by Vic Winter
One of Dayton’s eyebrows went up and he could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise. Maybe he was going to have to reassess this whole Donald not being stupid thing.
“It is! The rest of the pack thinks I can’t control you. Not to mention the townsfolk barely tolerate us as it is, and you’re just making it worse. You need to find a mate -- a female mate -- and make babies. Contribute!”
Dayton stood up tall and growled. “Aside from the fact that I do most of it away from Lilton, my business is my business and no one is going to tell me what to do -- not the townsfolk, not the pack, and not you.”
“I’ll kick you out of the pack.” Donald took a breath, clearly working up to a whole new tirade. Dayton wasn’t going to let him unleash it.
“Consider me kicked out.”
Donald’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. Before the man could say another word, Dayton turned and walked out.
He wasn’t putting up with that shit.
***
Dayton went to the Silver Kitchen Diner and parked his Hog out back. He didn’t usually show up here during the day, but he was growly and out of sorts thanks to that stupid fucker they’d let be Alpha and was craving chocolate like he needed it to breathe. He took off his helmet and left it on the back of the bike, noticing the little red car parked next to a pile of crap in front of the diner’s back door. It was really little; it was tiny, like a little clown car. Shit, he’d bet he could pick it up and move it.
He went over to check it out, see if it was a real car and caught a scent. Connor. From the diner. He put his nose in the air and scented harder. Yeah. It was him. Dayton could tell from the way his prick perked up and took notice. Connor smelled better than anyone he’d scented in a long time. Better than any of the guys he’d ever taken out behind the clubs or to a hotel that rented by the hour to fuck. Better even than anyone in the pack.
His nostrils flared. He wanted Connor. A lot. Rules be fucking damned. He’d tried to be good. He’d tried to keep his hook-ups well away from the town and the pack and he was still getting reamed for it. He’d still walked out of the pack for it. If he was going to do the time, he might as well get to do the crime. Sort of. Not that getting into Connor’s pants would be a crime. Hell, not getting into them would be.
He went back to his bike and settled against it, arms crossed as he waited for Connor to come out.
About forty-five minutes later, Connor came around the side of the diner. He stopped at the pile of crap and cursed, kicked it. Dayton headed over.
“...calling the inspector. Let’s see how you like those apples, Bill Deans.”
“I like apples.”
Conner jumped at his words and whipped around. Dayton smiled, hoping he didn’t look too wolfish.
“What?”
“I said I like apples.” Dayton moved slowly toward Connor, not making any sudden movements. Yeah, Dayton was stalking Connor like the prey he was.
“You like apples?” Connor still looked confused.
“You said you hoped he liked those apples...”
“Oh... Oh! You heard me.” A blush climbed up Connor’s pale face.
“I did. Who’s Bill Deans?” The words came out with more of a growl than he’d intended, but he wanted Connor for himself. Of course he was in the mood for a tussle, so if this Bill Deans wanted to fight him for Connor, he was up for that. Men tended to be a little less enamored of that sort of display, though. A potential wolf mate would have dug it.
Connor made a face as he said the name, looking both angry and disgusted and Dayton relaxed a little.
“He owns the diner. This stack of garbage has been blocking the back door for weeks now and I have to go around to the front to get in and out. It’s not safe!”
“No, it isn’t. I take it you’ve complained.”
“I have. Repeatedly.”
“So why hasn’t he done anything about it?” Dayton was back to growling, but now it was about thinking this Bill Deans was an asshole.
“Because he doesn’t approve of my lifestyle and this is his little way of showing it.” The words were dry, resigned.
Okay, make that a major asshole. Maybe king of the assholes. Dayton’s growls got louder.
Connor glared at him. “And don’t you start growling at me. The way I live my life is my business and if you don’t like the fact that I’m gay you can take your attitude and shove it in that pile of garbage there.” Turning to unlock the car door, Connor continued muttering. “Stupid small town attitudes. Why do people even give a fuck who I do or do not fuck. Jesus. It’s not like I’ve been laid since I got here in the first place!”
The muttering continued as Connor put on his seat belt, started the engine and drove off, the little car maneuvering like a dream.
Dayton was left standing alone in the back lot, watching the Mini disappear down the road wondering when he’d lost total control of the situation.
The Gift of Garbage
Connor grumbled as he drove through the pre-dawn to the diner. He was still in a rotten mood from his encounter with the hot -- but a little scary to be meeting him all by himself in the back of the diner -- biker yesterday. If he hadn’t thought it would get him pounded into the asphalt, he would have followed his desires and kissed the man full on the mouth. That would have showed him.
To make matters worse, he’d called Deans again after getting home and not only had the man pretty much laughed at him, his threat to go the fire inspector had resulted in much merriment and a “Go right ahead,” from Deans. The man probably had the inspector in his back pocket.
It didn’t matter. Connor was going to call him anyway. He’d looked up the number, and it was written on the back of an envelope in his pocket. As soon as it was a decent hour, he was calling it. Whether Deans hated Connor or not, the garbage blocking the back door was a fire hazard, dangerous -- and not the fun spanky kind of dangerous like the biker had been.
Connor rolled his eyes at himself. He was not going to glamorize scary biker man. He wasn’t. Even if the leather-covered muscles had been sexy as all get out. Damn it. He clearly needed to get laid. It was going to have to wait until the weekend, though, because he was an early to bed, early to rise and get to work kind of guy, which was not conducive to trips into the big city to find a gay club and get his rocks off. In fact it wasn’t conducive to doing anything past nine p.m. Which might, in part, explain his lack of laidness over the last year or… well, three or four, to be honest.
He pulled up into the spot next to the back door, still trying to talk himself out of thinking yesterday’s biker had been hot -- it didn’t help that he’d been half-fantasizing about the guy ever since he’d caught that glimpse of him in the dinner itself the other day. Of course the guy had been less scary in the back booth with a mug of hot chocolate in front of him than he was outside at full height, making Connor jump as he suddenly appeared out of nowhere. To be fair, he’d been distracted by the garbage still being there and probably wouldn’t have noticed a marching band with full colors so it probably wasn’t the biker guy’s fault he’d been so startled.
Conner was almost at the back door when he stopped short.
Almost at the back door. Which no longer had garbage in front of it. Which was now accessible.
He looked around, finding the garbage in a pile in the parking spot with the sign “reserved for owner.” His eyes widened in surprise and he started to laugh. That was the perfect spot for that garbage.
It looked like someone in town was on his side after all. Chuckling a little, he called out “Thank you,” to the sky, and grabbed his key, using it to open the back door and head into the kitchen. He had a feeling his pastries were going to be especially tasty today.
***
Dayton sat on his Hog, watching as Connor disappeared into the diner.
“You’re welcome,” he said, grinning widely.
There. Step one in wooing the town baker had begun. It was a stupid word -- wooing. It so
unded too much like cooing and like hearts and candies and flowers. Of course there were going to be hearts and candies and flowers, so he supposed it was the right word after all.
He didn’t know if it was the way Connor smelled, or the way he’d gone off on Dayton, rejecting him before he’d even made his advance, but he was hooked. Big time. And he knew that nothing was going to break the surprising spell Connor had over him except for indulging himself in the man. He could think of worse things to have to do. A lot worse things.
He started up his hog and pulled off the shoulder, headed out of Lilton for the city. He had some shopping to do.
Secret Admirer
On Wednesday, the garbage had been moved from in front of the kitchen door to Deans’ parking spot.
On Thursday there was a brand new industrial mixer in the kitchen next to the old one that he had to share with the cook. There was a piece of paper taped to the top with big, bold letters, “Baker mixer only.”
Friday brought a large box of imported Belgian chocolates seated next to the mixer, along with a big bag of chocolate nibs, and a smaller bag of powdered cocoa from the same company. He’d been wanting to try those for his chocolate pastries for ages, but they were more expensive than he could justify -- he’d either have had to jack up his prices or lose most of his profit, neither of which was a good thing when he was trying to build both clientele and savings.
Saturday came with flowers. There had to be three hundred of them in the various bouquets, from roses to lilies, orchids and carnations, all in a rainbow of colors. They covered every free surface in the kitchen and he had to bring them home over two days, his little Mini stuffed full on both trips.
Connor didn’t have a clue who was doing this, and he might have joked with Betsy and Gordy, the day cook, about how he was sure he was being courted by the town’s oldest widow, but really he was pleased. It felt good to have someone... well, honestly, the only word he could think of was wooing. Someone was wooing him, making it clear that he was wanted.
He found himself meeting people’s eyes in the diner and on the streets, trying to figure out who it could be.
So far, he hadn’t had any luck in discovering his unknown suitor.
Deans had come in Wednesday afternoon, absolutely livid, but Connor’d just shrugged and said it had been that way when he’d come in. Funny -- only not -- how it had only taken a day for Deans to get the garbage cleared away from his parking spot. If Connor hadn’t been in such a good mood from all the gifts, he might have gotten angry about that. Instead, he just thought that Deans was a miserable old goat -- who wasn’t even that old -- who was going to lose his best draw, i.e. Connor himself, when that building on Main Street finally became available for sale.
It had been a fun few days and his wares had flown off the shelves -- the baked goods always tasted better when he was in a good mood, and apparently word had spread around town that he was in a very good mood indeed, because they’d sold out of everything, even the extras he made Friday and Saturday, almost before he’d gone home for the day.
So here he was, feeling special, surrounded by flowers and with the best chocolates in the world to eat -- and boy had the chocolate nibs and cocoa powder made for incredible pastries -- with a nice tidy sum pocketed for the last few days work. It almost made him want to go in even though it was Sunday. Almost.
Today was his only real day off, and he wasn’t going to squander that.
Instead, he lazed in bed -- he always tried to sleep in on Sundays, but when you were up before dawn the other six days a week, it became habit and he rarely managed to stay asleep past five a.m. Just because he was awake, didn’t mean he had to get up, though, so he’d lie there and enjoy the dark and quiet, or he’d read or watch some TV.
Sadly enough, even at his most lazy, he was always up by seven and this Sunday was no different than countless others. Maybe if he had someone to share lazy Sunday mornings in bed with... but he didn’t, so out of bed he got.
He threw on a pair of boxers and made his way to the kitchen. It was too bad he’d sold out of everything yesterday -- it would have been nice to have a chocolate pastry or two along with his latte. Or even a muffin. The fancy coffee maker was only half indulgence. He was, after all, going to need one for the bakery when he opened it. He had plans for a half dozen little tables for people to sit at, or they could take their coffee to go. Either way, he was going to need the machine, so buying it now and testing out its features was only good business sense. At least that’s how he’d justified the expense to himself.
If he was deep down honest, he’d admit that he’d have bought the machine regardless. He had a weakness for fancy coffees. It wasn’t that he didn’t like regular coffee -- that had its place, especially in the get you up and moving realm -- but there was nothing quite like a specialty coffee to make the day that much better. Or to pick him up if he’d had a bad day. Or just because. He could come up with as many reasons to make himself a fancy coffee as there were days in a year.
A fancy coffee and an expensive chocolate. They seemed to go together perfectly. He grabbed one of the Belgians, lamenting the fact that, big as the box was and as miserly with Betsy and Gordy as he’d been, there were still precious few left. He’d really indulged himself over the last few days. He patted his belly; so good. How had his secret admirer known? And who was he? And what if he was a she? It could happen -- if she hadn’t heard, or if she thought her love could change his orientation. The promise of more of that Belgian chocolate would almost be worth trying to do it, too. Yeah, like he was ever going to bat for the other team no matter how good the chocolate over there was.
Laughing at himself, he listened to the coffee machine gurgle and burp and make all those magical noises that meant his latte was about to be ready. All he needed to do was take the hot milk and froth it up before adding it in.
He was in the midst of doing that when he thought he heard a motorcycle go by. It seemed pretty early for a motorcycle to be out in this nice neighborhood. He finished frothing his milk and poured it into his big mug, then wandered over to the window.
His eyes widened when he saw his car. It was practically shining in the early morning sunlight. Maybe it was a trick of the light off the glass of his windows.
He went out, and sure enough, it was sparkling clean. The driveway around it was dark, obviously wet. Someone had just washed his car. He touched the hood. Correction, someone had just washed and waxed his car. Even the tires were clean, the rims shining brightly silver.
He looked down the street, then up the street, squinting, trying to make out someone -- anyone -- watching him from hiding, but he couldn’t see anyone at all. Maybe one of his nosy neighbors could tell him who it had been.
As if on cue, the Atterly’s curtain twitched, hard, and Connor suddenly remembered that he was only wearing boxers. Blushing hot, he hightailed it back to the house. Man, he was going to hear about that one, he was sure.
Still, he had a gleaming car to add to the list of things that had made this week the best one since he’d come to town and he was going to take that as a massive win.
The Reveal
Dayton slunk into The Silver Kitchen Diner and took a booth at the far end, his back to the wall. It was just past four a.m. and Connor was already in the kitchen. He knew because he’d waited on the shoulder across the road until he saw the little red Mini. He didn’t see any reason to go in before his prey got there.
Betsy was at the counter, flirting hard with Deputy Steve, but Insomnia Guy was missing. He often was on Mondays. Dayton’s theory was that the man drank himself into a coma on Saturday nights and was still passed out come Monday morning. It meant one less person interfering with his sense of smell -- it was damn hard to pick out Connor’s scent from the kitchen -- what with it being in the other room and a room full of food smells at that -- and more bodies made it even harder.
Betsy came over with her pot of coffee, but Dayton had already turned over his mug.
“Let me guess -- you want hot chocolate with whipping cream on top.” She had the young deputy at her counter and wasn’t messing around with Dayton today.
“I do, but I want the guy in the kitchen to make it.”
“You don’t like the way I do it all of a sudden?” She actually looked put out, which was funny because Dayton would have figured anything that gave her more time to work on Deputy Steve instead of doing her job would have been all right in her book. Or maybe the look on her face was actually more offended than put out.
“You make it fine. I want to see if baker man can make it better.”
She shrugged. “Sure. You want a pastry or some pie, too? It’s been amazing all week -- he’s in a good mood.”
Dayton considered it for a moment. He really did want to try Connor’s wares -- and not just the ones Connor’s pants. But he also didn’t want to be too hopped up on chocolate when he made his move, which he was planning on doing today. He shook his head. “Just the hot chocolate. And tell him to use the good stuff.”
“The good stuff...” She rolled her eyes at him, but Dayton was in a good enough mood he ignored her.
In fact he was in a very good mood. So good, he probably could have easily resisted the chocolate. He wanted to indulge himself today, though, and he planned to do it with both his vices -- chocolate and men. Or at least man.
“I want him to deliver it to me, too.”
Betsy turned and gave him a look like he’d lost his mind, then she turned and continued back to the counter, calling out the order through the pass. “One hot chocolate, use the ‘good stuff,’ and bring it out yourself.”
Dayton couldn’t hear Connor’s reply, though from the sound of it, Connor wasn’t too pleased.
“Don’t blame the messenger -- I’m just telling you what the customer wants. Customer’s always right, you know.” That was all Betsy had for the baker, because she turned her back on the pass and topped up the deputy’s cup, once again in full flirting mode. The thing was, he was flirting back, and Dayton wouldn’t be surprised if she was off the market before winter.
