“Joey and Terence, you’re a team!” Chef Dharma smiled maniacally. Her eyeteeth looked like fangs.
“Christ! How am I supposed to work with that old geezer?” Joey pulled the tea towel from his belt and whacked it against the counter behind them. The camera crew loved those little flourishes.
Terence looked straight into the camera. “Joey is an entitled douche bag. But I won’t let him be the end of me.”
They glared at each other as they walked to their station. Three metal cloches sat on top of it.
Chef Riordan stepped forward to give the contestants their next set of instructions. “Under the cloches are mystery ingredients that will help us get to the root of your baking skills. Don’t worry, you won’t have to use all the ingredients—just the one under the first cloche you pick up. The three ingredients are the same at each table, but ordered at random. You may lift any cloche you choose. Zina and Sandra, begin.”
Zina was the ninety-pound elf-éclair woman. She picked up her middle cloche to reveal a big hunk of ginger root. Pfft, thought Joey. Ginger wasn’t a challenge. It was a dessert staple.
The next team got carrots. Not quite as easy as ginger, but carrots could work in cookies, cakes, and sweetbreads, or even in a custard filling—anywhere that pumpkin or yams would work, with a few tweaks.
Joey had been ouija board king back in high school and had even gotten into ghost-hunting for a while. He wasn’t actively doing the psychic stuff anymore, but he still had a killer sixth sense, and he had an awesome feeling about the middle of his three cloches. It was either ginger or something better than ginger.
He nodded toward Terence but didn’t look at his face. Terence’s face was distracting, and Joey didn’t need that now. “I’ll pick our mystery ingredient. I don’t trust you not to fuck it up.”
“Whatever gets your rocks off, kid.”
Joey lifted the cloche.
For the first few milliseconds, he didn’t register what the thing in front of him was. It was reddish brown like a bleeding turd, round as a baseball, and smelled like dirt. Then Joey’s brain caught up with the image. “Holy fucking shit! What the fuck are we supposed to do with a goddamn beet?”
Zina tittered. Hurricane Katrina guy smirked. Joey lost sight of what the other contestants were doing because he was too busy seeing red.
“Contestants, you have three hours to make three amazing desserts. Begin!”
Joey kicked whatever his feet could reach. He sent an empty compost bin skittering across the floor, dented a stainless steel oven door, and stubbed his toes on the maple flooring.
Someone touched his forearm. He instinctively did the wax-off move from Karate Kid, trying to fling the hand away, but it held. It was strong and calloused, and as warm as Joey’s raging blood. “Calm your tits, kid. I got this.”
Joey looked up. He saw steel-blue eyes offset by brown skin. He got muddled for a moment, lost in thoughts of candied violets and chicory blossoms atop chocolate petit fours.
Terence. It was Terence.
Terence smiled, baring teeth as sparkly as crystal sugar.
“The fuck you’ve got this,” Joey said. “This is the end of the road for you and me both. Who wants to eat beets in dessert?”
“Old hippies and nouveau riche hipsters, and I’ve baked plenty for both of them.” Terence radiated composure. It seeped from his hand into Joey’s skin, and then into his capillaries. Within moments, it circulated through his whole body, this strange, odd sense of certainty that everything was going to be okay.
“I hate you,” Joey said, but it lacked the usual venom.
“Yeah, you’ve said it a million times. You’re a broken record.” Terence turned away, leaning down into the under-counter fridge to pull out eggs, heavy cream, milk, butter, and limes. “God, you probably don’t even know what a broken record sounds like. An infant, that’s what you are. But you’re going to have to grow up now.”
“I know what a record is, geezer.” Joey reached for the tub of pastry flour. Even if he had no idea what the plan of attack was, they would certainly need that.
“Only because you saw them in some nostalgic window display at Urban Outfitters, I bet.”
That was close enough to the truth to make Joey’s face go hot.
Terence smirked. “You’re red as a beet. Portends well for us, don’t you think?”
“Not if we don’t have any ideas.”
“I’ve got plenty, beet-boy. You ready to listen to me?”
Damn those sugared-violet eyes. Joey couldn’t bear their gaze. He looked at the floor. “I got nothing, old man.”
“Right, then. Here’s what we do.” Their pièce de résistance was going to be an entremets—a classic French dessert with contrasting layers of cakes and creams. They would start with a beet-brownie base, topped by cocoa-nib praline for crunch, a pink beet-lime sponge cake, chocolate cremeux, beet panna cotta, and a pale green whipped lime mousse. They would encase it in dark chocolate ganache and top it with a beet-colored fondant rose.
Joey could picture it perfectly: precisely defined layers of brown, fuchsia, and green; the contrasting notes of bitter, zest, sweet, and earthy dancing into a unified whole. His cock went from down-in-the-dumps to half-mast. He glanced around to make sure no cameras were on him, then adjusted himself through his jeans. “But that’s only one thing. We’ve got to make three.”
“The other two will be a hell of a lot easier. You ever had gajar halwa?”
Carrot-and-cardamom pudding? Of course Joey knew it. His next-door neighbors growing up had been Indian and cooked it every year for Diwali. He nodded.
“Well, you can also make it with beets. So we do baklava layered with beet-carrot halwa and chopped pistachios.”
Joey’s cock scooted farther up the flagpole. He shifted his legs and tried to get it to go toward his left pocket so it wouldn’t press against his zipper. A camera turned toward him. He squatted out of sight, fishing in the cupboard for cardamom, cocoa, and pistachios. “What else? If beets work in brownies, I guess we could do chocolate-beet donuts. But I’m not sure that’s gonna cut it around here. Kind of simple, not really dessert.”
Terence didn’t laugh or sneer. He simply said, “You’re right. No donuts. Let’s do a Schichttorte with alternating layers of beet and white cake, glazed with pomegranate jelly and white chocolate.”
Damn, Terence really was good. And Joey’s dick was the size of a jumbo éclair. If only he had time to run to the bathroom and let its creamy filling spurt.
He closed his eyes and pictured Chef Riordan barking, You call that bread? Your dough is raw!
Joey’s cock started to shrivel almost immediately.
“You down with the plan, kid?” Terence’s voice came from above. The usual malice was gone. All that was left was authority and indefatigable calm. “We need to get cracking.”
Joey looked up. Terence’s eyes were on him, cool as two blueberries fresh from the fridge. “Yes, chef. I’m with you.”
They started with the beets. Joey peeled them; Terence ran them through the food processors. Their station was huge, with three ovens, three mixers, six burners, and a large butcher-block counter. Still, they couldn’t avoid incursions into each other’s physical space. Their arms brushed as they reached for this or that, making the fine hairs on Joey’s forearm stand on end—something they did whenever he was turned on or terrified.
“Now start the phyllo dough. You know how to make that, right?” Terence’s sneer was back.
“I’ve been making phyllo since I was in diapers.”
“So, that’s been maybe two weeks?”
Joey snapped his tea towel across Terence’s infuriatingly perky ass.
“I’m too old for spankings, kid.” Terence started the food processor back up.
“Oh, yeah?” Joey tossed the tea towel on the counter and used his bare hand instead. Terence’s ass did indeed spring back just like a perfectly proofed loaf of bread.
“You try t
hat again, and you won’t see what’s coming to you.”
Joey took it as a dare and was just about to smack that perky loaf again when Chef Dharma interrupted with an infuriated “What the hell is going on here? You guys want to fight or win?”
“Win, chef,” they muttered in meek unison.
“Good. Now tell me your plan.”
Terence sniggered. “Go on, tell her the brilliant ideas you came up with, Joey.”
Joey swallowed his pride and went over the details of Terence’s plan for Chef Dharma and the cameras as he started the phyllo dough.
“Sounds good, if you two manage not to kill each other first,” she said when he was done.
The next few hours were a blur. Terence was the brains of the operation, and both were the brawn. Joey was on automatic pilot. Mixing. Kneading. Melting. Chopping. Tasting the beet-infused batters and discovering them to be pleasantly sweet and piquant, not like dirt at all. Opening the oven every five minutes to add another layer to the Schichttorte. Doing sprints back and forth between the station and the blast chiller.
Joey was surprised by how few occasions he had to send barbs in Terence’s direction. The man seemed to read his thoughts and agree to the next step in their plan of attack before it was even fully formed in his mind. He’d gear up to shout at Terence for not starting the panna cotta yet, and Terence would be on it already, stirring gelatin into the slurry of beet juice and heavy cream. They developed a consistent rhythm, as smooth and well oiled as the perfect handjob.
Terence spoke a little more than Joey. “Don’t skimp on the limes, kid. The acid is what preserves the pink color during the bake,” he said when Joey was mixing the sponge cake. And later, “Chop the pistachios a little smaller.”
Joey yes, cheffed him and did as he was told. He wasn’t going to spit in his own eye. The only thing he hated more than Terence was losing.
Two hours in, Terence said the weirdest thing. “You should make the pomegranate jelly, kid. You’re better at it than me.”
Joey’s heart pounded something crazy inside his chest, harder than it had all morning. “Excuse me, chef?”
“You heard me.” Terence didn’t look up from his fondant.
“Yeah, dude. But I want you to repeat it, just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Because I’m pretty sure you just said—”
“Don’t let it go to your head, kid. You do one thing in the kitchen better than me. I do ninety-nine better than you.”
“Still, you admitted—”
“Make the fucking jelly already.”
Joey’s cock sprang up. He didn’t even bother trying to hide its outline from the cameras. Let pervy home viewers find it through his apron and gif it all over the Internet. Joey was champion of the world. Terence F. Greene had just admitted Joey did something better than him.
The meltdown came fifteen minutes later. “I forgot to put the sugar in the jelly! What the fuck is wrong with me?” Joey dropped the hot saucepan into the sink. Pomegranate slurry sloshed over the rim. He collapsed against the counter. No point in continuing now.
Bang! Terence’s fist came down next to Joey’s head. “Stand straight, soldier!” Joey jolted up.
Terence’s cheeks were beet red, his eyes steely. “Ever since I got here, kid, you’ve been prancing around like a goddamn peacock, going on about how much better you are than the rest of us. Well, now’s your chance to prove it.”
Blood surged to Joey’s groin. God, not another boner. “Yes, chef.”
Terence spun Joey back toward the sink and gave him a sharp slap on the ass. Joey’s boner grew bigger. He ignored it, focusing instead on making pomegranate jelly properly this time.
“Ten minutes, chefs!” called Chef Riordan.
Joey poured the glaze over the Schichttorte while Terence drenched the baklava in syrup.
“Five, minutes, chefs!”
Joey cut out fondant petals while Terence rolled them into roses.
“One minute, chefs!”
Terence straightened and set out the entremets. Joey added a pomegranate icing swirl to the Schichttorte that catapulted it from awesome to superb.
“Time’s up, chefs!”
Joey’s hand brushed against Terence’s as they jumped back from their station. Joey grabbed on to it, gave it a congratulatory squeeze, and didn’t let go.
Couldn’t let go.
Because what he saw in front of him was pastry perfection. The Schichttorte shone. The baklava was golden and crisp. The entremets looked like edible bits of rainbow.
Terence’s hand was warm in Joey’s. His callused thumb fit perfectly in the divots of Joey’s knuckles. “We did it, kid.”
Joey smiled so hard his face hurt. He turned to find Terence smiling just as broadly, the corners of his eyes crinkling like the surface of baked saragli.
Chef Riordan’s voice broke through Joey’s reverie. “The carrot team has only completed two desserts. Carrot team, would you like to explain?”
Hurricane Katrina guy stepped forward. “We couldn’t agree on a third one, chef.”
“You do understand that’s an automatic disqualification, don’t you?”
“Yes, chef.”
Chef Riordan sighed. “Fine. Everybody back in three hours for your formal critiques. But I might as well tell you now, Chef Dan and Chef Charlotte, you’ll be turning in your aprons.”
Joey’s reaction was instinctive. He let out a whoop and flung himself forward into Terence’s arms. They closed around each other simultaneously—Joey squeezing Terence’s shoulders, Terence clasping Joey around the waist with his broad hands.
“We did it! Holy hell!” Joey couldn’t stop babbling or bouncing on his toes, and Terence couldn’t stop laughing, his chest rumbling like a stand mixer against Joey’s chest, his lips as tempting as caramel cream.
Joey’s cock stiffened. Damn, he wanted to taste that mouth.
“Do you have the balls, kid?” Terence’s eyes were warmer than Joey had ever seen them, two lavender sugar cookies fresh from the oven. He pulled Joey closer, hip to hip, snug like icing on cake.
Terence was hard, too. “Bigger balls than you, old man.”
“Prove it.”
Joey collided into Terence’s mouth. They both grunted at the impact but didn’t flinch. Terence lowered one hand to Joey’s ass as he tugged Joey’s bottom lip between his teeth. “Didn’t think you had it in you, kid.”
Joey wound his fingers into Terence’s silver-sugar hair. “I’m up to every challenge.”
The next kiss was interrupted by an ear-piercing “Arah begorra!” from Chef Riordan. Joey spun away from Terence to find every camera in the room trained on them.
The sound of a lone person clapping started from the corner of the room. It spread like an oil fire until everybody was cheering, even the two contestants just kicked off the show. As Hurricane Katrina guy said in an interview recorded later, “Everybody knew those two were hot for each other from the beginning. Seeing them finally get the memo almost made it worth losing. Almost.”
Joey saw his opportunity to own this. He looked straight into the lens of the nearest camera and shouted over the applause, “America, I think I’ve finally met my match!”
More whooping. The director called cut. Joey and Terence sprinted to the dorm.
“Still hate me, motherfucker?” Terence said as he tossed a shirtless Joey onto his bed.
“For as long as you keep your clothes on.” Joey wriggled out of his pants and briefs in the same move. His own dick was as big as a hoagie roll.
Terence pulled off his shirt and jeans but left on his blue briefs. “Maybe I want you to hate me. Maybe I get off on it.”
“You’re gonna get off regardless. I’ll make sure of that.”
Terence’s cock sprang free when Joey tugged the blue briefs down, precome flowing from the tip like glaze from a pastry tube. Joey licked his lips.
“You want that, kid?”
“Yeah.”
“Then take
it.” Terence nudged the tip of his cock against Joey’s lips, coaxing them open.
Joey hummed happily as he licked the salty glaze.
Terence chuckled. “Always thought you hated my cock, the way you glare at it in the hall.”
“I hated it. I wanted it. What’s the difference?”
“What’s the difference, indeed?”
Terence sank into Joey’s mouth, his shaft hard as toffee, his skin smooth as icing on a cruller. Joey swallowed greedily around him, taking more and more until Terence was in as far as he could go, salty glaze dripping on the back of Joey’s tongue where things always tasted best.
“I hate to say it, but you’re good at this, kid,” Terence moaned. “Real good.” But it wasn’t long before he pulled out with a sudden sucking swoop.
“Hey, I wasn’t done!”
“But I would’ve been done if you’d kept going.”
“No harm in that.” Joey tongued at Terence’s juicy nuts. “My favorite part of eating cannoli is sucking out the cream.”
“But I’m not cannoli. I’m bread. You can’t rush the process.”
“So if you’re bread…” Joey flipped Terence onto his stomach and ran his fingers over his luscious ass, working his thumbs into the crease where each cheek joined its muscular thigh. “I should knead you until you’re nice and springy, like this.” Joey squeezed Terence’s ass cheeks.
Terence moaned into the pillow. “Noticed you couldn’t keep away from my ass in the kitchen, either.”
“Can you blame me? It’s perfect.”
“You’re admitting something about me is perfect?”
“Damn near everything about you is perfect. That’s why I’ve hated you for so long.” Joey parted the two round buns. Terence’s pucker looked like the pinched hole of a mini-donut, sugary and tender. Joey gave it a tentative lick, and then a firmer one. The skin was buttery smooth as a croissant, silken as ganache, velvety as a Sachertorte. The taste was better than a choux pastry’s.
Men in Love: M/M Romance Page 4
