by L. A. Witt
Crap . . .
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the details of the challenge, but I flipped to the page anyway so I could see what I was up against. The Chicken ’N’ Fire’s hot wing challenge was pretty standard. You had a set amount of time to eat a certain number of ridiculously hot wings, and if you did it without getting sick, your name went on the wall of fame.
I searched the room and found the wall of fame in question. It was a huge bulletin board with paper flames, and there were Polaroids of all the winners.
All nine of them.
I was so fucked.
“Ghost pepper blend?” I rolled my eyes. “Why do they bother putting other spices and shit into something like that? Two seconds after it touches your mouth, all you can taste is pain anyway.”
Will laughed. “If you’re scared, you don’t have to do it.”
“Hey! I didn’t say I was scared. I just don’t understand why they bother flavoring it.”
“Beats me. So are we doing this or not?”
My eyes were watering just thinking about it, but I could hear the undertone of his question. It wasn’t Are we doing this? It was Can you handle this?
Pride goeth before the fall and all of that shit. “Yeah.” I swallowed. “Let’s do this.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that if I failed to finish the wings, I wouldn’t be able to hide my shame. Not that Will would let me forget it, but I hadn’t considered the other people in the restaurant. Not until the manager brought us our order.
“We’ve got two ghost wing challengers over here!” He made a grand gesture of setting the plates in front of us. “You boys ready for this?”
All around us, heads turned and people applauded in encouragement. My face was already burning and I hadn’t even taken a bite.
I tried to ignore the small crowd, instead focusing on my nemeses—the wings slathered in sauce made of ghost peppers and whatever the fuck they’d been “blended” with.
The plates were surprisingly small, and the wings were arranged in semicircles. There was no celery or blue cheese in sight, either. Just half a dozen hot wings, smothered in a bright-red sauce that I was reasonably certain would actually glow if we shut off the lights.
Will grinned across the table and our wings. “You ready?”
It was only six wings. How bad could it be?
“Yep. I’m ready.”
“All right, gentlemen.” The manager held up a stopwatch. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Time starts . . .” He clicked the button. “Now!”
Will and I each grabbed a wing and dove in. If there was one thing I’d learned with hot wings, it was that you bit in and started eating. You didn’t bother adapting to the heat because it wasn’t going to happen. Might as well swallow as much as possible before—
Oh.
Oh God.
Oh sweet Jesus, what had I gotten myself into?
Two bites in, and I couldn’t feel the chicken now because my tongue was too busy burning with the fires of hell. Before I’d finished the first wing, a badly timed cough got some of the heat up into my sinuses. My eyes teared up so fast I almost—almost—forgot what I was doing and wiped them with my hand. That would’ve been a disaster.
Across from me, Will dabbed his eyes with the back of his wrist. His face was already red. Judging by the warmth in mine, I probably matched the demonic sauce that was currently chewing its way through my fingertips, soft palate, and sinuses.
Will dropped the first bone on the plate and reached for another. He took a bite, then paused and pulled in a breath through his mouth, probably trying to cool the fire. “Fuck . . .”
“What’s wrong, Senior Chief?” I grinned. “Too hot for you?”
He glared at me, sweat gleaming on his forehead. “That’s an awful lot of talk for a man who’s still on his first wing.”
“Fuck you.” I dropped the bone on the plate and picked up a second. Like the first, I started eating it without giving myself a chance to think about it. How my pain receptors still worked at this point was a mystery, but the new wing meant a fresh barrage of flames. Allegedly there were some other flavors in there too. I was starting to think the “blend” portion of the sauce consisted of battery acid and hatred. Otherwise it was just a waste of perfectly good spices that might otherwise be tasted.
We both finished wing number two, and the bones clattered onto the plates, much to the delight of our growing crowd of spectators.
Will ate the third so fast, I wondered if he’d said to hell with it and taken the bone too, but no, it dropped on the plate with the others, stripped of meat and torment. I was barely two pitiful nibbles into number three when he finished number four. Asshole.
He picked up a napkin off the stack and dabbed at his face. “One of my buddies did this, and . . .” He stopped to grimace and take a few more breaths as he mopped sweat off his forehead. “Said he wanted to lick the inside of the ship’s reactor. To cool down.”
“Uh. Yeah.” I gagged. “I can relate.”
We looked at each other, and I couldn’t tell if it was endorphins or just the stupidity of the situation we’d gotten ourselves into, but we both burst out laughing. Maybe crying a little too. But mostly laughing. Because there we were, getting our asses kicked by tiny chicken wings covered in the sauce extracted from the surface of the sun, with sweat and tears streaming down our faces, and somehow this was supposed to be fun, and right then, all of that was hilarious.
“Fifteen minutes left,” the manager helpfully pointed out.
My laughter died, and I cleared my throat. “Fuck my life.”
Will chuckled. “C’mon. You can do it.”
“Fuck you.”
He just laughed and picked up another wing. The clock kept ticking. People kept cheering. Somehow—God only knew how at this point—we kept eating. I didn’t bother doing anything about the tears now, even though I was irrationally worried they’d burn right through my skin.
Suddenly everyone was chanting, “Go! Go! Go!”
And I realized why—Will was down to his last wing. He was struggling—wincing between bites and pausing twice to gag like he was this close to puking—but damn if he wasn’t killing it.
He threw the bone down so hard it nearly bounced off the plate, and he pumped his fists in the air. Everyone roared, and my face burned hotter. I was getting my ass kicked by the wings and him?
“Nicely done!” The manager clapped his back. “Grab this guy a beer.”
“Yes, please.” Will picked up a napkin and wiped it over his face. “Coldest one you’ve got.”
All eyes were suddenly on me again. A whole different kind of heat rushed into my face.
To my surprise, though, the sudden pressure of everyone, including Will, watching me gave me a second wind. I finished the wing, dropped it, and picked up another. By now, the endorphins really should’ve been making this easier, but . . . no. The fifth was harder than the four before it. My stomach lurched a couple of times, and I had to slow down a little to keep from getting sick. Which, of course, meant “savoring” the “ghost pepper blend” for a few more agonizing seconds.
Somehow, though, while I was wallowing in how horrible it was and how there was no way in hell I could do this, I’d reduced the wing to bones.
I dropped it on the plate and exhaled, which only seemed to make the fire worse.
“Come on,” Will said over his beer, which was already half gone. “You’ve got this. Just one more.”
I glared at his plate through my tears. Yep. Nothing but bones. “How the fuck did you do that?”
“Same way you’re going to—one bite at a time. C’mon. You can do it.” He took a swig of beer. My mouth watered with envy. Which . . . made it burn more.
I shifted my glare to the one remaining wing. The dripping monstrosity of a chicken wing covered in glowing orange horror. I’d eaten five. I could eat one more.
When I picked it up, the sauce stung my fingers. They weren’t raw, but they weren
’t far from it—apparently the wings were eating me right back.
Will sipped his beer. My mouth watered some more. The sooner I beat the little bastard on my plate, the sooner I could have a cold beer too.
Steeling myself, I tore into the wing and somehow managed not to curse. Or puke. Or stop.
When I tossed the bone on the plate, the whole place erupted into cheers.
“Two winners at one table!” the manager shouted. “That’s a Chicken ’N’ Fire first!”
“Beer,” I croaked. “I really need a beer.”
“Get this boy a beer.” The manager handed us a couple of Wet-Naps and towels for our hands, and clapped my shoulder. “You boys want photos by yourselves or together?”
“Uh . . .” I cleared my throat, eyes darting toward Will as I cleaned off my burning fingers.
He’d suddenly sobered too, and shook his head. “How about just one of each?”
I tensed. So did Will. The manager eyed us, suddenly visibly uncomfortable as if he’d picked up on the oh shit passing between us.
Will coughed. “Listen, I didn’t just scarf a plate of hellfire and brimstone so I could share the glory with this jackass.”
I laughed and elbowed him playfully. “Hey, fuck you.”
That seemed to convince the manager there was nothing to worry about. He shrugged, led us over to the wall of fame, and took our pictures.
Afterward, Will asked, “Any chance we could get one of the two of us after all?” He smiled. “Not for the board—as a souvenir?”
“Of course.” The manager motioned for us to stand close together. We did, arms around each other’s shoulders like we were a couple of friends, and gave the camera a thumbs-up. After he’d taken two photos, he handed us the Polaroids, then went to check on our drinks.
Now that we were sort of alone, Will turned toward me. “Nicely done.” His eyes were still red and wet. Mine probably were too.
I smiled despite the heat. “Thanks. The encouragement helped.” I licked my burning lips. “Except now I feel like I just gave Satan a rimjob.”
Will threw his head back and laughed. “That’s not a description I’ve heard before, but . . . yeah, it kind of makes sense.”
“Can’t really think of a better one at this point.”
“No kidding. And, thank God, here come our drinks.”
We sat back down to cool off with our beers, and while we did, I watched the manager pin up our photos with the others who’d beaten the challenge. Will and I hadn’t dared be in the same frame in the photos going on the wall of fame. Even separate photos was a little risky. If anyone saw our individual pictures and recognized us, we still had some room for deniability, though. We’d been with a larger group and were the only ones who’d succeeded. Hell, coincidence—someone had recommended Chicken ’N’ Fire, and we’d both picked the same weekend to give it a try.
I rolled some cold beer around on my tongue, then swallowed it. My mouth and throat were on fire like they’d never been before. I couldn’t take a breath without my eyes watering, and I was genuinely shocked every time I touched my lips and they weren’t bleeding. Still, I was happy we’d done the challenge, and that we’d both beaten it.
Because even if it was only a couple of Polaroids on the cheesy fiery bulletin board of a hot wing restaurant, there was one place on this earth with evidence that we’d been there together.
I didn’t think I’d ever been more disappointed to see my own car.
We’d put it off as long as possible. After killing the hot wing challenge, we’d stuck around the chicken place for a while, mostly to let some ice-cold drinks soothe the burn. Then we’d wandered around town in search of . . . well, anything. We’d even swung by a theater to try seeing that movie again—wasn’t like either of us was in any danger of getting frisky—but we’d missed the matinee by twenty minutes.
And now it was time to call it a day.
As we walked through the hotel parking garage and the cars came into view, my heart sank. The weekend was over. It was time to go home.
I wondered if this was what it felt like to have a long-distance relationship. Wedging everything into slivers of time that never seemed like quite enough, and then having to face this—going home separately—every single time.
“Well.” I sighed. “I guess I’ll see you back in Anchor Point.”
“Yeah.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’d kiss you, but I, uh, still can’t feel my lips.”
I laughed. “Yeah. Same here. I can’t feel anything in my mouth.”
“Give it a few hours. Then you’ll wish you couldn’t.”
Groaning, I rolled my eyes. “Tell me again why I let you talk me into that?”
“Me?” He put a hand to his chest and scoffed. “It’s not like I twisted your arm.”
“Would you have let me hear the end of it if I hadn’t?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Uh-huh. Exactly.”
Will chuckled.
“Anyway. I guess we should go.” I paused. “This was fun. We should do it again.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out. The pinch of his brow said it all.
No. No, we absolutely should not.
We shouldn’t have done it this time, and we’d be fucking idiots to do it again.
But he just kissed my forehead and said, “You’re right. We should.”
No, we shouldn’t. But we definitely will.
Halfway back to Anchor Point, my lips were still tingling from those fucking chicken wings. The rest of my body ached and tingled from other things, though. Had we ever fit that much sex into that little time? I didn’t think we had, and this had been while we went out and did other things too. Going out like a real honest-to-God couple.
I grinned despite the burning in my lips. When I’d suggested the weekend away, I’d thought maybe the shine would wear off. That when we could be open about dating, it wouldn’t be quite as fun as we’d imagined.
Maybe one of these days, I’d figure out that when it came to Will, nothing ever played out the way I expected. I sure as hell hadn’t expected us to cap off the weekend by diving face-first into a ridiculous thing called “ghost pepper blend”—seriously, what the fuck had I been supposed to taste besides fire and pain? But, hey, we’d both beaten it, and we’d laughed like idiots and had a surprisingly good time, all things considered.
If I had one regret about the hot wing challenge, though, it was that I couldn’t pretend I could still feel the long kiss we’d shared at the deserted garden.
He’d been right that it’d been a risk. When two guys kissed in public, especially when it lingered past a chaste peck, there was always the chance that some homophobe would harass them. Or worse. And the whole time we’d been standing there, part of me had been tuned in to our surroundings. I was pretty sure Will had been too. He was a cop, after all.
But every part of me that hadn’t been carefully maintaining situational awareness had been zeroed in on Will. On how much I loved the feeling of his body pressed against mine. Not in a sexual way. More like how it had been whenever we’d woken up together—just warm and solid and strong and there.
I sighed, resting one hand on top of the wheel and pressing the other elbow against the window. This weekend was everything that had been missing between us. Going out together. In public. Not watching our backs. Falling asleep in the same bed, and waking up next to each other. I finally knew what he looked like when he was scruffy and disheveled in the morning, and that sight hadn’t been a letdown at all.
Nothing about the weekend had been a letdown except the part where it had to come to an end.
Up ahead, the highway curved, then straightened out, and my high beams illuminated an all too familiar sign.
Welcome to Anchor Point.
My heart sank. The weekend was definitely over. Now I had that feeling like I’d stayed too long at a concert. Long enough to see the lights come up over the empty stage and the deserted seating area covered in trash. If
the weekend had been nonstop booze and partying, this was the part when the hangover would kick in without mercy.
I didn’t regret it, though. I just wished it hadn’t ended. Not so soon. Not at all.
It wasn’t only the excitement of fooling around in a movie theater, or the thrill of fucking against the window above the city, or the exhilaration of having the audacity to go out together in public.
It was the lazy mornings. Waking up in the middle of the night and finding him there beside me, warm and softly snoring in the darkness.
For three days, I’d had Will, and for three days, the Navy hadn’t existed.
Sure, we’d talked about places we’d been and some of the things we’d done on liberty. But there’d been no shop talk. No bitching about politics, promotions, or the day-to-day drudgery.
For one weekend, we’d almost been civilians. Just a couple of guys enjoying some time together like there was no reason they shouldn’t. Only looking over our shoulders because we were a same-sex couple, not because someone we knew might bust us.
Pity it couldn’t last.
Tomorrow, we’d be back at work. Back to the grind. If we crossed paths, he’d be there in his blue digicams—same as what I’d be wearing, except with the bulky black police belt around his waist and the pistol strapped to his thigh.
Still, I couldn’t help imagining him like he’d been today. The black leather jacket. The wraparound Oakleys. The “Another Brick in the Wall” T-shirt whose irony was suddenly not lost on me.
During the day, we were both generic blue-camouflaged drones doing our jobs.
At night, though, and on the occasional weekend we could slip away, that all disappeared.
In the quiet of my car as I followed the familiar road back to my apartment, I smiled. Well, I was pretty sure I did. Still couldn’t feel much from my nose down.
