by Brandon Witt
Kevin cut him off. “No. Goodness, no. That’s not what I’m suggesting. Give me a second. Let me get this out.”
“It’s okay. Take your time.”
It had to be a good sign that Scott was acting genuinely kind, but it grated on Kevin’s nerves. Made him want to lash out.
“I need help with a loan. That’s all. The moms and Beatrice, Francesca, and Anthony are all going to take out second mortgages to get a sizable down payment. And I have some in savings. Enough to be a good down payment on a house, not enough for something like this.”
Scott waited for a moment, maybe making sure Kevin was done. “And, you’re what? Just wanting me to push the loan through?”
Kevin nodded.
This time Scott’s laugh had a touch of bitterness in it as well. “So you did pay attention. I never thought you understood what an underwriter does.”
“I have a rough idea. I can’t say I totally understand.”
“And no posters or PowerPoint presentations?” Scott leaned forward, peering beside where Kevin sat, as if looking for hidden prompts. “I’d have expected more from you.”
The heat rising to his cheeks made him angry, but Kevin pushed the emotion away. “There isn’t time. The building isn’t on the market, but soon will be. This all has to happen quickly.”
Scott’s eyes narrowed. “When did you say you inspected this brownstone?”
“I haven’t, remember?” This wasn’t going to work. Scott was going to say no. “I just saw it the night before last.”
“Seriously? It’s not even been two days and you’re just jumping into this? Sylvie is going to flip her shit.”
“I told her yesterday.”
“Holy fuck.” Scott gaped at him, an unfamiliar look in his eyes. “Who are you? You don’t even pick out new shoes without a week of deliberation.”
If only he knew the answer to that question. “It’s now or never.”
Scott continued to inspect him in silence.
Probably never.
It took all of Kevin’s willpower to keep silent and not throw himself away from the table.
At last, Scott let out a breath and nodded. “Okay. So here’s how this will work. I will have a loan officer contact you today. If you really need this to happen fast, we have to get the paperwork going today. Give me everyone else’s numbers, and I’ll have her contact them to get the seconds all going as well. You haven’t tried to put in an offer yet, have you?”
The world stopped spinning. There were no noises to be heard. Even Kevin’s heart quit beating. It must have. And nothing Scott had just said made any sense at all.
“Kev?” This time Scott did touch Kevin’s hand. “Are you okay?”
Kevin looked down, seeing Scott’s perfectly manicured hands covering his own. He didn’t want to pull away, so he didn’t. Tearing his gaze away from their hands, he looked up at Scott’s concerned face. “Did you just say yes?”
He smiled. “Yeah. We can do this.”
“Will you get into trouble?”
Scott shrugged and then shook his head. “My job is to make sure the bank doesn’t lose money or take on overly risky loans. If it were anyone else, there’s no way I’d let this slip by my desk. No past business history. A multimillion-dollar property. Whatever the start-up costs are going to be. I can’t even imagine.” He shook his head in wonder. “Actually, I can. You’ll probably need a couple hundred thousand outside the cost of property to keep you afloat and help get the place how you want it. There’s no way this loan should be approved, but I’m not exactly breaking any laws if I sign off on it either. And then Angie, the loan officer I’ll hook you and the family up with, will owe me big-time for the commission she’ll get from all these.”
“You’re really saying yes?” Kevin’s brain was sort of coming back to life. Kinda.
“I do have one caveat, though. And you’ll need to be okay with this for me to be willing. You and your family.”
He’d known it was too good.
Scott removed his hand from covering Kevin’s. Its absence left a chill. “For this to look at all on the up-and-up, the money from your family can’t just be gifts for the down payment. I’ll need them to all be on the loan with you. In other words, they would be owners in the business as well. It wouldn’t only be your business.”
Though he didn’t love the idea of that, it was a small price to pay in the scheme of things. “Okay. I can handle that.”
“Okay, good to know that you didn’t completely comprehend what I do and what it means.” Scott’s grin reemerged. “That’s not the only aspect that matters. It has to be okay with your family too. What that means is, by each one of them being co-owners, if you default on the loan or the business fails, each of them will be fiscally responsible as well.”
Maybe his brain still wasn’t quite back up to speed. “I don’t get the difference.”
“Well, if they just gave you the money as a gift or informal loan, and the shop doesn’t make it and you can’t pay back the loan, the bank is shit out of luck. Your family would just lose the money they’d gifted. As owners, they’re responsible for the entirety of the loan too. The bank can hold each of them responsible for repayment of the loan.”
“Oh.” So his dream could cost half of his family everything if it failed. Suddenly the air seemed to be exiting the coffee shop. He already knew they’d say yes. The real question was if he was truly selfish enough to let them take that risk just so he could open his shop.
He already knew the answer to that as well.
“Actually, Kev, there’s one more thing that would make this loan look better.”
Unable to form words, Kevin nodded for Scott to continue.
“Your debt to income is going to be ridiculous, obliviously. We need to cut down your expenses that aren’t associated with the business. How much are you paying for rent?”
“Thirty-six hundred a month.”
“Hmm, that’s actually a little less than I figured for Beacon Hill, but still.”
“It’s okay. Mom already brought that up. My lease is up in December, anyway. Perfect timing, really.” Another wave of claustrophobia rolled over Kevin. “It looks like I’m moving back home for the foreseeable future.”
CASPER
CASPER MADE it until four in the afternoon before he could take no more. He tossed the last load of laundry onto his bed, grabbed his winter clothes, and ran down the two flights of rickety stairs. He knew he’d regret it when he got back home and wanted to fall into bed and had a pile of clothes waiting to be folded and put away. Whatever. He’d just scoot them onto the floor, or sleep on top of them for all he cared. Anything to get out of the house.
Living with four other people was never easy, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure why he had ever thought having three of those people in school getting their degrees in music theory, conducting, and the like would be a good idea. Oh, right. Money. At least the fourth roommate was another chef, so he was rarely there. But the other three… you’d think they were never in school. Always clacking around on their keyboards, running scales, playing some long-dead piece of music. Even when they weren’t practicing, they were whistling, humming, and drumming their fingers on any available hard surface. They couldn’t seem to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the need to make noise. And he was only halfway through a two-year lease. What was wrong with him?
Oh, yeah. That again. Money. He could use all the money he’d been saving by living with roommates the majority of his adult life to get his own spot. He could. But that money was for bigger things than a place to live. It was for his dream. To make his life the way he really wanted it.
However, maybe it wasn’t worth it. Another off-tune hummed sonata and Casper was going to find out how much damage he could do with a music stand until the police were called.
Stepping out into the frigid December day, he slammed the red door behind him with as much force as he could muster. He glanced up at the sky, cloudy a
nd already giving in to the hue of evening. One day off in two weeks, and he’d missed the whole damned thing catching up on chores and listening to the three most annoying people in Beacon Hill. No. In the world. The most annoying people in the entire world.
He’d barely made it a block before an older woman bumped into him, knocking him off balance. “Geesh, watch where you’re going, lady.”
She muttered a quick apology.
Casper pulled his jacket tighter with a huff, took another two steps, and then stopped.
Who the hell was this person? It couldn’t be him. He’d never spoken to anyone like that. Especially some old grandma. He peered sheepishly over his shoulder. The woman was still hobbling down the sidewalk.
In a few long strides, he caught up to her and lightly touched her arm.
She looked over at him and flinched, eyes wide.
“Madam, I’m so sorry. I’m not myself today. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She mumbled something that was indiscernible. She still looked afraid.
Really looking at her, Casper realized she was probably homeless or a little off mentally. Something wasn’t quite right. “Really, I’m so very sorry. May I buy you a cup of coffee or something?”
The lady only shook her head but looked slightly less panicked.
Casper noticed her shivering. She had on a dirty woolen jacket but nothing else winter related. On impulse he unwound his navy blue scarf and slipped it over her neck.
Again she flinched but said nothing.
In two swift yanks, he removed his gloves and held them out to her. “Please, madam, take these as an apology. Again, I am so sorry. It’s too cold to be out and about without a scarf and gloves.”
She still didn’t respond, but she flicked her gaze to his, quickly took the gloves, and began to trundle away once more.
He watched her for several seconds, both concerned about her well-being and also repulsed by himself. The breeze finally drew his attention away from the woman. Casper hadn’t been exaggerating; it was too cold to be outside in anything less than winter gear.
The red door was visible from where he stood. For a moment, he considered going back in and retrieving another scarf and pair of gloves. The clacking of a keyboard reached his ears, whether actually drifting down from a window or from his own imagining, he wasn’t certain.
Screw it. He’d rather freeze. He was only a few blocks from his destination anyway.
On his way, he passed between the parks. Children were screeching in excited joy from the ice-skating rink in Boston Common.
No more noise. For the love of sanity, No. More. Noise.
Picking up his pace, Casper closed the last two blocks in record speed. And then he was there, throwing open the door of Tatte Bakery and stepping inside.
Miracles of miracles. There was only one other patron in the place. Typically there was a line around the pastry counter. He let out a sigh of relief.
He loved this bakery. So warm. Bright. Clean. Some of the most beautiful pastries in the city. Already the sensation that he was losing his sanity began to dissipate.
“So you coming in to eat or just to stand creepily in our doorway?”
Casper looked toward the voice and smiled. “Hi, Charu. No. I’m definitely here to eat.”
She picked up a small macaroon and held it toward him with steel tongs. “The usual?”
He left his place at the door and met her from the other side of the counter. “Goodness, no. Screw the calories. Today I don’t care.” He scanned the limitless bounty spread over the gray-and-white marble. “That! That’s the winner!” He pointed at a personal, yet sizable, tart with half of a golden baked pear, complete with its stem, on top.
Charu smiled wryly at him. “Really? I figured if you were going to splurge, you’d have gone with one of your own creations.”
“I’ve already acted like too much of an ass today. Let’s not add being pretentious to the descriptors. Would you warm it up in one of the ovens for a few minutes, though?”
“Hmm, so, not pretentious, but persnickety?”
“I prefer the term particular.”
She laughed. “Oh, sweetie. I know, I know.” After popping the tart into an oven, Charu met Casper at the register. “Coffee?”
“Did you catch that it’s a calories-don’t-exist day? I want a chai. A big one.” Just being in Tatte made him feel more like himself. “Man, it’s good to be in here.”
Charu nodded as she fiddled with the milk steamer. “You’ve not been in for weeks, unless you came during one of my off shifts.”
“No. No time. Being the head pastry chef at a fancy hotel isn’t all the glamour you’ve been led to believe.”
“Of that I am certain. Still, don’t forget your best friend who hasn’t clawed her way up that ladder quite yet.” She looked over her shoulder toward the clattering of pans and whispered, “Of course, you could lower yourself back down. I can figure out a way to get Thomas fired. You could have your old job back.”
“As much as that sounds wonderful, no. I need the larger paycheck, unfortunately. Besides, where would Thomas go?”
Charu offered an exaggerated shrug. “Who cares? As long as it’s not here.”
“Looks like I’m not the only one in a bitchy mood today.”
She waved him off. “Seriously, he won’t take no for an answer. He keeps inviting me to his church, telling me it’s gay friendly. As if it doesn’t matter that I’m a Buddhist.”
“A nonpracticing one.”
She tilted her chin. “Depends on the day.”
Casper leaned closer. “And is there something you’ve been neglecting to tell me? Are you a lesbian now?”
She cocked an eyebrow playfully at him. “You wish, honey.”
He giggled. “That doesn’t even make sense, Charu.”
“Oh, shut up.”
OVER AN hour and a half and two more pastries later, Casper was on the Orange Line headed to South End. Maybe due to the pastries, or maybe it was Charu, who was one of his favorite people he’d ever worked with, but whatever the reason, he felt back to normal. Happy, cheerful, and hopeful. Much better.
He also felt horny.
How long since he’d gotten laid? It had been on his last day off, so, two weeks… too long. And he hadn’t heard from Brent since.
Maybe call Brent again?
No.
No. Tonight, he wouldn’t submit to simple ease. Tonight was a full-tart kind of night, not a tiny macaroon.
The Eagle was just what he needed.
Good food, a good friend, some great sex, and he’d be ready to dive back into another long stint at work. Actually it didn’t even have to be great sex. Sex of any flavor would suffice. And honestly, while preferable, even if that didn’t work out, just time away from the constant clicking, clacking, and whistling for the evening was all that was truly needed.
Casper had been to the Eagle in other places, mainly New York and Denver, and neither was really in the heart of things. Well, the one in NYC was in Chelsea, surrounded by all things queer, but the one in Denver was way out in the ghetto. That particular bar wasn’t going to show up in Times Square or Denver’s Larimer Street anytime soon. The Boston location always shocked him. Right on Tremont, next to an endless supply of fancy restaurants. Directly across the street from the Boston Center for the Arts, of all places. Granted, it wasn’t quite as gritty and dirty as some of the other Eagles, but being located in the heart of such refinery made what grit it did have even more exciting.
Casper bustled along Tremont, the night getting ever colder. Less than a block away from the Eagle, Casper noticed an ivy-covered brownstone with its windows papered. It struck him as strange. It was a beautiful building, but with its windows blacked out, it had an abandoned feel. And that didn’t belong in this neighborhood at all. The place had to be for sale. Probably already sold. No way would a location like that stay on the market for long. He paused j
ust long enough to dream. That was the reason for the endless string of multiple roommates for his entire adult life. The reason he worked billion-hour weeks to claw his way up Boston’s culinary world. He wasn’t insane enough to think for a second that his dream would take shape in one of the historic areas of the city, much less here, but it was a nice fantasy, albeit brief.
LESS THAN a minute in the Eagle and Casper turned and left. Barely six in the evening. Saturday or not, you don’t go to a gay bar before ten. Period. He hadn’t been thinking. What could promise to be a dirty evening would quickly give way to depressing and sad, hanging out in a bar with three other people. Three really old other people. The ageist thought made him feel bad. But he was only thirty-three. He wanted to wait to be with dirty old men until he was one. Besides, at least he wasn’t yelling at them as they sat on their barstools. That was a behavior improvement, considering how his afternoon of freedom had started.
How to kill time for a while without waiting in the cold, which was now adding a light snow flurry to the mix…. He glanced around. People were milling about despite the weather. There was The Butcher Shop, a trendy little restaurant a couple of blocks away. They had a killer charcuterie. The thought of more food sounded horrid, though something that wasn’t based around sugar and carbs would probably be a good idea.
His gaze traveled across the street. The Boston Center for the Performing Arts. Casper sighed in longing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the theater. And he shouldn’t. That was money he had no business spending.
Still. He’d been working his ass off. Living in a homicide-inducing environment. Maybe he was due.
It was a Saturday evening. Chances were slim to nil. He’d just let fate decide. Not waiting for a crosswalk, he jogged across the street and made his way to the box office.
There was exactly one ticket left for the entire evening. Casper didn’t even ask the name of the play. You don’t question fate.
His seat was further proof of fate. One seat left for the entire evening, and it was dead center of the third row. Perfection. To top it off, he sat between a gorgeous giant of African descent and a pretty blond boy with too much mascara. They were both with dates, but who cared? What had started out shitty was turning into a rather remarkably peaceful evening. Who knew, one of the couples might be looking for a third later that evening. Who was Casper to say no if fate so provided?
