by Tara Lain
François shook his head. “What specials do you have?”
“We have salmon, escolar, and whitefish today. They can be grilled or you can add your choice of sauce. We also have cioppino. Enjoy your wine.”
As the waiter walked away, Artie picked up his menu. “Guess I better look.”
“The specials are usually the best.”
“Okay. You pick for me.” He closed the menu again and set it aside.
“Do you like light fish or something richer?”
Artie waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. You’re in charge.”
François pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. “Oh God, the responsibility.” In fact, he didn’t want to mess up by choosing something Artie hated.
“I trust you.”
François picked up his glass and held it out toward Artie. “To trust.”
Artie held out his glass, then stared at François over the top of it. “Maybe not your strong suit?”
François sighed. “True.” Then he smiled. “But I’m good at picking champagne. Try it.” He clinked his glass against Artie’s.
Very tentatively, Artie sipped the champagne; then his face lit up. “Shit, this is good.”
“See. Told you. Everyone needs a trade.”
“You can be my champagne picker from here on out.”
“Ah, champagne picker. Better than picking strawberries, I guess.”
Artie swallowed hard and pressed a hand against his mouth, then coughed. “Right. I guess champagne picking isn’t stoop labor.”
“No, champagne grows on vines.”
Artie sipped again, then closed his eyes. “Man, I only ever had champagne a couple times at, like, weddings and after the prom. It sure didn’t taste like this. If it had, I might’ve needed to get a better job so I could afford to drink it.”
François opened his mouth, then closed it. Artie constantly amazed him. Maybe it was just because he didn’t know a lot of blue-collar guys. Maybe they were all baffling like this, but he doubted it.
A server brought a steaming artichoke, hot towels on a tray, and a side plate of dipping sauces. After laying them out on the table, he got a small plate for each of them.
Artie stared at the artichoke like it might attack.
François picked off a leaf and dipped it in the bowl of melted butter, then scraped the inside of the leaf with his teeth. “I hope you like artichokes.”
“Never had one.”
He’d guessed that from the expression on Artie’s face. “Artichokes are one of life’s best things. Give it a try. Rip it, dip it, then scrap the innards from the leaves. When we get to the inside, I’ll show you what to do with the heart.”
“Heart?”
“Yes, haven’t you ever had artichoke hearts?”
“Yeah, they come in a jar of oil.”
“Those are marinated, but when they’re fresh, they taste like—indescribably good.” He watched as Artie dipped the leaf, turned it over carefully, and inserted it into his mouth. Suddenly the whole operation wasn’t just about enjoying a new vegetable. Artie’s lips were nicely shaped, and as he dragged his teeth, François shifted on the bench. Damn, imagine all the things that mouth could do.
“Umm. Man, this is good.”
François cleared his throat. “You like it? I think the leaves are mostly just carriers for the sauce, but the heart’s delicious.”
“I like this.”
The waiter came back, and François ordered grilled escolar for Artie and salmon for himself. “That way if you don’t like escolar, we can switch—or we can share.” He looked at Artie. “Do you like mashed potatoes?”
“Hell, who doesn’t? Better’n cheesecake, man.”
François laughed. “I think that’s two mashed and whatever veggies you’re serving.”
“Excellent. Are you enjoying the artichoke?”
“Um-hm.” Artie scraped leaves like a veteran.
An hour later, they’d eaten both plates of fish, consumed two helpings of mashed potatoes, and even cleaned up the broccoli. François asked, “Which fish did you like the best?”
“Both of them, but that escolar was really different. I liked that a lot.”
“Want some dessert?”
“Those mashed potatoes did the job. I’m stuffed.”
A voice came from the aisle beside their booth. “Wow, you’re François Desmarais.” A heavy-set man stood there and gazed at François. “Look, honey, it’s François.” He shoved out a hand. “We’re huge fans.”
François stared at the man’s hand. He tried not to start shaking. He was okay with people one-on-one unless they were totally focused on him. The he started to feel closed in.
“Uh, thank you.” He forced his hand out and allowed it to close over the man’s.
The man wrapped his other hand around François’s and pumped like crazy.
François tried to pull away, but the man wasn’t getting that he needed to escape.
“Oh my God!” The shriek rang through the restaurant and bounced off the expanse of windows behind them. “François. I love you. You’re the best!” A woman dressed in tight jeans and a sequined jacket hurled herself toward François, and all he could think of was the crazy fan at the concert. He huddled back against the leather of the booth. Make it stop. Please make it stop.
Chapter Eight
ARTIE WATCHED the woman charging toward François like a maddened rhino. Without a thought, he was on his feet in front of her. “Hi, ma’am. Thank you so much for being a fan. François’s a little uncomfortable because, uh, he has a bit of a cold and he doesn’t want to give it to such good fans. So please excuse him if he doesn’t give you a hug.” He smiled at the man. “Probably best you wash your hands before you leave, sir, just in case.”
The man looked down at his hands like he might be able to see the germs.
Artie glanced at François. Man, he is so freaked. How can he possibly do what he does when he’s so afraid of people? He kept smiling, but he didn’t move from his spot blocking François. “But I’ll bet he’d be happy to sign something for you. Do you have a pen?”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh yes. Honey, can I have your pen?”
Her husband felt around and pulled a pen from his inside jacket pocket.
The woman kept digging in her purse, then looked up frantically. “I don’t have anything to sign.”
François took a deep, audible breath. Just having Artie’s body in front of him seemed to sooth him. He managed a smile. “I bet the restaurant could spare a napkin.”
Artie snagged a white cloth napkin from a nearby table that had just been reset and handed it to François, then said, “What are your names?”
The man said, “I’m George and this is my wife, Margie.”
Artie turned to François. “George and Margie.”
François nodded and carefully wrote, To George and Margie. Thank you for listening. Then he signed it with a flourish. The fabric was dense enough that the ink didn’t even smear. He handed it back to Artie, who gave it to Margie.
She pressed it against her sequined chest. “Oh, thank you. And I’m so sorry you aren’t feeling well. I hope you’ll be up to your next concert at Sanderson Hall. We have tickets and we just can’t wait.”
François swallowed visibly, and a huge crease appeared between his brows.
Uh-oh. That doesn’t look promising. Artie nodded at the people and said, “François doesn’t keep his own schedule, so I don’t think he even knows. But I’m sure you’ll see him soon.”
“Oh, I certainly hope you’ll be doing that concert.” She lowered her voice. “We kind of cleaned out the savings to get the very best seats.”
Artie put a gentle hand on her arm. “Well, aren’t you sweet. Thank you again for stopping to say hi.”
“We just feel so lucky to have gotten to meet you in person, François. Hope we see you again.” Her husband tugged at her arm and she backed up, waggling her fingers toward François
. She glanced at Artie. “You too. Are you François’s boyfriend?”
Artie froze. Fuuuuck.
François found his voice. “Artie’s a friend. Just a friend.”
“Oh, of course. Good to meet you, Artie. Byyyye.” She surrendered to her husband’s pulling.
When they finally disappeared, François released a long noisy breath. Artie’s heart hadn’t stopped slamming in his ears. First time. Nobody’d ever accused him of being gay in public before. Sometimes guys in the gay bars he sneaked into didn’t believe he was gay when he told them.
François stared at him. “I’m so sorry.”
Their waiter hurried over. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Desmarais. I was going to step in and ask them to leave, but then it seemed like your companion had it under control. I hope they weren’t disturbing you.”
Artie still kept his body angled in such a way as to block anyone from getting to François. He took a breath. “No, it was fine. They were fans, and you never want to piss fans off, right?” He smiled.
“Can I bring you a complimentary after-dinner drink?”
Artie looked at François, who shook his head. Artie said, “No, thanks. Maybe another time. Just the bill, please.”
“Right away sir.” The waiter looked worriedly at François, then rushed away.
Artie sat next to François again. “Are you okay?”
“Th-thank you. When I was at Sanderson Hall, a fan sneaked backstage and attacked me. When this woman came at me, that was all I could think of.”
Artie carefully placed a warm hand on François’s arm. “You’re okay now. Don’t worry.”
François layered his hand on top of Artie’s and squeezed tight. “Thanks to you, but God. I can’t believe my mother went ahead with the Sanderson concert. I thought she canceled it after the incident with that horrible person.” He gripped Artie’s hand so tight it would probably leave marks. “I don’t want to go back there, Artie. I feel like B-1 bombers are flying through my gut just thinking about it.”
“Are you sure she didn’t cancel? Maybe they were wrong?”
François shook his head. “No, they would have refunded the ticket holders right away. The concert is this weekend. I don’t want to.” His voice came out as a wail.
The waiter was almost at the table with the check and stepped back as if he didn’t want to get involved in the drama. Artie extended his hand and smiled.
The waiter put the tray with the bill in his hand and hurried way.
Artie set it on the table and turned back to François, and his hand that was losing blood circulation. “Don’t assume. Better ask your mother first, okay?”
“You come with me.”
“Where?”
“To talk to my mother.”
Holy shit! He sat back, extricating his hand. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, François. I think that would piss her off and make things worse.”
“Don’t care. I won’t ask her if you don’t come with me.”
“Hey, man, you’re not twelve. You don’t need me.”
“Yes, I do.” He stared intently at Artie with those crystal eyes and set his jaw so tightly the muscle jumped. Artie fought down the thrill that tiptoed through him at François’s stubbornness. Hell, whoever wanted me for anything except a small handout? Still, take on Madame? Suicidal, and he could lose JT’s job. That would be bad.
“Come on, François. She’ll fire me. That’s not just my income, it means she might let my boss go, which isn’t fair.”
“She won’t do any of those things if I tell her not to.”
“Yes, she will.”
He cocked his head. “Artie, who do you think pays for that house and the building of the apartment she’s pictured me living in forever?”
“You?”
“Of course.”
Man, he really hadn’t considered that. Suddenly he looked up. “Wait. I thought we were building a guesthouse.”
François sighed. “No. She thinks I’m going to want to be independent and have my own place soon, and she thinks she can keep me near her by building the separate house.”
“Well, jeez, François. If you’re paying for it, tell her you don’t want to live in her backyard. Why waste all that money?”
His voice seemed to stop in his throat with a little eep sound; then he stared at his hands folded on the table. “I, uh, I’m not sure—” He paused a long time, and Artie wanted to shake him. Finally he said, “I’m not sure what I want.” He glanced up. “I’m not sure where or how I want to live, but I do know I’d like you to come with me to talk to my mother.” He inhaled slowly through his nose. “When it comes to my performance schedule, I tend to get, uh, a little emotional. Then I’m not much good in any kind of intelligent conversation. You soothe me.”
“What?”
He held up a hand. “Sorry, I know that sounds weird, but for some reason I feel calmer when you’re around. Maybe it’s because I don’t think you have any agenda and you like my music and you don’t assume I have to be”—he waved the raised hand—“who I am.”
Artie tried not to smile. Jesus, if I get any more conceited, I’ll need a bigger shirt—and bigger pants, because having that gorgeous man say I soothe him does not soothe my cock. He shifted to try to get comfortable. “When do you want to have this conversation?”
“Now. Tonight.”
Oh man, I could be unemployed by tomorrow. He wiped a hand over the back of his neck.
Suddenly François put a hand over his face. “God, I’m sorry. This isn’t fair at all. I don’t mean to be a prima donna.” He pressed his long-fingered hand to Artie’s forearm. “You’re off the hook. Don’t pay any attention to me.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and slapped a credit card on the check. Without even looking, he held out the leather folder with the card sticking out, and the waiter hurried forward and grabbed it.
Imagine being so certain that other people are going to do what you want. Oh God, including me. The sheer electricity of having someone as amazing as François need him for something lit him up inside. It seemed like the only friend he had was his mother, and she had a lot of agendas. “I’ll go home with you. Wait, that came out wrong. I’ll be there when you talk to your mother. If she’s available tonight, then we’ll do it tonight, but if she’s already gone to bed, no go. I’m not waking her up or dragging her out in her nighty while I’m there.”
“Really? Oh my God, that’s a deal. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The waiter must have seen François smile, because he rushed over with the bill. Probably figured he’d get a bigger tip if François was happy. François scrawled his name, added some outrageous amount, and pushed the bill back. Yep, the waiter guessed right.
François scooted out of the booth like someone had set fire to his tail.
Okay, then. Artie slid out his side and hurried to get near François. Obviously he was so determined to talk to his mother that night, he’d forgotten about the crowds in the lobby. Yeah, until he got there and freaked. Artie put a restraining hand on François’s shoulder. “Wait. Let me go first, okay?”
“Oh—” His eyes widened.
Artie slipped in front and positioned himself so he was between François and the crush of people spilling out of the overcrowded bar. “Excuse me.” He pressed against the side of a guy who staggered backward with a sloshing martini in his hand.
“Oh, sorry, man.” The guy laughed and kept weaving, bumping Artie and pushing him back against François.
François staggered back a little and suddenly grasped Artie’s hand. Warm soft and—holy shit. Artie wanted to let go, but François was holding on for dear life, and Artie could feel him shaking.
The drunk glanced down and got a wry smile on his lips. “Hope I didn’t hurt your boyfriend.” The last word sneered a path up Artie’s spine.
Fuck. That was two times he’d been called gay that night. Gritting his teeth, Artie pulled himself up to his full height, whic
h had a couple inches on the drunk. He pressed his face closer. “Have a nice day.” Pulling on François’s hand, he got to the front door and opened it. François finally let go in order to escape into the cool night air.
By the time Artie caught up with François, he was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, his shoulders shaking. Oh no. He put a hand on the quivering shoulder. “Are you okay? Don’t cry. It’s going to be fine.”
François stood, gasping for breath. “Oh my God. Have a nice day?” He burst back into hysterical laughter.
“What are you—are you laughing?”
“Of course I’m laughing. I can’t believe you said that.” He wrapped both arms around Artie’s neck and squeezed. “You’re amazing.”
Artie froze, but the idea that François thought he was amazing made him want to hug back. He fought the urge.
Much too soon, François pulled away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Still chuckling, he pulled out his phone and sent a text, then tucked the phone back in his pocket. “I really am grateful. I still can’t believe you thought to tell that woman I had a cold so she wouldn’t feel like I didn’t want to hug her.” He shook his head. “How did you ever think of that?”
Artie shrugged. “She seemed like a big fan. Didn’t want to piss her off.”
The limo pulled up at the curb in front of them and Joseph hopped out, circled the car, and opened the back door. They slid into the cool comfort of the big vehicle.
When Joseph climbed back into his seat, François said, “You’d have been proud of Artie, Joseph. He kept me from making a total fool of myself by melting down in the middle of the restaurant.”
Joseph turned with a frown. “What happened?”
Artie glanced at François. “Just a rabid fan who didn’t understand personal space.”
François waved his hands. “But Artie was brilliant. He kept them away from me without strong-arming anyone. He was grand.”
Joseph glanced at Artie and gave him a nod. “Should I go speak to the management at the restaurant?”
Artie shook his head. “No. They got the message.”
“I just forgot it was meat-market night.” François made a face. “Take us home, please, Joseph. I need to talk to Mother.”
