“And me and the boyfriend, Jake, we keep thinking it would be nice if the town had something livelier in it, too...”
My heart gives a horrible lurch of disappointment, when I hear that Hillary and Jake are boyfriend and girlfriend.
Why am I disappointed? It should be exactly what I'd expect from them. Yet the wriggling sensation in my stomach has just dwindled and died off, pathetically so. I barely even noticed what Hillary was saying.
No. Back to the topic at hand, brain! I wrench my gaze away from Jake, and focus more on Hillary, giving an attentive smile. I can't help but notice that Jake seems to be looking intensely at me as well. I'm sure I'm not imagining that. I'm sure he seems to be following me. But no. I came here for a specific reason – to case out the town, and decide what it is I can do.
What I do get from Hillary is that the town is in dire need to have some more fun in the place, meaning a fun place to gather. They're not an outgoing town, but they do enjoy themselves where they can, such as at the mini-golf range just on the edge, and the paintball range where people gather together to play in teams.
I end up asking them for suggestions, and suggest my own ideas.
I keep looking forward to hearing Jake's voice, because it's a wonderful, deep and mellow tone, the kind that sends vibrations in my soul, shooting right down to my groin.
“You want to do a karaoke evening? I think that would work out – maybe consider barbecue evenings as well, people like looking for food, greasy food like that late in the evenings when with their buddies.” Jake gives the advice, and I find myself nodding along to him like an idiot. My brain's getting so easily distracted. It's embarrassing! I really need to stop this.
Okay, so if I'm going to do barbecue evenings, that means I'll need to fix up the back yard, maybe add a rain shelter over it in case of bad weather. A little extra cost, since I considered just using it for normal evenings, but worth it if I clear out the space.
“If you want,” Hillary says, clearly getting excited at the idea of a new bar opening, “we could come around and help at some point, if you're serious about this. I think it's a swell idea, the town will love it.”
I smile and thank them – it's nice of them.
“I still need to come up with the business plan. My buddies will be over soon, and I'll storm it over with them. I'd love if you two look over it as well, because your input will be valuable.”
Then my eyes rest upon a single cupcake that's on display in a lonely corner – with a light brown puff filling, white icing, and a red, fake cherry on top. Jake's eyes track my gaze, and he smiles, before fishing out the single cupcake and handing it to me.
“Here. Try it. We need to throw away our food at the end, anyway. So we're careful not to over-bake.”
I stare at the wonderful cupcake. “You guys make these from scratch, right?”
They both nod. “We both have our own talents. Jake's fantastic with his cupcakes. He's even managed to make gluten free, vegan ones taste gorgeous, and let me tell you, making gluten free, vegan chocolate cupcakes are a bitch.”
“Oh fuck yes,” Jake says. “When you can't use an egg, most cakes go to shit. I use a kind of almond concoction to try and hold it together, as well as...” he stops himself. “Wait, no, I'm not giving away my secret so soon.”
“I don't get the whole vegan craze,” Hillary says then, pursing her dark red lips. “You know, we're all gonna live and die anyway, why not enjoy food while it's around?”
I laugh in agreement. I also feel slightly odd, because these two are clearly talented bakers and cooks. I feel surrounded on all sides now. My family, with their cooking talents, and my uncle with his restaurant, and now these two, speaking with such pride about their food. I wish in a way I could emulate that pride, and dedicate myself to cooking. I just never had the same interest in it, though. I try the cupcake, and it tastes wonderful.
“Mm!” I have to cup my palm underneath my chin to try and stop the crumbs from spilling. I finish chewing my first mouthful. “Mm, that's really good!” I can practically taste the passion in it.
My parents always say that food tastes better when the people enjoy cooking it, when they pour their heart and soul into it, because you can sense that through the meal you eat. It didn't make a lot of sense to me, but I did notice that when my mom was sad, the food quality went down. Even though she did all the right things, all the right ingredients, there was something missing. Something intangible that I couldn't describe.
“I can taste the soul in this,” I supply. I know they'll take it as a perfect compliment. “Food tastes so much better when there's passion put into it. You guys are happy here, I think.”
Jake's mouth splits into a wide grin. “We are. We're just happy to be running this business, and people seem to like the stuff we make, so we keep making it, you know?”
I smile, and leave them with a wave, a promise to meet up with them again. I don't get their numbers, though. I'm not sure why. I suppose I could have easily secured their numbers, and they would have happily given them to me, but I don't do it.
Maybe I should have.
Chapter Two
When I head back to the bar, into the second floor that I'm sleeping in at the moment, which is bare, and has most of my goods still packed in boxes, I flop on the tatty green sofa. My television is still boxed, as is my gaming console. My clothes are tentatively strewn across the bed one room over, in a hopeful bid to make sure I go and focus on packing them away in the wardrobe and chest of drawers stacked together in my small room, which overlooks the main street.
It's a nice enough place, and a lot quieter than the city I grew up in. I think I can get used to the calm over time, and certainly from not having my mother and father breathe down my neck at every opportunity, checking to make sure I'm doing something with my life.
They do that far too often, and it irritates me, to say the least. I eat my pack of noodles when I get hungry. I know I should be starting to work on tidying up the floor to make it more habitable, but I'm tired right now. I just want to relax.
I also want to think about Jake. He must be near thirty as well, though I never asked his age. He hovers between youth and the extra wrinkles that define a later stage in life. I reflect upon him, thinking about those features, how I'd been shocked awake just from seeing him, like time had frozen in that moment, and everything had slowed, and nothing else mattered in the room except from him.
I had never felt like that before. What a powerful sensation. It makes me...
My hand absently trails to rest on top of my crotch. It's not completely flaccid. As if the mere thought of Jake is now invigorating me. Slowly, in the sense that what I do might very well be forbidden, I let my hand sneak under my pant line, through my boxers, and grasp my growing erection. Normally, I'll just envision the orgasm, the feel of it to get myself off. Right now, the only thing I seem to be picturing is Jake.
It's wrong on every single level, of course. He has a girlfriend. It's a guy I'm picturing. And I'm straight. Right? I hold him tight in my mind, bringing up those startling green eyes, thinking about that intense, warm yeast smell the bakery conjures, which makes my mouth water. It's intoxicating, and I feel like I'm drowning in the memory. I then picture him with his top off. I caught enough of a hint of his muscles to imagine what it must be like. My dick grows harder, triggered by the erotic image. It sends shivers all the way through my body, and they gather at the base of my stomach, heating up my dick, and my balls. Already, I'm wet – my fingers stroke the tips and there's fluid there.
I gasp as I reach both hands down there now. I use one to start rubbing my cock in earnest, and the other to stroke the tactile, sensitive area just before my scrotum, and then to tug the testes gently as well. The combined stimulation, along with the hard image of Jake in my mind, filling up all my senses, has that pressure building inside me within moments. Less than moments. It's so fast that I'm unprepared for it. I let out a strangled groan as I explode
, the heat coursing out of me, the aftermath of the explosion fogging through my brain, sinking it down. I'm sweating, panting, my heart's trying to pound a hole out of my chest, and my limbs are trembling.
I can't believe that just happened. The wetness of my come is noticeable in my boxers. I suddenly feel unclean, ashamed.
I just came, while thinking of a guy, who has a girlfriend. I take a moment to recover, though I feel like sleeping, and then I go and shower, and toss my boxers in the laundry. Damn, I need to get those little capsules to start washing my clothes properly tomorrow.
I fold myself into bed, without bothering to do my clothes, and just let them all tumble to the floor in a heap. Fuck it. I'll do them later. Right now, I want to think about what I just did.
Because maybe I'm not as straight as I thought I was. Or maybe I was just waiting for something to hit all my buttons at once. I mash my head into the pillow, frustrated. This isn't something to feel proud about coming over. It really isn't. It's exactly the kind of thing that just makes shit more complicated than before.
The next day, I blitz my floor in earnest. It takes me most of the day, and before the end, my noodles aren't enough to sustain me. The flat is starting to look like someone actually lives in it and cares about it now, so that's a positive, I guess. And I can't help but think about meeting Jake and Hillary again. So, because I'm hungry, and because I liked the cupcake I ate, I go over to the bakery again. It's only a fifteen-minute walk from where I am. Not far at all.
It's near to closing time, but I make it there to see there's still a few cupcakes left on display. I figure I'll get some bread, and try out every flavor he has there in the end.
Jake's serving behind the counter this time, and I love the way his eyes just light up when he sees me. “It appears you have returned,” he says with a teasing smile. Those lips could stop a heart. Mine forgets to beat for a second, and my brain freezes, again faced with this perfect creature. The same one I masturbated to and came with such ease. My thoughts are going haywire. I finally manage to squeak out a, “You couldn't keep me away from trying another one of those cupcakes. I'm hooked.”
“Ah.” Jake appears pleased to hear this. Since he's the one who makes the cupcakes, I should hope so. Maybe I need to find out all the items he bakes and specifically buy them. I bet everything he makes will have that same passionate perfection. I don't want him to be suspicious, so I play it cool and casual.
“I look forward to seeing you again,” he says, his voice a low purr. Did I imagine that spark of interest? I think I did. “I want to hear all about your plans. I'm sure Hillary would, too.”
Ah. Hillary. I deflate slightly from this. I know I shouldn't, and I don't have a right to get bothered at all.
I end up going over there every single day, always to get some bread and to try out another cupcake, often cycling between them, because they're good – and they give me a good reason to visit and compliment. I keep telling them that the plans for my bar is delayed, which is true, though the place is starting to transform quite nicely. All my flat is properly furnished now, and looks great. The bar still needs work – the previous owners left it in quite a state, so I'll need virtually a new everything.
My friends start helping tear down the place, and we discuss about the structure and design we want to go for, and we're ready and waiting for Harry to get the van so we can start carting everything over. It's exciting, to see my dream taking shape. I have the ghost of it ready now.
The other dream that's also taking shape, far more rapidly than I ever expected before, is that almost every morning I wake up, I have a raging boner, just from thinking about Jake in the night. I've never felt something this bad before, never allowed such intense emotions to stoke themselves inside me.
At one point, I'm so taken by the thoughts I have, that I think he could even be a soul mate. I mean, I just went from zero to hundred so fast. Of course, he'll never feel the same way. I try to talk myself out of those crazy thoughts, but they keep drifting back to that nonetheless. I can't seem to stop it. And I'm not sure if I want to. Because my mind loves reflecting on that, trying to work out why the hell I became attracted to someone so fast. Someone who I should never be attracted to. What's wrong with me, after all?
And how embarrassing is it to also have wet dreams, like I'm a kid again, unable to control myself, rather than a fully-grown adult more than capable of holding perfect control. I just want Jake to take me from all sides and dominate me – and I feel like a piece of shit for thinking this way. He's in a happy, loving relationship. I can tell from the way he and Hillary act around one another, and talk so casually, like there's no secrets hidden between them.
I suspect I might not actually be gay, as in, truly gay. Just gay for him. If that even makes a lick of sense.
This whole thing continues over the next three weeks. Always going to that damn bakery, always getting my cupcake. Sometimes it's Hillary, sometimes it's Jake, and sometimes it's another, older woman, who I think might be Hillary's mother, though I don't ask. And on less busy days, it's two people in the morning to prep the bakes, then one person for the afternoon and close. It's a small but popular shop, again which I think is because of the beautiful decorations, the light and fluffy feel of the place, as if you've just stepped into a gingerbread house.
We have the materials, and we're tearing down walls, and my friend is in the process of sawing a brand new, beautiful counter and shelf unit with two others who also want to learn the process. I don't dare tell my friends what I'm experiencing. They'll think I'm mad, and I have a hard time trying to convince myself that I'm not. But hey.
And I'm obviously not going to say anything to Jake, because I don't want him to feel awkward around me, and I'm scared that I won't be able to talk to him again, and witness his wonderful smile, and feel like I'm part of something amazing. Which means that I'm keeping it all to myself. And the issue is about those kind of secrets is that I'm not comfortable keeping something like this so deep. It digs down into the bone and weighs heavy on me, and I feel like I need to tell someone – but I don't think anyone would actually understand it, because I barely understand it myself.
So for now, it will just have to remain a secret. And hopefully, no one will suspect anything.
One day, or well, three weeks, two days later, when I go into the bakery after a long day renovating the bar area and working in the garden, I see that it's just Jake alone. This gets me instantly excited, though I do my best to hide it. He gives me one look with those frost blue eyes, and I'm already melting inside. My knees are actually trying to shiver and collapse below me, and I know that I'm absolutely hopeless when it comes to him. For fuck's sake.
“Hey, good to see you, Andy!” Jake says, grinning at me as he heads towards the cupcake section. “I have a good one for you today, new recipe. Walnut and almond. Surprisingly tasty.”
“I'll take it,” I say. “Isn't Hillary supposed to be in today?”
“Yeah, but she's at a bakery convention. Leaving me to man the shop alone.”
My skin tickles at the idea he's here alone. I wouldn't mind having a lot more alone time with him. But I know I can't just grab his number, surely. Not without making my intentions obvious as fuck. And I know I struggle to keep it all under wraps as it is. I have to keep it together.
“Right, here's the cupcake, I better go close the shop. You can stay in if you want, it will be nice to talk.”
I watch as he walks behind me and locks the entrance, hanging a closed sign, and drawing down the blinds over the bakery. It turns the room slightly dimmer, and I bit my lip hard. No. This is just going to be casual conversation. I can't let my thoughts keep running away with this shit.
“You know,” Jake says, rubbing his hands together, watching as I begin devouring the cupcake, “have you ever wanted to see how your cupcakes are made?”
The fact he referred to cupcakes as your cupcakes makes me grin. As if they somehow belong to me. Excited, I say,
“Sure! But I doubt I can ever go and try making it myself. I'm a terrible cook.”
Jake shrugs, rippling those substantial muscles of his, and my eyes trace the movement. “I wasn't expecting you to. Come on.”
He takes me to the back of the bakery and starts explaining how everything works. It's all squeaky clean. They really care about hygiene here, but my attention definitely isn't on his explanations. It's on him. I keep looking at him, seeing him from all these different angles, and my brain keeps going blank. I'm wondering seriously if I'm gay or not, but at this point, I didn't even care. I keep imagining him turning, planting those smoldering blue eyes on me, before he finally closes the distance, and whispers in my ears that he wants to fuck me. I feel a familiar, uncomfortable heat coiling inside me, touching my nether regions, making my cheeks heat up. God, if he turns now, he might notice the different color of my cheeks.
To Love A Hitman Page 27
