Love You So Special

by Tara Lain

  “Oh.” Artie glanced down to the limo. “Is he going to stay there?”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Maybe the poor guy wants to go get something to drink?”

  François gave him a smirk. “Maybe the poor guy has soft drinks, wine, beer, and water in the car.”

  “What if he has to pee?” Grasping at straws.

  François cocked his head. “Do you want me to tell him to leave?”

  Quit being stupid. “No. Course not. It’s fine.” He stepped aside. “Come on in.”

  François stepped into the apartment, his blue-green eyes kind of wide under his shaggy bangs.

  Artie’s stomach did a back flip. What must his raggedy garage apartment look like to a guy who lived in a mansion next to the ocean? Hell, why did I even try fixing it up?

  “Wow, this is so great.”

  Artie turned. François didn’t even sound like he was working hard to be polite.

  “You’re lucky to have such a great place.”

  Is he serious? He looks serious.

  François looked toward the tank. “Oh man, these are the fish!” He hurried over to the tank, knelt down, and pressed his nose so close it almost touched the glass. “They’re amazing. Look at the colors.” He sounded like a little kid with a box of crayons.

  Artie couldn’t help wandering over beside François and bent to look into the water. There was Stripey the striped fish, and Goldie the yellow fish, and all the neon dudes. “Aren’t they great?”

  When François looked up, his eyes shone and he grinned as big as Artie did. “They’re everything you said and more.”

  Artie had trouble dragging his eyes from the sea green of François but finally stepped back. “Would you like something to drink? And maybe a snack?”

  “That would be nice.” But he didn’t move from his spot by the fish.

  Artie pulled the cheese he’d sliced out of the refrigerator and put it on the block beside the big wedge of Gouda. Strange name for cheese. He’d peeled the red stuff off because he’d tasted it and yuk. “Would you like iced tea, wine, or beer?”

  “Uh, wine, I guess.”

  Feeling like a serious idiot, he pulled the bottle of Chablis out of the fridge, peeled off the stuff around the top, and opened the cap. He’d specifically chosen the kind with a screw top, because he’d never made friends with corkscrews. The cork always ended up in pieces with half of it inside the bottle when he tried to pull one out.

  All he had were small glasses probably meant for juice. Don forgot to tell him to buy wineglasses on the chance that François would want it. Hell, Artie should have known, fancy guy like him. Still, he’d already spent a lot on a one-time visit, so these would have to do.

  He took the cheese and crackers and a bowl of cashews to the coffee table, then went back for the embarrassing glasses. “Uh, sorry I don’t have better glasses.”

  François seemed to drag his eyes from the fish, looked back at Artie, then rose.

  Man, it was always a shock to realize how damned pretty he was.

  François took one glass from Artie. “These are fine. Hell, I don’t even own a bathroom glass of my own. Not that I picked myself.” He clinked the bottom of his glass on Artie’s, then sat in the striped chair and took a sip.

  Artie sat on the couch, hoping the whole slipcover thing wouldn’t come apart under his weight, but it held and seemed okay, so he leaned back.

  “Love that color.”

  “Really? Me too. My neighbor was surprised I picked it.”

  François nodded. “Yeah, any time a guy picks a color besides gray or brown, some dude says it’s too gay.”

  “Oh no. Don, my neighbor’s, great. I think he just didn’t expect a guy like me to pick whatever this color is. Orange? Tangerine?”

  “A guy like you?”

  “You know, a blue-collar redneck type.”

  “Hmm. Blue and red make purple. Another unexpected gay color choice.” He chuckled.

  Artie’s stomach tightened. “Did you have a point?”

  François held up the hand with the glass. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s no insult. Hell, why would it be coming from me? I love tangerine and purple too. They look like your fish.” He leaned forward, set down his glass, and took a cracker and a piece of cheese, just like it was a regular thing for guys to serve each other hors d’oeuvres.

  The words fell out. “Why wouldn’t it be insulting coming from you?” Jeez, that came out wrong.

  François widened his eyes. “Because I’m gay, of course.” He chewed his cracker like no big deal. “I guess I always think everyone assumes I’m homosexual.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged and stared at the fish. “It’s widely known in my bios and such, for one thing.” He gracefully gestured from his head down the length of his body. “And all that you see, I suppose.” He glanced up at Artie. “I gather you didn’t assume?”

  “Wouldn’t even if I could.”

  “Thank you for that, but is it a problem? I understand if you’d prefer that I go.”

  Artie scowled. “Why would you understand? If I have a problem with it, that makes me a genuine first-class asshole. Why would that be okay?”

  François half laughed. “I—I don’t know. I guess I’ve had to accommodate people’s feelings my whole life. I got used to it.”

  Artie leaned forward, hands clenched. “Fuck that. Get un-used to it.”

  “Whoa. Okay. I’ll try.” He did laugh that time.

  Artie took a breath. Why the fuck am I coming on so strong? Easy, it pissed Artie off that François, this amazing talent, was accommodating other people about who he was when they should be so lucky to be that great.

  He opened his mouth to say so, and a thought slammed into his brain like a hammer. He hadn’t come out to François, even though he’d had the perfect opening. Why? Because François was open about being gay, and Artie didn’t want him being open about Artie being gay too. Well, shit. What’s staying in the closet so your bros and your family don’t hate you except accommodating? I’m ten times as bad as what I accused François of. A hundred times.

  He wanted to drop his head in his hands. Why did life get so complicated all of a sudden?

  François said, “You okay? You turned white. Shall I get you some water?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine. I’ll just have a piece of cheese.” He grabbed one and shoved it in his mouth, then stopped in the middle of a chew. “Holy crap, that’s good.”

  François laughed. “What? You never tasted your own cheese?”

  “No. I got it for you.” He kept grinding his teeth over the buttery, kind of sweet, kind of tangy flavor. “I mean, my neighbor recommended it. I’d never had it before.”

  François leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Artie, what do you say we go outside, get in my big, offensive car, and go to dinner? One hundred percent my treat.”

  Chapter Seven

  FRANÇOIS STARED toward the hall, which he presumed led to the bedroom where Artie had disappeared in some fit of uncertainty. Hmm. François hadn’t suggested they run naked through Fashion Island or check into a hotel in the same room. What’s the big deal about dinner?

  Somewhere in the midst of his visit with the fish, he’d begun to realize that Artie had gone to a whole shitload of trouble—for him. Maybe this tangerine slipcover thing hadn’t been here until recently? Was it possible Artie didn’t usually keep wine in his refrigerator? And he’d sure as fuck never tasted the cheese François took for granted.

  To François, this visit to see fish had been a spur-of-the-moment lark. A way to get to know a puzzling and interesting man better. He got more than he bargained for. Way more. Artie had put himself out—maybe because François was sort of his boss. But then he’d been fierce in his defense of François’s right to be gay and not have to apologize for it. What was that line from Alice in Wonderland? Curiouser and curiouser. And now the dude seemed freaked by the idea of dinner. Well,
maybe it just meant he was weird about eating with his employer.

  Softly he released his breath. He hadn’t meant to make Artie’s life more difficult. François gripped the bridge of his nose in two tight fingers and squeezed his eyes closed. Damn the headaches.

  “I’m ready to go.”

  His eyes flew open. There stood Artie, his brown hair looking freshly combed, and he’d added a sports coat that maybe he’d bought in high school. Never had a man looked more uncomfortable. François tried not to grin. “Great, but I had that fish restaurant over in Corona del Mar in mind. It’s pretty casual.” He pointed at his own sweater. “No need to dress up.”

  The look of relief on Artie’s face was funny. He slid off the coat, struggling a little since it fit too tight over his well-developed shoulders. Tossing the thing on a chair as he crossed the room, he pulled a windbreaker from his hall closet and slipped it on.

  François rose. “Let’s go.” He leaned down by the tank and grinned at the fish. “Be good. Maybe we’ll bring you something back.”

  “From a fish restaurant? That’d be kind of mean. It might be a relative.”

  Just when François thought Artie was clueless, he showed his wit again. It was whiplash trying to figure this guy out—but damn, it was fun.

  Artie in a limo was a stranger in a strange land material. He stared around in fascination. “I haven’t been in one of these since my high school prom.” He grinned as he peeked into the beverage container. “Woo-hoo, our limo didn’t stock champagne.”

  “Want some?” François had to smile back. Artie made him see things through fresh eyes.

  “Oh no, that’s okay. I’d just waste it. Not much of a drinker.” He cocked his head to read the array of buttons under the window.

  François crossed his legs. “So who did you take to the prom?”

  The scenery outside the tinted windows seemed to get interesting for Artie; then he turned back. “Uh, nobody special. My buddy’s sister.”

  “You didn’t have a mad, secret crush on her?”

  “No. She just needed a date.” He shrugged but never met François’s eyes.

  “And you were a big football hero so she was thrilled to go out with you.”

  His lips turned up a fraction. “I played some football.”

  “The dashing quarterback?”

  “The wily wide receiver.” The crinkles appeared beside his eyes. “Did you go to high school in the US?”

  François felt the frown before he thought about it and smoothed his forehead consciously. “I never went to high school. I was homeschooled by a series of tutors my whole life. I received my degrees online or by testing out.”

  “Oh.” He looked really surprised. “Well, in some ways you were lucky. High school can be a real bitch, but if you make some friends, it can be fun.”

  François had fewer friends than schools.

  The voice of Joseph his driver announced, “We’re here, François.”

  “Good.” He turned to Artie. “Are you hungry? You didn’t eat many of your great snacks.”

  “I could eat.”

  Joseph held the door and Artie crawled out. Joseph extended a hand and François took it, then stepped into the parking lot. Artie watched the whole interplay with apparent interest.

  François looked at Joseph. “We’ll be a couple hours, I imagine. Shall I call you?”

  “Yes. I won’t be far.”

  François turned toward Artie, who stepped back. “Uh, you don’t need help getting into the restaurant, do you?” He chuckled, but his eyes said he was half-serious.

  “I can probably make it on my own.” He started walking quite independently toward the door of the restaurant, and Artie fell in beside him. François flashed him a snarky grin—but in truth, he would have liked to take Artie’s arm and feel the strength in those biceps. Man, Artie sure would hate that idea.

  He opened the door to the restaurant and—shit! His breath hitched as he hit a wall of people trying to get into the superpopular bar. He staggered back a couple of steps and hit a body hard.

  Strong hands steadied him and Artie said, “Whoa. Hold on, genius.”

  “I—uh—”

  Artie came up beside him. “Are you okay?”

  “I-I d-don’t like crowds.”

  “Hey, man, we could have ordered pizza.” He pointed at the bench beside the door. “Sit.”

  The reception desk was only a few feet away, and Artie marched up to the hostess. François saw her look up, juggling a phone to her ear with her other hand on an iPad. “Yes?”

  Artie looked a little intimidated by her rushed, harried demeanor, but he said, “We have a reservation.” He turned to François. “Right?”

  The hostess followed Artie’s line of sight, and François mouthed the word Desmarais. “I have a reservation.”

  Her eyes widened, she pressed a hand to her chest briefly, and said into the phone, “I have to put you on hold.” Her finger slammed onto the phone button, and she flashed every tooth in her head. “Good evening, Mr. Desmarais. We have your table ready. I’ll take you back right now.”

  Artie turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

  François got up and sucked in a breath as some guy barged past trying to get ahead in the line for the bar. Artie raised a hand, fended him off, and then put his body between François and the crowd.

  Smiling, the hostess grabbed two menus and practically ran down three patrons getting François into the relative quiet of the dining room. She looked back. “Are you having a nice evening, Mr. Desmarais?”

  “It’s getting better, thank you.” He smiled at Artie gratefully.

  She led them to a booth far at the back of the restaurant—very quiet and relatively private. Joseph must have asked for it specifically. François slid into the booth that was set up to have occupants sitting perpendicular to each other. It was nice. Closer than across, more eye contact than side by side.

  The hostess placed a carafe of water on their table. “Have a lovely evening.”

  Artie settled in next to him, looking around. “Nice place.”

  “First time here?” François tried to make it sound not nosy.

  “Yeah. I’ve driven by it a lot.” He kept staring around. “It never looked like my kind of place.” He picked up his menu.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. We can go someplace else.”

  “I mean, it never looked like my kind of prices.” He set down his menu. “Hey, man, you don’t have to spend this kind of money on me. If you want to go get beer and pizza, I’ll be right at home. No worries.”

  François wanted to fan his face to cool the heat behind his eyes. Men didn’t protect him and try to save him money on a regular basis. “I’ll tell you what. You stay here and eat with me this time, and next time you can take me out for pizza and beer, okay?” He looked toward the lobby. “Besides, I’d rather not go back into the entry until some of the crowd dies down.”

  “Sure. I love fish—to watch and to eat.”

  Artie poured some water from the carafe into both their glasses, and the waiter approached the table. “Good evening, I’m Lawrence. What can I get you to drink?”

  François cocked his head. “Can I interest you in some champagne?”

  Artie shook his head. “No need to do that.”

  “It’s not a question of need.” He looked at the waiter. “Please bring us two glasses of Schramsberg Blanc de Blanc.” He grinned. “We’ll try to change his mind.”

  The waiter chuckled. “Excellent. Can I bring you an appetizer to go with it?”

  “Yes. We’ll split the artichoke.”

  “Good choice. I’ll bring it while you decide about dinner.” He walked away.

  Artie watched him go. “Sounds pretty fancy to me.”

  “Sometimes fancy tastes good.”

  Artie gave him a sideways look. “So what’s with the whole crowds thing? I thought you performed in front of thousands of people?”

  François puffed his ch
eeks and blew. “I do and I hate it. Every time, I nearly throw up.”

  “Hell, man, why do you do it?”

  François downed some water. “My compositions are better accepted if I perform and keep my name high-profile.”

  “But if you hate it—”

  “I love playing. I just hate the crowds. If I try to ignore them, I can get through it.” He pressed a hand against his chest. Hard to breathe. “Let’s talk about you.”

  Artie gave a wry snort. “If you’re looking to distract yourself, hearing about me is a boring way to do it.”

  François shook his head. “I doubt that.”

  “There’s no doubt. We’re talking nothing special family, nothing special education, nothing special job.” He leaned forward. “Don’t misunderstand, I really enjoy plumbing. It’s like solving a puzzle. I like figuring out the best plumbing scheme to be sure everything flows the way it’s supposed to. Downhill.” He laughed. “But it’s not a job you want to discuss over champagne cocktails, if you get me?”

  “Tell me about your family.”

  He shrugged. “My dad works night shift in a supermarket and my mom’s a cook in a school cafeteria, although she’s mostly a professional at reading romance novels. I’ve got a younger brother who picks up construction jobs but has trouble keeping them. I was the first member of my family to graduate high school, and then my brother made it two. There was no money for college, and I’d been assisting a plumber since I was fifteen, so I made it my job.”

  “Couldn’t you have gotten student loans for college?”

  The crease in his forehead suggested that was a touchy subject, but he said, “My family always needs a bit of financial help. It was better if I worked. Still is. Besides, not like I was some genius in some subject. I was kind of a nothing special student too, so it was just as well.”

  That made François sad. Artie was clearly an inquisitive and intuitive person. Too bad he never got more chance to explore his interests.

  At that moment, the waiter brought two champagne flutes brimming with bubbly. “This should make him a champagne lover.” He set the glasses down in front of each of them.” Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”