The Holiday Toast Duo

by Nya Rawlyns

  Jack was curious about the “nothing special” comment but he had a pretty good idea what that was about. Same thing his sister and niece had been bugging him over. And he had less than two weeks to come up with a plan. As usual, he put it off by asking, “Balloons?”

  “Cousin Ernie. He’s in Bronx-Lebanon. Gall bladder. Remind me to pick up a card tomorrow.”

  Alan slid his cell phone back in his pocket and sauntered back to the couch. Jack sat down next to him and tried to keep his hands anywhere but on Alan’s solid body. Frustrated, tired, bored and nervous as hell about coming up with a PR coup for the college, he was willing to entertain a distraction, any distraction. Especially if it involved Alan’s full lips doing evil, wicked things to his…

  “Yo, Jack. Here it is.” He pointed to the screen on his laptop. “Cherry cobbler. Recipe’s been in the family since they came over on the boat. Mom’s adapted it for slow cooking. What do you think?”

  Think? What’s thinking got to do with it? Jack choked out, “Can we, uh, look at this another time?”

  “Nuh-unh, Lambert. Work now, fuck later.”

  “Promise?” He fondled Alan’s growing erection. Of all the things on his menu, later wasn’t one of them.

  Muttering, “Oh crap,” Alan straddled his lap, rotating his hips suggestively.

  Jack whispered, “You keep doing that, Liebowitz, and I’m going to have my way with you.”

  “And exactly what’s your way, Lambert?”

  Before he could answer, his lover palmed his head in a vise grip and nipped at Jack’s mouth, driving it open for an aggressive assault. With his head tilted back, he relaxed into the possession, letting Alan take control. His heart stutter-stepped with the need to give it all, because whatever he had, whatever he was, it belonged to the bespeckled geek fine-tuning his body into a crescendo of lust.

  “Bed. Now.”

  Jack grinned. “Christ. I love it when you go all alpha on my ass.”

  “Just your ass? Maybe I need to work harder to raise your standards, Lambert.”

  Somehow Alan steered them into the bedroom, stripping them both and driving him onto the mattress. Alan’s mouth and his hands were everywhere, setting his skin on slow burn. Turning his head so Alan could worry at the tender flesh along the length of his neck, Jack shut out everything but the scent and feel of his lover.

  Thumbs traced along the line of his chin, pressing up and back, amid the song of surrender and the echoing grunts as Alan drove them both into a space that belonged to them alone. They seemed to crawl inside each other’s skin, ripping and tearing, every thrust a jolt of pleasure and pain until he lost his point of reference and the tension built at the base of his spine.

  Rearing up, Alan fisted Jack’s cock, stroking to a primal beat only they could hear, and the grunts of ‘Unh, unh,” rang out as Jack grappled with the sheets, hanging on, sweat and spit and cum and the slap of flesh cutting the air in a symphony of voices in coital harmony.

  Alan braced his arms on Jack’s shoulders, his chest heaving, pulling in great gulps of air. Sweat dripped off his chest, hitting Jack’s own, like liquid sizzling against hot coals. In the heat of the moment, he hadn’t noticed that Alan had forgotten to take his glasses off. They’d slid along his upturned nose, perched librarian fashion. Alan looked young and vulnerable, and Jack’s heart clutched at how aware he’d become of Alan’s presence. In his mind, in his heart. The geek with the hair-trigger temper and a quirky sense of humor was never far from his every thought. He woke up reaching for his lover, seeking courage to face the day. And at night, Alan was the last one he wanted to see, to hear, to feel. To curl against him, to know he was safe and loved.

  Jack indulged in a slow sweep with his eyes, drinking in every inch of Alan’s flesh, but he was still hesitant to say the words that clamored for release. It was enough just to be, as trite as that sounded. He didn’t care. It would have to do. For now.

  When he let himself go, his lover looked young and vulnerable … hell, even “cute,” Mandy’s term, but somehow it all fit. Along with endearing and so fucking sexy, if he had it in him, he’d turn the tables and slow fuck Alan Randall Liebowitz until he begged.

  Sinking to the bed, Alan turned on his side and pulled Jack in tight, tucking his head in that special spot just under his chin, the spot where his deep baritone rumbled across Jack’s scalp. Like a purr.

  Just like a purr…

  “I know what you need.”

  Jack chuckled and said, “You sure as hell do,” enjoying the pressure of Alan’s chin on the top of his head.

  Squeezing his arm Alan said, “Not that. Your contest.”

  “What about it?”

  “You said you needed something special, right?” Jack grunted, waiting for Alan to continue. “Ratatouille. There are a dozen different ways to make it, including slow cooking it. You can vary the ingredients to your heart’s content. It’s the ultimate challenge.”

  Jack let that sink in, then said, “What it will boil down to is … taste.”

  “Home.” Alan tilted his head and brushed his lips gently along Jack’s forehead. “It has to taste like home.”

  Jack whispered, “It has to taste like this…”

  ****

  The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee drew Jack down the hallway. He should have known better than to seduce his lover when they were both balancing deadlines for their jobs. Alan’s side of the bed had been stone cold when Jack woke up. It was no surprise to find his lover bent over the laptop, his fingers skimming over the keys so fast Jack could barely follow the motion.

  It didn’t help that it was still black as pitch outside, and the only illumination came from a sixty-watt desk lamp Alan had rigged on the counter. He was concentrating so hard on the charts and graphs he never heard Jack approaching.

  Clearing his throat so Alan wouldn’t jump out of his skin, he said, “Hey. You’re up early.”

  Alan made a low noise in his throat and fisted his hands, pressing them into his cheeks. Frustration poured off him in waves. Without turning to look at Jack, he pointed to one of the three charts in a tile display on the monitor. Jack recognized the Excel program from when he’d taken a turn at sales manager for his brother-in-law. For a few short weeks he’d been able to close deals, using the canned formulas, but the nuances of the accounting system were way above his pay grade. He’d expected Ted to hold his shortcomings against him, but when they parted company, business-wise, Ted never brought it up again.

  He asked, “What am I looking at?”

  “Trends.” He pointed to the middle graph. “See this? There’s no reason for this steady decline.”

  Jack sat down next to Alan. “Is this why you’re up half the night? Auditing?” Alan looked surprised. “Didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, mister. I got a crash course in accounting fuck-ups when the restaurant went belly up.”

  The old anxiety and shame and regret did a tap dance in his belly. It hurt less and he supposed, over time, it would be barely noticeable. But he doubted it would ever go away completely. Not so long as he continued to put aside his dreams and everything he’d worked for. Squaring his shoulders, he forced the woe-is-me into the background where it belonged.

  Alan spun the laptop so Jack could see it better. “Tell me what you see. Because, as God is my witness, I know it’s there, staring me in the face. And I just can’t see it.”

  “Make me some coffee? I need to think on this.”

  While Alan shuffled around in the kitchen, Jack flipped through all the data on display. One thing he noticed right away. “Looks to me like you narrowed it down to the service department. Why’s that?”

  Alan nodded as he filled the carafe with water. “You have a good eye. The sales department’s tied in with the national group. While each dealership is an independent entity, owned by an individual or a group of investors...” He paused to pour the water into the well and load the filter. After flipping the switch he continued. “It’s also a fra
nchise. Maybe even more than one. And those franchises come with a boatload of rules to assure brand uniformity and appearance.”

  “So, you’re telling me there’s a fair amount of control on that end of the business.”

  Alan set out mugs, creamer and sugar. “Exactly. Now, don’t get me wrong, I took a hard look at it but nothing popped.”

  “What did your gut tell you?” Jack was learning that Alan’s instincts were often spot on.

  “Take a look at the inventory page. Tell me what you see.”

  Jack did as instructed, then yelped, “Cripes. These numbers are all over the place. How the hell do you make any sense of this?”

  Alan flipped to another screen. “During the first and second quarters of last year, business was steady like you’d expect. Ted’s service department is well-regarded. He has repeat customers even though they might not be driving a vehicle they bought off his lot, especially older models out-of-warranty.”

  “What happened here?”

  “Well, that’s the question. Sales actually increased more than expected given the downturn in the economy. The manufacturers offered incentives and the banks cut rates. Sales up, net down, but not drastically. Those cars require scheduled maintenance, so the service side was doing well.”

  Jack tapped a fingernail on his teeth. “Then, worst case, it should have flat-lined, not dove off the edge of a cliff.”

  Frowning, Alan asked, “What am I missing?”

  Jack walked into the living room and sprawled on the couch, setting his long legs on the coffee table, and letting his memory peel away that awkward time in his life when he was so blind to what was happening, he missed all the clues that were blatantly staring him in the face. If only he’d been smart enough to look.

  When he spoke, he was surprised he was able to keep his voice steady. “It was early spring. The weather, for Seattle, was unusual. Warm, sunny more often than not. That brought the tourists and our regulars out for dinner and late night snacks.” Alan sat next to him, their shoulders touching. “We ran wood-fired grill specials. I could barely keep up. And like all restaurants, getting and keeping good help was a bitch. We had the usual turnover, but…”

  He took a sip of cooling coffee as Alan watched him, his face intense. “So you hired extra help to keep up with the demand, right?”

  “Yes. I called Carmen in to train the new wait staff. He was good with the help, better than me by a long shot. I ran the kitchen and, God knows, that was a twenty-four-seven job. I never saw it coming.”

  Jack stared at the ceiling, feeling stupid and embarrassed and betrayed. The hits to his ego never seemed to grow old. When Alan took his hand and held it, the contact nearly broke him. It was the kind of unconditional love Jack had yearned for all his adult life. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, and he brushed them away before continuing.

  “You know pretty much what happened after that. It wasn’t until I sat down with the accountant that we saw what was going on. If I’d paid attention, if I’d done what you and Ted are trying to do… Well, I might still be in Seattle.”

  Alan’s brow creased, the notch above his frames puckered tight, the question on his face clear… Are you sorry you aren’t still there, in Seattle, instead of here, with me?

  Jack stood and pulled Alan into his arms. “They say shit happens for a reason, Alan Randall Liebowitz. I’m not a religious man, but I think…” He took a deep breath and cupped his lover’s face in his hands. “I think I’m here, with you, because I was meant to be.”

  Alan whispered, “Thank you,” and took Jack’s hand, leading him to the kitchen counter. He said, “I have a pretty good idea what’s going on. Thanks to you. I’ll call Ted, meet with him later. All I can do now is present the data and my conclusions. After that, the ball’s in his court.”

  “I don’t mind helping…”

  “I know you don’t. But it’s time to give this a rest and work on your cooking challenge for a while. I’ve got some ideas on how you can work out the logistics.” He nodded at the slow cooker by the stove. “Besides, I’ve got a hankering for that cherry cobbler now.”

  Jack shuffled the recipe cards and notes into new piles. He was about to ask Alan if he wanted more coffee, when his lover spoke so softly he had to strain to hear him.

  “It’s all right, you know.”

  “All right for what?”

  “To say it.”

  Jack swallowed hard and listened to his heart beating a bass drum in his chest. He managed to croak, “Say what.”

  “I love you. Because I do, Jacques Lambert. With all my heart…”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Slow Cook Off

  Alan tried to calm the butterflies wearing combat boots goose-stepping through his belly. The kids, Mandy and Mark, bookended him, with Marie in the seat directly behind. He felt her hand on his shoulder like a lifeline, keeping him afloat.

  Mark whispered, “How the heck did they pull this off?”

  Alan answered without taking his eyes off the frenetic activity on the stage. “Blame the television station and the newspaper. They talked the college into moving the cook-off here.”

  Here was the Sands Casino, newly minted and always eager to promo their facilities. They’d taken over the old Bethlehem Steel Works and created a “destination” rivaling their brethren in the Poconos. Somebody had pulled out all the stops, creating a kitchen worthy of the Food Network, with stadium seating for half the population of the city. Seating that was rapidly filling up, despite the forecast for inclement weather.

  Apparently, the offer of a free show and complementary buffet was too hard to resist.

  Marie asked, “How’s Jack doing?”

  “Okay.” Marie squeezed his shoulder. He amended that to, “I think he’ll be fine,” and skipped over the “maybe.”

  He’d left his lover in the equivalent of the green room, sweating bullets and shuffling through a stack of prompts, trying to commit names and contributing organizations to memory so he could spread the acknowledgements far and wide. He was doomed to lose.

  Marie leaned in and said, “The ladies will take care of him. Stop worrying.”

  The ladies were indeed taking care of Jack … and all the kids. Mrs. McDonough was straightening ties and spit-wiping under-eye liner off the Goth teen. Miz Samuelson had the stack of custom designed aprons with the Sands logo and baseball caps for the kids. The rest of the senior crew was locked and loaded, each one clutching bins of secret ingredients to her ample bosom. The kids were trying to look like they didn’t give a rat’s ass, except Alan recognized the signs of stress in the nervous pacing and furtive looks at the gaggle of very calm and cool older ladies.

  Both groups were determined to bring their A-game. Everybody got a complimentary package just for showing up: a spa visit, dinner, tokens for the casino for the elders, and tickets to a show for the kids and their parents. The Sands had sweetened the pot by awarding the winning teams a weekend boot camp with their celebrity chef. That had put stars in everybody’s eyes, including Jack who’d gone white with food prep envy.

  Mandy asked, “How’s this gonna work, Uncle Alan?”

  Everyone leaned in close as he explained the process. It had taken two full days of meetings with the producers to work out the details.

  “The teams got selected on who wanted to do the main course and who wanted dessert. So we have four, instead of two. Jack wanted all of the students to be involved and the Dean agreed.”

  Mark asked, “Did they get to pick their own recipe?”

  “No. That was up to Jack.” Alan skipped over his own contribution to the selection. It was enough his mom’s cherry cobbler was going to be put to the test. And it was no surprise that dish was the dessert of choice for the seniors who knew comfort food inside and out. The college kids chose the crème brulee, probably to impress the department head more than anything.

  He continued. “Jack offered them two options for the main dish, a shrimp creole or ratato
uille.” Alan chuckled. “Jack said … and I quote… ‘You could have knocked me over with a bay leaf when they all picked the ratatouille!’ Have to admit, I was surprised too.”

  “Why’s that?” He had Mark’s undivided attention.

  “Well, shrimp creole is relatively simple. Mirapois, a tomato-based sauce, garlic and wine and seasonings. It’s not easy to screw up, despite what some chefs claim. And it would have fit easily into the class time frame.”

  The tall teen was nodding his head, considering the possibilities. He said, “I think I see why they’d want to go for the ratatouille.” He ticked the reasons off on his fingers. “It’s a vegetable dish so you don’t have to spend a boatload of money trying to find the perfect cut of meat. And you can vary the ingredients without changing the outcome drastically.”

  Alan said, “And don’t forget, the seasonings are nothing more than your basic salt, pepper and a few herbs depending on your taste. The trick was in adapting a dish that’s normally baked to one that will hold up under slow cooking.”

  Mandy pointed out the show was an hour long, less if they factored in product placements, introductions and all the other production requirements. “What do they do about that, Alan? Uh, I mean…”

  “Alan’s fine.” Another squeeze on his shoulder. Marie approved. “Jack’s cheating. He’s having the teams do some prep work, but not all of it. Just enough to let each team show off their skills.”

  “Hope they have a triage unit standing by.” Alan snorted at Mark’s wry comment. “Well, if it was me up there I’d be shitting… Um, sorry, Mom.”

  “Anyway, they’ll have just enough time to present the ingredients and explain why they made those choices. Then they’ll prep a few things and show how to arrange everything in the slow cookers. Jack’s timed it down to the minute. The real meals have been cooking since this afternoon. About midway, they’ll be able to plate everything and present the dishes to the judges.”