up bright, doe eyes. Even Mrs. McDonough looked expectant. “The bear sauce?”
“Uh, sure. I guess.” Regret sprang like a hydra. He should have given the syllabus and class expectations, along with skill levels, more thought. It took years of practice to get it right. As a chef, he was still on the long side of fifty-fifty, but he knew a few short cuts that would produce credible results with the least amount of energy. Few students, other than his new aide, would know the difference. “I’ll make sure we have everything we need.”
“Cool.”
“Neat.”
“Fucking A.”
Mrs. McDonough huffed, “Well, it’s getting late and you young ladies need to be on your way home.” She wore a “now” expression that brooked no argument.
Jack waved them off with, “See you next week,” and watched with relief as they sauntered, hips swaying, down the aisle and out the door.
His rescuer flicked her eyes toward the back of the room. “Want me to check?”
Jack checked the laugh bubbling in his throat. Once a teacher, always a teacher.
“I’ll go out the back door, ma’am.” As he gathered up his materials, he ducked his head and muttered, “Thank you.”
The woman shuffled to the back of the room. At the door she paused and asked, “Where’s Alan? I thought I’d see him in class tonight.”
Where was Alan, indeed?
“I guess he’s busy. Or something.” Definitely “or something.”
“Well, when you see him tonight, tell him we were asking after him.”
Crap, busted.
That “we” was the entire front two rows of his distaff section of seniors taking his cooking class as a self-development course. On the county’s dollar. Alan was the local boy and news apparently traveled fast around the congregation and through his mother’s and sister’s networks that they were now more than just friends sharing an interest in all things gastronomic.
Not that they had wanted the relationship kept a secret, but they’d both learned the hard way to keep their private lives very private. Apparently his gaggle of teens hadn’t gotten that memo. Or if they had, it hadn’t sunk in.
Jack slipped into his van and cranked the engine over. It stuttered and growled its dismay, then caught, coughing, in the thin cold air. The valley had settled into a January thaw of sorts, with temps hovering above freezing at night and melting the piles of icy slush lining the large parking lot.
Wishing the thaw extended to his bedmate and, hopefully, one day his partner, Jack puffed words into the humid air. “At least I’ll have something funny to talk about tonight.”
Maybe. If luck was on his side. Or hell froze over.
Alan Randall Liebowitz had settled into being sullen and irascible and downright close-mouthed about everything. All the bright promise of the holiday had been tossed out, in one fell swoop. Now, nothing was on the table, nothing mattered any more. Nada, zilch. Especially their future.
Jack understood all too well what Alan was going through. It sucked. It sucked so bad there was major suckage going on morning, noon and night. And he couldn’t call in the cavalry because it was some kind of idiotic state secret, or a matter of pride. Like his mom and sister and all the rest of them would think any less of him. Wasn’t going to happen, but apparently Alan thought differently.
“I want my nights, back, Alan.” He put the van in gear and carefully backed out of his parking spot. “I want you back, Liebowitz. Just wish I knew how the hell to do that.”
The curly-haired redheaded pixie, their next door neighbor, pushed the entrance door open, then bounded up the steps and blocked his path.
“What’s up, Rae?” They weren’t normally on speaking terms, other than polite nods and the occasional knowing grin he’d get when they met in the hallway by accident. The walls between her bedroom and theirs were thin enough to fuel the young woman’s very active imagination. Tonight she clearly had her hackles up over something. And unless Alan had cranked a porn video to full volume, there was nothing going on she could complain about.
Glaring over the black eyeglass frames, she gave him a blistering scowl. “Maybe you should tell me.”
“Rae, listen. I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Keeping the exasperation out of his voice took effort. His gut told him he might need to keep the sprite on good terms. She seemed to possess the magic open sesame to get Alan to talk. He sure as hell wasn’t getting it done. He tried again. “Sorry. I guess you heard?”
After sitting on the top step, Rae scooted over, making room for him to park his butt. The metal runner on the edge was cold enough to nip at his thighs through the corduroy fabric. Shifting uncomfortably, he waited for her answer. One more blame it on Jacques Lambert wasn’t going to matter much in the big scheme of things.
A big sigh, then breath hissed through clenched teeth, and a blush bloomed up the side of her neck. Jack took note of the markers. Miss Rae was embarrassed, but apparently not enough to employ restraint and let the subject drop.
“That’s the thing.”
He waited. The pulse in his wrist bumped against skin once, twice, three times.
“The thing.”
The stairwell loomed invitingly. If he leaned forward he could roll ass over teacups and implode on the bottom. EMTs and concerned citizens could gather and nod sympathetically at his premature demise.
To the step below his boots, he intoned, “I’m really not good with kids.” Especially not with googly-eyed sixteen year olds, and not even with those just past the age of majority. Like Rae.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He girded his loins and licked his bottom lip. “You were saying about the thing.”
“The car was there when I got back from class.” He nodded, ticking off seconds in his head, praying Alan had fallen asleep instead of sitting up, waiting for him to come home so he could ignore one Jack Lambert, his lover and roommate.
He mumbled, “More like cellmate.”
Mercifully, Rae ignored him. “Yours wasn’t.”
“There.”
“Yeah.”
“So. Is that the thing?”
The stray thought that not having to deal with Alan-the-surly had merit warred with the fact he’d done nothing for days but pine for a touch, just one, from his lover.
Scratch that. He was horny as hell and what he really wanted to do was barge into that apartment, rip Alan’s clothes off and fuck him into next week. Hands clenching and unclenching until the skin stretched paper thin over his knuckles, he finally stole a glance at the small girl sitting next to him. Her eyes gave her away.
Quietly she said, “Yeah, that’s exactly the thing.” She took his left hand and cradled it in both her small ones. “I kinda figured something was up, you know.” She tilted her head in the direction of the emergency door. “Been so quiet lately.” The blush that had faded, returned. “There’s only so much you can do.”
He didn’t follow and said so.
“It’s small.”
“The room.” Jack pointedly stared at the girl. “You mean the bedroom, right?”
She coughed and turned away. “Yeah, the room. Right. I, uh, didn’t mean…”
“You were worried.” Teasing the kid was fun. It bought him some time. But it wasn’t fair to drag it out and make her more uncomfortable than she already was.
She grabbed at the lifeline. “Well, sure. He’s my friend.”
“Mine, too.”
“You aren’t making this easy.”
He took a deep breath and cut to the chase. “What did he tell you?”
“That’s the thing.” Great, ano
ther thing. “He wouldn’t tell me anything. He said he was working from home. Everything was fine.” She grimaced and made finger quotes. “Peachy keen. Who the hell says ‘peachy keen’ anyway?”
“Then what?” Jack could guess. Rae had more than just concern etching lines around her mouth. There were hurt feelings, too.
“He thanked me. Like I’d just delivered a bag of dog turd and he was being polite.”
“He blew you off.”
“Hell, yeah.”
“Welcome to my world, Rae.” He switched, grasping her small fingers in his larger hand, and squeezed.
“So what’s going on, Jack? Is he… Are you two okay?”
Since he had no answer to that, the lie came easy. “It’ll be fine, kiddo. I promise. It’s just a rough patch. We’re working on it.”
“What can I do?”
God bless the kid. She had a heart the size of the moon and then some. If he had a clue, she’d be one of the first he’d enlist in the save-Alan-from-despair brigade. But he didn’t, and so long as his lover staunchly refused to reach out to anyone, they were all going to have to be patient.
Jack relinquished the girl’s hand and stood up. As he reached for the door, she stayed his hand. “He’s not easy. But I guess you know that, don’t you?”
“I’m learning, kiddo.”
“He’s worth it, though.” Five foot nothing glared up at his six and change. He wasn’t about to disagree.
“I think so, too.” On a whim, he asked, “Any suggestions for me?”
“Other than apply for sainthood?”
He chuckled and watched her walk down the hallway toward her door. He might have been mistaken but he was pretty sure she whispered, “Fuck him senseless,” before ducking into her apartment.
Honey, I’m home…
Instead of the achingly harsh silence that had greeted him the last few days, elevator muzak played softly. Jack hung his heavy coat in the hall closet and set his boots on the rubber mat next to Alan’s trainers. Habit suggested he head for the bedroom to wake his lover up. Then he’d clean up the bottles of beer or whatever alcoholic flavor-of-the-day greased the wheels of woe-is-me. After that he would hold an argument with a brick wall and they’d retire, each to his own side of the bed. Next morning, rinse and repeat.
He wasn’t about to point fingers of blame. He’d gone through the same thing when he’d lost his lover and his restaurant business within a matter of a few weeks. It had broken his heart … for all of ten minutes. What was longer-lasting was the crushing burden of debt incurred from going bankrupt and the still unresolved issues with the IRS.
Like Alan, he’d dived into a bottle, self-flagellating over his misfortunes. The only selfie-thing he got right was the delusional part. He’d ignored all the warning signs, including a few pointed remarks from close friends who knew shit was going down and simply assumed he’d be smart enough to figure it out.
He wasn’t. He hadn’t been. Then or now. What he was smart enough to know was that it was time to make Alan confront his demons. There was no way they were going to get through it together when only one of them was willing to work on it.
He understood that their situations were different to some extent. Alan had been blind-sided. There was no getting around that. His ego and his wallet were taking huge hits. But it wasn’t the end of the world.
Still debating the best way to approach the subject, Alan headed for the kitchen alcove. It was a U-shaped area with the breakfast counter to the right and a line of appliances and cabinets on the left. The oversized refrigerator with French doors and bottom freezer stood at the end of the narrow aisle. It was, at best, functional and made sharing cooking duties a challenge.
Scanning the area for tripping hazards wasn’t on his priority list so encountering an electrical cord trailing across the linoleum was a surprise. What was even more a shock was finding Alan on the floor, his long legs bent with the laptop propped against his knees. It was open, the light flickering onto Alan’s chest and neck. Not his face.
It wasn’t immediately obvious what Alan was doing. His neck was stretched, the Adam’s apple prominent. Eyes closed, mouth pursed around…
“What the hell are you doing?”
Alan pointed to the counter. An opened jar of honey sat precariously at the edge. Jack gingerly handed it to his lover and watched with fascination as Alan coated the unnaturally large carrot with the sticky substance.
Voice like nails over a blackboard, Alan rasped, “Don’t worry. I peeled it. Cut off the stem, too.”
On a scale of one to what the fuck, that really hadn’t been his first concern. Without being obvious, he inhaled, taking in the rank smell of stale whiskey on Alan’s breath and a hint of musk. The musk did it, sending him into defcon three on the arousal scale.
The grunts and groans coming from the laptop were familiar sounds, adding to his dilemma. Porn. Most likely gay porn. As they said … curioser and curioser.
Get a grip, Lambert. This isn’t about you.
Like hell it isn’t.
Alan tilted his head, squeezed his eyes shut and slid the end of the carrot, the really thick stem end, into his mouth until it nearly vanished. Jack had trouble fighting off a gag reflex as he watched Alan deep throat a randy vegetable, his lips pursed and oozing dribbles of honey as it was sloughed off one thrust after another.
Before Alan turned another shade of puce, Jack grabbed the carrot and gently eased it out. He threw it into the sink, then secured the laptop and set it on the counter.
“Get up.”
“Why?” Great, surly Alan was back.
“I need to get into the refrigerator.” Reluctantly Alan stood and gripped the edges of the counter, swaying. Though it was obvious, Jack felt compelled to state, “You’re drunk. Again.”
Christ, I sound like Ted. Ted, my homophobic brother-in-law.
Alan rubbed his throat and grunted something unintelligible in reply.
“Why?” Jack pointed to the sink. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Alan mumbled, “Practicing.”
“For what?”
His lover crossed his arms over his chest, trying for belligerent but only coming across as sheepish. He spat, “If you must know … blow jobs.”
Jack opened the refrigerator, trying to buy time. He had a pretty good idea where Alan’s brain had decided to roost after too much liquor and too much time alone to mull over his problems. After finding what he wanted in the bottom veggie drawer, he held it out to Alan. “Use this. It’s got a better shape.”
“It’s a cucumber.”
“So? It’s better than a goddamn carrot.” He set the cuke in the sink and drew Alan into his arms. “Babe, it’s going to be fine. You’ll find another job.”
“Won’t.”
Jack drew Alan’s head into the crook of his shoulder. “What happened?”
“Nobody’s hiring.”
The unspoken mantra nobody wants me, nobody cares was a familiar ache he could share. Except it was no longer true.
“Somebody’s hiring. Somewhere. We’ll find it and if we have to move, then so be it.”
“I don’t want to fuck up your life. This is my problem, not yours.” Alan teetered on the edge of whining, but at least he was finally talking about it.
Tilting Alan’s head up, Jack lightly brushed his lips. “You’re right. It’s not my problem. It’s our problem. And we’ll do this together. Understood?”
Jack stared at the cucumber. “Just out of curiosity, what does a blow job go for nowadays?”
Biting back a grin, Alan thought about it. “I dunno, twenty bucks?”
Reaching for his wallet, Jack extracted two twenties and slapped them on the counter.
“Is that for one or two?”
“Two. It’s been awhile.”
Jack reached for the carrot and bit the end off, chewing slowly as he watched the sandy-haired geek he loved to distraction sink to his knees, making quick work of unzipping
the cords and dropping trou and boxers around his ankles.
“Fuck, it’s a good thing I practiced…”
CHAPTER TWO
The Stick
Weak morning light filtered through the gauze curtains. Alan glanced down at the man curled around him, snoring peacefully. He was tempted to smooth the unruly black hair away from his lover’s forehead and trace the brows with his thumb, letting them find the vee between dark eyes that puckered with worry far too often. That he was adding to the burden of Jack’s cares was something that festered in his heart, turning his attitude into a toxic waste dump.
Before, when his life had imploded, it was always about being dumped, or cheated on, or just flat out ignored. And why not? He was a near-sighted geek who dug numbers and enjoyed his job. It centered him, gave him purpose, balancing the columns, digging out the hidden data, being the right hand of God to the VP. He’d been the Golden Boy, recruited on graduation day. Eleven years building business cred, hitching his wagon to an up-and-comer MBA grad who up-and-went, leaving him stranded.
The new hire came with his own fan base. That meant Alan Randall Liebowitz got downsized, with a complementary visit to HR, a severance package worth a couple happy meals at Mickey D’s, and a crater where his self-esteem used to reside.
Now, instead of being the rock, the financial kingpin that would help Jack Lambert get his career back on track, he was the anchor sinking the ship. Or the hole in the bottom of the boat. Whatever metaphor he used, the bottom line was they were both screwed. Unemployment insurance only lasted a few weeks. It would pay the rent, put food on the table, but it wasn’t enough to support a dream or to make good on debts.
Too late he realized how short-sighted he’d been. Instead of advancing, he’d been a high level cubicle rat, oblivious to opportunities, ignoring the market. He’d fallen into the trap of being content. Unlike Jack, who had hungry down pat, he was the invisible cog in the machine, on one level bloated and satisfied. But there was another ugly truth he’d finally come to grips with, reluctantly. He was a man with no dream, slogging from one going-nowhere relationship to another. And without that dream, all he’d been doing was treading water.
