When he awoke the following morning, he stayed in bed in a rare and indulgent bout of leisure. For a long while he drifted comfortably in and out of sleep until he finally could do so no longer, then stood, stretched, and stepped over to the window. He drew back the dark red curtains to reveal a clear day, the sun bright and shining off the distant sea. It was the first day the weather had been so brilliant in awhile, and he knew it was a chance to leave, but he didn’t even consider taking it. He was here for now and what would come must.
He gathered up his gray suit and headed down the hall and into the powder room to find it once again empty. Inside there was silence but for the distant sound of a rattling pipe, and Anson had to assume it was another shower being had elsewhere in the building. It could have meant he was not the only guest in the building, or that Robert the clerk was getting cleaned up – he wasn’t sure which he preferred. The solitude was not a complete nightmare to him, but this big empty place could get lonely in time.
He shook himself. He would not stay long enough to find loneliness, as often as they’d met before, and pushed it forcibly from his mind as he turned on the shower. The water was hot enough to turn his skin bright red, but he stood there for far longer than he needed to, until he finally tired of it and then for awhile after. When he exited, dressed, and tousled his hair dry, he knew he did have two important things to do that day, and the first should have been done sooner rather than later given that it involved a healthy dose of caffeine.
He dropped his laundry in his room and headed downstairs, where he found Robert to be quite dry in both his crisp nod and physical appearance. Not alone, then, but he chose not to dwell on that for fear of some terrible and as of yet unnecessary paranoia. With a wave in return he stepped out into the day, still clear but quite cold, then to his car where he grabbed his jacket, leather gloves and a single bible from the trunk. The library wasn’t too far a walk, nothing in the town really was, so he found himself pulling open the mahogany doors quickly.
Once inside, he only had a moment to be grateful for the warmth before he saw David look to him expectantly, so he stepped forward, rubbed his tired eyes, and pulled out the bible.
“Wow.” David took it from his hands, a little too excited, and inspected the cover. “What a beauty.”
It was indeed a beautiful book, and must have been especially so for a man who lived his life surrounded by and embedded in them. The cover was sky blue, the inlay gold thread with pearl and jet beaded into patterns of the sun, the moon, the clouds of heaven, the devil. David took a moment to admire it, then set it against a slanted piece of wood meant to display it right there at his front desk.
“Thank you.” He said. “I’m sure the patrons will enjoy it.”
“I hope they do.” Anson responded. “Sophia in yet? I could use some caffeine.”
David nodded, and Anson went on his way as he pulled out another book to read. He could tell that was the sort of man to grow on you if you weren’t careful enough, and he supposed he ought to avoid even further attachment, but still chuckled to himself when he recalled the elation on the other man’s face when he’d seen such a pretty book.
He quickly found himself in the back of the library, and saw Sophia heating a kettle when he stepped forward. She looked up and smiled at the familiar face, and waved for him to come closer.
“Good morning.” She sang out all cheery. “What can I get you?”
He could smell coffee, hot and rich, and though he would have loved that the sudden image of Ruth came to mind. She got a cut from her floral teas, so he had to do right by her.
“What have you got with a ton of caffeine and some flowers thrown in?” He asked, and Sophia grinned.
“I’ve got some leftover hibiscus black tea from the summer.” She offered. “It’s tart, I recommend it.”
“I’ll take it.” He said, then watched her grab a small tin, again topped with writing he didn’t understand. “What language is that?”
“Mandarin.” She answered, then went uncharacteristically silent. He understood her concern; he was a stranger after all, and these weren’t the safest things to discuss at times. He mercifully changed the subject.
“Is hibiscus the Hawaiian flower? The kind you always see a girl wear behind her ear in the travel ads?” He asked, and she smiled once more.
“That’s the one.” She pulled a tea cup and saucer from the shelf and held it up to him. There was a delicate pink flower painted on the side of the cup that he recognized from many a billboard – the Hawaiian islands were oft advertised in southern California. She set the cup back down and fiddled with the kettle.
“In the summer we don’t include the black tea, only the hibiscus. We cold brew it and serve it over ice with honey, and lemon if we’re lucky enough to find it.” She explained. “Have you ever had it?”
“No. Never been to Hawaii either.” Anson admitted ruefully, and she smiled somewhat fondly.
“I’d love to go one day, I’m sure it’s beautiful.” She said. “Though I’m not a traveler such as yourself.”
The kettle began to whistle, and she poured his cup. She must have seen a hundred men like him breeze through the place, and a few more who’d intended to do so and never found the strength to leave again; hotel bellboys and librarians and the fathers of fishermen. A handsome chef in a little shack by the sea.
He took the tea gratefully and gave her a little nod before turning away to find himself a table and chair. Once he did, he grabbed Billy Bud off the shelf again and sat down. He stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea, then brought it close and inhaled deeply. He’d never tasted hibiscus before, but the light and floral smell was subtle beneath the deep black tea, almost like citrus. He took a sip and felt a grin tug at the corner of his lips – it was different and delightful, something he’d experienced less and less of as time went on. Tart bordering on sour, with a taste reminiscent of a Thanksgiving cranberry sauce or the rhubarb from a strawberry pie he’d had a slice of somewhere in Alabama. Paired with the near bitter black tea, they held a fascinating balance of dark sharpness and feminine acidity that reminded him of a very grown-up version of mixing his lemonade into sweet tea as a child.
With a barely contained smile he took another sip, then set his cup onto his saucer to flip open his book and continue reading. He was on the very last chapter and in heaven as he sipped his tea and read on until a shadow settled over the page. When he looked up, a man smiled politely at him, and he did the same. He was a tall black man in a flannel and jeans, farmer’s garb, and he held a wide-brim in his worn and dirty hands.
“Morning, sir. Are you the bible salesman?” He asked, and Anson nodded. “I saw the one you sold to David at the front, I thought it was gorgeous.”
“Thank you.” Anson said pleasantly enough, and the other man continued.
“Well, I just wanted to pay you that compliment. I’m sure I won’t be the first to approach you today.” He said, and Anson was glad for the successful intent. “And I was wondering if you had any others for sale.”
“I sure do.” Anson said, and the man smiled wide.
“Great! I’ve been saving up and I think my brother Isaac would love one.” He said, then looked a tad apprehensive. “Do you, uh, do you sell to –”
He vaguely waved a hand to himself, and Anson caught his drift and stood quickly.
“Of course I do.” He said and clapped a hand on his shoulder. The man was reassured, and dug his hands in his pockets for a wallet. “I should warn you though, I sold to David at a reduced price, this being a library and all.”
“I understand entirely.” He pulled out a tattered old wallet. “How much, six?”
“Five sixty-five.” Anson corrected as he pulled out some bills. “I sold to that waitress in the Italian place, Gin, if you need some confirmation of that.”
One thing he had to be certain of was not overcharging anyone; in a town this small they’d find out fast and gun for him in no time, and he was too smart to let a thing like that happen. The man gave him the money, and Anson offered to walk down to his car and get the bible right at that moment, but he waved him off.
“Finish your book and your tea.” He said easily. “I trust you just fine. I’ll be around town all day, but later this afternoon I’ll be with the florist awhile. You know where that is?”
“Ruth Miller’s place, yessir.” Anson said, and he grinned.
“You can meet me there later, if you’re able. I’m Marvin, by the way.” He reached out his hand, and Anson shook it.
“Anson. I’ll see you then.” And the man went on his way.
He returned to his chair and finished his tea quickly before it could get cold, and finished his book soon after that. When he peered at his watch he found it was nearly noon, and though it was so early in the day he’d not eaten and was quite hungry. So it was time to complete his second important task of the day and visit his lovely new friends: Italian would be lovely for lunch.
He returned his cup and sugar pot to Sophia, who smiled when he complimented her brew, then left the library to the bright but frigid outdoors and made his way to his car. It was too soon to seek out Marvin, so he turned on the engine and drove up to that little shack by the sea. When he arrived, it occurred to him that he hadn’t thought to see if the place was open so early – he only saw one car in the lot, a bedraggled old Plymouth that must have belonged to the chef. But he’d come this far and hoped that he would at least be turned away politely if he couldn’t get service.
When he stepped in, the place was chilly, and none of Gin’s candles were lit. The first thing he saw was the sea through the wide window, grey and rough but reflecting light to make the place plenty bright and cheery. Then he heard a light clink of change and turned to see Gin at the register.
“You open? I can come back later.” He said, but she waved him in immediately.
“We’re open, just no one’s here. Take a seat.” She said, and he sat right next to the register to speak to her properly. “How are you darling?”
“I’m well, thanks, how are you?” He asked, and heard the lightest movement and looked over to see the kitchen door open. Heath’s hair was slicked back, and over his white tee he donned an apron covered in flour. When he saw Anson, he smiled, his eyes all lit up and welcoming.
“We’re doing just fine.” He said, and his tone warmed Anson right up despite the chill. “I heard from Gin that you’re getting used to this ol’ town.”
“While I’m here.” Anson grinned and hoped the man would come over to him and sit down, but he stayed standing.
“You hungry?” He asked, and Anson nodded. Gin handed him a menu, and Heath took a step back. “I’ll come out in a moment, I have to finish making the noodles. I just popped out to say hello.”
“Alright.” Anson said, a touch disappointed but still glad to hear he would return. Gin gave him an encouraging look at that, and he grinned a little and let her resume her work counting out bills as he looked over the menu. He’d eaten there several times and yet still hadn’t seen it – it contained no appetizers, as Heath was clearly a man for whole meals and not something small, a man for comforting and filling more so than just serving. There was a large section for pasta, one for steak and pork, another for poultry and seafood. He tore himself away from a dessert panel on the back where he’d read ‘Ricotta Cheesecake’ before he settled on his dish and looked up to Gin.
She felt his eyes on him, though he was trying to wait and let her finish her work before he bothered her. But she paused, noticed the glance and rather extravagantly pulled out her pen and pad. He chuckled as she gave him a sly grin.
“And what will the fine gentleman be having?” She asked, and he giggled a bit.
“The butternut squash lasagne, please.” He said, and she nodded, but didn’t write it down.
“Heath!” She yelled, and after a moment the partition behind her opened. Heath gave them both a knowing look and a falsely polite smile.
“Madam?” He asked lightly, and she bit her lip to fight a grin.
“The gentleman will be having the lasagne.” She said. Heath lit up.
“Excellent choice, monsieur.” He said to Anson, then tipped an imaginary cap to Gin. “Garçon.”
“Garçon means boy. Gin is la serveuse.” Anson called out, but he’d already ducked away, though the partition was left open.
“Waitress?” Gin asked as she took the menu away, and he nodded. “Look at you, Mr. Fancy with your french.”
“I only know the basics. Parlez vous anglais, baise-moi s’il te plaît, that sort of thing.” He admitted, and she smiled all the same.
“You’ve been to France?” She asked as she went back to work counting.
“Canada.” He lied easily. She didn’t need to associate him with Europe. “Lots of french speakers in Ontario.”
Heath’s head reappeared through the little window.
“Lasagne’s reheating in the oven. I’m almost done with this pasta, I’ll bring out the dish when I’m done.” He said to Gin. “Hungry? Need anything?”
“No. Either of you want a pot of coffee?” She asked, and they both shook their heads. “Then I’m fine, I’ll stay right here thank you.”
“Lazy.” Heath jokingly accosted her as he disappeared once more, and she smiled fondly to herself.
“Anything I can help you with? Candles, maybe?” Anson asked, but she shook her head.
“Entertain me, that’s help enough. Meet anyone fun in town?”
“I don’t know about fun.” Anson said thoughtfully. “I sold a bible to a fellow named Marvin and mentioned your name.”
“He’s a sweetheart.” Gin said. “Farmer, you’re about to eat his squash. His brother’s a cutie, too.”
“A cutie?” Anson laughed at the phrase, and Gin swatted him.
“He’s a kid. Nineteen. They’re not really brothers, either, but they were raised together so that’s what they call themselves.” She looked thoughtful. “Their parents were neighbors, but they all passed ages ago, so Marvin took Isaac in and merged the farms.”
“Family friends.” Anson figured, but Gin pursed her lips.
“No, they were wary of each other. Marvin’s parents came out here to leave sharecropping, Isaac’s were – well, you know.” She looked uncertain again, and Anson stepped in.
“Ignorant old white people.” He supplied, and heard Heath let out a bark of laughter from the kitchen. The look on Gin’s face changed instantly: the reserved uneasiness turned over to beaming trust in a heartbeat, something Anson knew well. He could tell he had her friendship in the palm of his hand, that she’d be an easy target, but he moved the thought to the back of his mind. He had no reason and no want to harm her, but just the knowledge that he could readily do so cheered him in a way he knew the average man didn’t typically feel.
“Pretty accurate, yeah.” Gin smiled as the kitchen door opened. “But the boys are friends now, so that’s what matters.”
Heath stepped over with a plate, and Gin grabbed a stool and pulled it behind the bar so Heath could sit with them.
“Balsamic sage butternut squash lasagne.” Heath set the dish down before him. “Sorry it’s leftovers, I haven’t made a tray since dinner last night.”
But from the looks of it, Heath didn’t have to apologize for a thing. Lightly browned cheese oozed off the top of the steaming square of lasagne that had been finished with a ribbon of balsamic glaze that criss-crossed the plate. Inside he could see cubed squash, red onion, and a thick white sauce between layers of homemade lasagne sheets. The smell of sage radiated from the little serving that he suspected would be more than filling.
He grabbed his fork and had a large bite, and was hit with the strong acidity of the vinegar paired with the richness of the sauce and salty parmesan. The earthiness of the squash and assertive sweetness of the red onion only added to the hearty mix of flavors, with the warmth of the sage tying the whole dish together. Anson groaned aloud, and Heath smiled bashfully.
“How do you even think of this stuff?” Anson asked as he immediately went in for another bite, and Heath blushed a little.
“I love butternut squash and it’s readily available here, so I had to come up with a dish for it.” He said. “There’s already a soup on the menu, so that’s one hundred percent squash, but here it’s just one of the components.”
“And then there’s something in this grand speech about the heaviness of the béchamel sauce.” Gin added. “He was in heaven creating this one, when he added the red onion I think he nearly cried.”
“It’s not quite caramelized so the integrity remains.” Heath said with a little too much excitement, and Gin smiled as Anson continued to dig in. He’d had Italian-American lasagne the last time he was in New York, with a red meat sauce and thick layers of ricotta. It was excellent, that was hard to deny, but this cheese-sauce laden dish with fresh, perfectly al dente pasta was far closer to the real thing.
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“I saw sage on the menu and had to get it.” Anson said. “The florist sold me a pocketful, I’ve been smelling it since yesterday.”
“I love sage.” Heath replied. “Cooking it in butter gives you this real heady aroma. Ruth grows it for us.”
“It must be nice to have fresh herbs.” Anson said, though he barely knew how to cook eggs so he wasn’t sure exactly how so. “What do you do in the winter?”
“I dry all of our excess herbs the rest of the year.” Gin answered. “If it’s a really busy season I drive a few hours south to find a nursery.”
“Rough. You guys must miss L.A.” He said it without thinking, and Heath went pale as a sheet as the clattering of coins rang out. Pennies rolled all over the counter, and Gin stared at him in abject horror. He straightened up, alarmed by the sudden change, and Heath protectively moved closer to Gin.
“I’m sorry.” He blurted, and threw up his hands instinctively. “I didn’t mean –”
“How did you know?” Heath asked, and though Anson was intimately familiar with a threatening tone, the fear beneath was clear as day and hurt him far worse than he thought it could.
“I’m sorry.” He repeated. “I’m not trying to threaten you or – or catch you?”
“Catch us?” Heath repeated, horrified, but Anson winced and shook his head.
“No, I just – if you’re running from something, it’s not me. I just recognized the accent.” He said bashfully. Gin looked fearful still, and Heath looked stiff with uncertainty, though the want to believe him shone in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I grew up in Santa Barbara, it was just easy to spot.”
That was more information than he wanted to give, in truth, more than he was used to, but when Heath eased up he was glad he did. Gin seemed to relax a little as well, and began to pick up the pennies she’d spilled. Anson reached over to help her, and she didn’t object.
“Sorry for getting so defensive, then.” She said quietly, and Anson shook his head.
“You didn’t know, it’s alright doll.” He said, and she gave him a half grin.
“I didn’t realize it was so obvious.” Heath rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess for a local, though.”
“No one here could spot it, I’m sure.” Anson quickly consoled him. “What’s the closest city, Eureka? They won’t know an L.A. accent. And you seem a private guy, I guarantee no one’s spotted it.”
“What about me?” Gin tried to hide her worry with a steady look as she picked up her final coin. “I’m about the town much more often.”
“You’re harder to tell, your parents must’ve had accents.” Anson said, and when they both went rigid again, he handed her the pennies. “You’re both safe. And whatever’s wrong, whatever you’re running from, I’m not in the business of tattling.”
“We’re not criminals.” Heath looked cautiously to Gin, who nodded firmly. “Well . . . not anymore.”
Anson perked up at that, and Heath looked away. Gin slipped the coins into the register, then closed the drawer. When she glanced up to him, there was no uncertainty, and he knew that was a product of the trust he’d created.
“You seem a good fellow. Like someone we could actually trust.” She said, and he nodded slowly, as false as that might have been. “So you should know that we’re married.”
He felt his eyes widen in surprise and his jaw drop, but he kept face and nodded quickly.
“Oh.” Was all he could get out. Heath kept his eyes on the floor, maybe afraid to see the reaction, but Gin was staring intensely, clearly preparing herself for a struggle. “Well, that’s alright. Nothing wrong with that.”
Gin let out a breath, and Heath finally looked up to him with an expression of absolute gratitude. Though he appreciated it, Anson knew it wasn’t one he should have had to give.
“When did that become legal in this state?” He asked cautiously.
“‘48.” Heath answered softly. “But we found a very kind priest in ’42.”
“And that’s why you’re here.” Anson finished. “I mean, I get it, you were lovebirds and it’s a shit law.”
Gin smiled and took the smallest step closer to her husband. It was obvious now that he really looked – he should have noticed it earlier, but he’d been more focused on liking Heath than figuring out who else did.
“Thank you.” She said kindly. “It’s nice to trust someone with this. Just don’t say a thing, alright sugar? No one knows.”
“Of course.” He said immediately. “I’ll keep it to myself. You’re a fine pair of people, I’m not aiming to hurt you.”
They both looked intensely relieved as Heath wordlessly cleared Anson’s plate. Anson paid for his meal and turned down the offer for dessert, too stuffed with lasagne to eat another bite. When Heath returned, he stood from his stool and shook the chef’s hand warmly. There was affection in Heath’s look, one that always came with a few good meals and a shared secret.
“Will you be back tomorrow?” He asked, and Anson grinned.
“Of course. Now that I know I get to third wheel you two I’m looking forward to my lunch even more.” Anson winked, and Gin laughed. He waved to the pair, and Heath slung his arm over his wife’s shoulder as he took his leave. Envy rose up as horribly and unexpectedly as bile, but he could only return to his car and start it up.
He returned to the town with a purposefully clear mind, with nothing on the radio but static. When he got back to the main road, he slowed until he spotted Ruth’s, then pulled over and popped his trunk. In the window he could see Marvin and Ruth having a conversation, and grabbed a bible to take in. When the door opened with a bell’s jingle, both of them looked up and smiled in recognition.
“Hello, handsome.” Ruth grinned, and Marvin laughed.
“I’m not calling him that.” He said, and Anson smiled at the pair.
“I have your bible.” He stepped forward and held it out, and Marvin accepted it readily and examined the cover.
“That’s a pretty thing.” Ruth commented. “If it’s a gift I bet it would go real well with a bouquet.”
Marvin looked incredulous, and Anson contained a laugh.
“I’m here to sell to you!” He exclaimed. “You’d think you’d just take the mini pumpkins without trying to make a sale.”
“What can I say, I’m a business woman.” She said, and Marvin chuckled.
“Show me something cheap.” He replied with a roll of his eyes, and she gave him a wide grin.
“What about you, stranger, can I convince you to buy anything?” She asked, and Anson politely shook his head.
“You already got me that pocket sniffer.” He said, and Marvin roared with laughter.
“She got you, too?” He asked. “I reek of cinnamon because of this woman.”
“Oh, you love it.” She waved a hand and walked over to a vase full of daisies. Anson took the sale as his cue to leave, and thanked Marvin for his purchase once more before exiting.
The drive to the hotel was short, and when he parked and stepped out of his car the cold bit at his skin as he walked briskly inside. Robert was in his usual spot behind the receptionist’s desk, and Anson gave him a friendly wave that was met with a formal nod. Some day he would stop and have an actual conversation with the man, but for now he had other things on his mind, and bounded up the stairs and into his room. Once inside, he closed the dark velvet curtains and noted that a distant town’s newspaper had been placed on his desk. It must have been a rare occurrence in this isolated little part of the world, but he decided he’d read it later. He had other things on his mind.
In the darkness, he shrugged off his blazer and undid his tie. As he unbuttoned his shirt, he thought back to his earlier conversation with the newfound couple – married eleven years, together for who knew how much longer. He should have realized, he knew, but he hadn’t been studying them as targets, merely making friends for the first time in years.
He laid his head back against the cold pillow and rested on top of the luxurious duvet to stare up at the ceiling. Heath had asked him if he’d return soon, that was what mattered. That it was the first time they’d initiated, not him. He slid down his trousers and briefs. Of course he would be back tomorrow, of course he wanted nothing more than to see them again, or one of them at least.
He reached down and stroked his cock, hardened immediately by the thought of that chef. Those beautiful blue eyes, so reserved but so begging for friendship, company, trust. He wanted something he couldn’t get from his wife, that was for sure, and Anson could picture it easily; Heath’s pale hands roaming his body, his soft pink lips wrapped around his dick, a blush dusting his cheeks when he got the chance to satisfy.
“Heath.” Anson closed his eyes and pumped himself as he thought of the other man, the one he’d grown far too attached to in such a small amount of time. He’d done this before, he’d fucked plenty of men, but there was something about that quiet, humble fellow that was driving him wild. There was an image he couldn’t get out of his head of Heath waiting for his wife to fall asleep before pulling out his own cock and jerking off with Anson’s name on his lips.
He groaned and sped up, with one hand clutching the comforter as the other moved up and down a cock slick with precum. It didn’t take long for him to picture Heath saying his name again, to think of him gasp as an orgasm rocked through him, as he went flush with pleasure a foot from his wife. Anson groaned himself, shuddered, and spilled his seed all over his hand and underwear, then took a few heavy breaths.
It was just a fantasy, he knew, likely untrue, but still it fueled him. He wanted that man, and by all means he intended to have him. Have him or wait for these emotions to peter out and leave this town and that shack by the sea behind.
. . .
The next morning was several degrees colder than it had been previously, and Anson found himself quite lethargic. He had nothing to do that day and no desire to find a goal, more content to stay in the warmth of his bed. He managed to get to the desk, grab the newspaper, and slip back beneath the covers to absorb the words in dark silence. They’d awarded a Nobel Prize in physics, and Cambodia won its independence from France, he was happy to see. For an hour he read and did the crossword until finally he got up with a stretch, collected a navy suit and went off to the showers.
Again, he was alone and saw no one, and did not hear the rattle of water through the pipes, but he knew he’d see whomever else resided in that hotel eventually, even if it was just one person. He cleaned up slowly, in no rush, but when he got out found the day still quite young and he still quite unoccupied. He should have waited – gone to the library or walked about town – but it was cold and he was hungry and there was a handsome man with a large plate of food that he had a hankering to visit.
He bundled up to get to his car, a smart choice as the wind nipped at his exposed face. With a shiver he got behind the wheel and started her up with thick-gloved hands. The drive felt longer than usual; he wasn’t terribly nervous, but he’d never dropped pretenses so much as to just show up before lunch, just to see them as opposed to having a meal. When he approached the shack he spotted a familiar figure just out front having a smoke, just like the day he’d met him. He smiled to himself and stopped to roll down his window.
“Am I too early? Surely you’re not open if you’re having a cigarette break.” He said, and Heath gave him a shy half-grin.
“You’re fine, come on in.” He called back, but Anson frowned a little.
“Are you sure? I can come back later.” He offered, but Heath gave him a flat look and shook his head.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Park that jalopy and get over here.”
“Jalopy? You’re in for it!” Anson said, but Heath only chuckled as he pulled away and into the lot. The Plymouth that had always been there before was missing, its usual spot vacant, and Anson sucked in a breath. If that was Gin’s car, she was out and he had Heath all to himself.
He walked up to the front with his hands in his pockets. When Heath spotted him he tossed his cigarette and squashed it with the sole of his boot – he hadn’t been quite finished with it and seemed to only be heading in for his cold new friend’s sake, which already warmed Anson to think of.
“I’m going to make you eat that for insulting my precious Victoria.” He said, and Heath gave a skeptical chuckle. They stepped inside together, where the light shone in bright enough through the windows but the temperature was not too affected. Heath slipped off his large black coat to reveal a flannel beneath, rolled up to the elbows, and Anson reluctantly did the same, though only to be polite.
“Where’s Gin?” He asked conversationally.
“She left a short while ago for candle wax.” Heath responded, and Anson felt a small thrill from it.
“Damn, I would’ve said hello if I’d spotted her car in town.” He replied, and drew his arms around himself. Heath nodded sagely.
“Come on, it’s about thirty degrees warmer in the kitchen.” He said, and smirked a little at Anson’s sigh of relief. He followed him into the kitchen where he’d already had a night’s sleep, though last time he didn’t see the chef’s work in full. He was preparing for the day, with every surface covered in some form of food. He spotted a cutting board covered in diced squash and apples, bowls of ricotta and mascarpone, trays of bread dough rising. The stove was covered in saucepans, all filled with simmering liquids, and the room smelled strongly of garlic and basil from whatever was cooking in the oven.
“Sorry it’s a bit of a mess, I’m getting ready for dinner.” Heath said, and brushed past him to turn off a burner. Anson could only voice his awe.
“This place looks like a crime scene in the best sort of ways.” Anson said, and shrugged when Heath gave him an odd look. “Mess and mayhem and a look inside something you never thought you’d see.”
Heath only chuckled and shook his head. “You wanna help?”
“Lord no, I’d poison all your customers.” Anson said. “I couldn’t cook oats for meal.”
Heath laughed and stepped over to him, then put a hand on the crook of his arm. The warmth of the other man’s hand was electric as he led him over to a long counter and a big old machine with a crank on it.
“Look, you don’t have to cook a thing.” He pointed to the machine. “This is the pasta shaper. I’ll make the dough and feed it through the top and you can crank out the noodles.”
“Wow, I didn’t know that was how it worked.” Anson admitted, then looked down. “Reckon I should take off my tie so I don’t get dragged in.”
“Very good idea.” Heath said, and reached beneath the counter as Anson loosened and removed his tie. He tossed it through the window and next to his coat and turned to examine Heath’s work; he’d brought up three bags of flour and was pouring the first into a large bowl, seemingly measuring by eye.
“It smells so good in here, it’s making me damn hungry.” Anson said, and Heath smiled as he poured the next bag. “What do a chef and a pretty waitress eat for breakfast?”
“Spaghetti.” Heath said as he reached for the third bag and Anson burst into laughter. “I’m not joking! Leftovers are man’s best friend.”
“Figures.” Anson said as Heath set down the bag and reached across the counter for an egg. “I don’t know how your stomach isn’t roaring right now.”
Heath cracked the egg and grinned.
“You really hungry? I should show you what we do with that spaghetti, hold on.” He cracked another few eggs in, then pushed the bowl towards Anson. “Knead this.”
“Knead it?” Anson asked incredulously, but Heath was already rushing to the fridge.
He was in his element and it showed. To see such a passion in someone so lovely made Anson’s face feel warm as he obediently rolled up his sleeves. Heath pulled out a bowl and pulled off the tin foil, then grabbed a block of cheese and a grater, and Anson could only smile to himself and dunk his hands into the eggs and flour. It was satisfying in that gross little way, with that grainy flour mixed with the slime of egg. He mushed it all together as over at his own bowl Heath threw in salt, pepper, and breadcrumbs that Anson could only assume were scratch-made. He rushed over to where Anson stood to grab two eggs, and paused to eye his work.
“Good, keep going. Make sure it’s blended evenly.” He clapped him on the back and went back to his end of the kitchen, and Anson felt himself flush, as small as the compliment was.
He cracked the eggs into his bowl and grabbed a pair of tongs to toss the mixture with quick precision. Anson watched him dump it all into the frying pan – it was leftover spaghetti alright, covered in tomato sauce and sizzling away.
“The sauce gets soaked up into the noodles overnight. Not the most appetizing.” Heath caught his glance as he placed the bowl and tongs into the sink. “But with the breadcrumbs and eggs as binder we turn the whole thing into a fritter.”
“It doesn’t look like a fritter.” Anson was thinking of an apple pastry he’d had somewhere in New England, but Heath must have known what he meant.
“A fritter is anything covered in batter and fried, but sometimes it just means something like a patty of junk.” He stepped over and looked at Anson’s dough. “That’s perfect! Like a crab cake.”
“This dough looks nothing like a crab cake!” Anson said, and Heath gave him a faux dirty look as he sprinkled flour onto the counter.
“Throw the dough right here, jackass.” He said, and when Anson did so he sprinkled a liberal amount of flour on top. “Okay, squish this down a little and then you can wash your hands.”
“Am I going back to crank duty?” Anson asked with a grin as Heath dusted off his hands.
“After I’ve stuffed you with food.” He replied, for which Anson was unspeakably grateful. He stepped over to the frying pan, lifted it, and flipped its contents like a pancake, then grabbed two plates.
“Showoff.” Anson teased, and Heath smiled as he left the kitchen, then returned a moment later with a pair of cutlery. Anson washed his hands then, a thick coating of dough stuck to his skin that didn’t come off without a heavy dousing of soap and an aggressive bit of scrubbing. By the time his hands were dry, Heath was sliding the spaghetti fritter onto a plate and cutting it in half. When Anson came closer for further inspection, Heath raised his hands.
“Wait! Presentation!” He said, and Anson rolled his eyes as he grated parmesan over the two plates, though he absolutely brimmed with affection. He tossed on a bit of chopped parsley and gave a flourish of his hand.
“This looks so good.” Anson said, and grabbed his fork and knife. When he sliced into it, the exterior let out a resounding crunch and the inside steamed, a tight mass of pasta and tomato sauce. He gathered up a large bite with a bit of melted cheese and took a bite; it was delightfully crispy on the outside and still warm, delicious, classic spaghetti on the inside.
“It’s certainly not the traditional Italian I’ve been feeding you.” Heath said as he ate from his own dish. “But there’s a beautiful simplicity in it.”
“It’s good. Everything you make is good.” Anson said, and Heath blushed a little as they continued to eat just standing in the kitchen. “How did you learn?”
Heath looked suddenly hesitant as his eyes darted quickly down to his plate. Anson knew it was pushing, but he decided to risk it and reach out his hand. He rested it on the other man’s forearm, and when their eyes met he gave him a reassuring look.
“I – I was a line cook in Los Angeles.” He managed, then looked away once more. “Gin was a waitress.”
“And she was as impressed as I am now.” Anson pieced together, but Heath snorted.
“I was a natural at it, I admit, but not like – well, like this.” He gestured around the kitchen. “No, she thought I was cute, I thought the same of her, we got along.”
“That’s wonderful. And you’ve been together what, eleven years?” Anson asked, and Heath nodded. “Wow. And no kids?”
“No.” Heath glanced back to his plate, his tone strained. Anson knew it was the wrong thing to say. “No kids.”
“Well you’re a beautiful couple.” Anson said quickly to move off the subject. Heath gave the smallest smile at the compliment and looked back to him. “Really. Those eyes . . .”
He trailed off, and Heath’s eyes flitted down to Anson’s hand on his arm so quickly he could have imagined it. But he stayed silent, his expression clouded with a clearly purposeful veil, his true thoughts – whatever they were, whatever he felt for this mysterious new stranger – well hidden. Emboldened by something, maybe the heat of the room or the man he was touching, Anson took a step closer, so close he could have drowned in that beautiful blue.
“You know.” He whispered, and face to face Heath could hear him perfectly. “You know what I am and what I want.”
And he kissed the chef, hard. He wasn’t sure what would happen, if he would be pushed off, screamed at, threatened. But suddenly a strong pair of hands were grabbing him by the arms and pulling him close, and he could’ve cried out to God in thanks as Heath squeezed him into a tight hug and returned the kiss. For the first time in ages he felt like he was finally in the right place.
Heath broke the kiss and pulled away with a hazy, wanton expression, and Anson had an instinctive urge in terms of what to do next. He pressed his lips against Heath’s once more, then shoved him against the counter. Heath made the smallest sound against his mouth, a little gasp of surprise, and Anson felt his cock stir in his jeans as he moved down to ravage his neck. He peppered it with nips and kisses, and Heath still held him tight and let out a few heavy breaths.
Anson pushed himself closer, his dick pressed to Heath’s thigh, and he felt a hardness through Heath’s jeans against his own leg. He reached down and grabbed at it firmly, and Heath jumped a little with yet another gasp, then clung on to his arms even tighter. Anson took it as a good sign and stopped working on his neck to drop to his knees.
In a heartbeat he was undoing Heath’s belt with steady fingers, then his button and zipper. He pulled down his jeans and briefs in one fell swoop, and when he saw the other man’s cock so hard for him he felt a strain in his own trousers. He reached out and ran a hand along the shaft – it was a good size and thick, everything Anson wanted, and Heath let out the smallest of moans when he began to stroke it.
“Wait.” Heath said above him, his voice choked up, and Anson looked up at him. His cheeked were bright red with a blush, and he nearly looked teary eyed, the obvious desire in his eyes mixed with some kind of reluctance. “I’m married.”
He was, to a wonderful woman that Anson had grown to like very much and really consider a friend. But he knew exactly what he wanted and what he was willing to do to get it.
“I don’t care.” He answered simply, and took Heath in his mouth. He groaned as Anson sank his lips down to the base, then went right back to the tip. He bobbed up and down on it quickly, almost aggressively, and Heath moaned appreciatively. He felt the other man’s fingers running through his hair, his hands shaky as they gripped him lightly.
Anson continued to suck as he reached down and stroked his balls lightly, and Heath groaned loudly and seized his hair tight. Anson knowingly stopped moving his head a moment, and Heath thrusted against him, finally in control as he no doubt got something he’d been craving since he first laid eyes on the other man. Anson thought he would explode in his pants as Heath thrusted erratically against him; every time he felt his lips touch the base of his cock Heath let out a loud moan, nearly animalistic in pleasure.
He could tell he wasn’t going to last long, so he reached up and gripped him by the hips and forced him again back against the counter to regain control. He bobbed his head once more, and Heath shuddered.
“Fuck, Anson.” He said, his voice a little louder than usual, his tone desperate. “Anson, Jesus!”
He sucked him off quickly, greedily as he knew what was about to happen. He felt Heath’s hand move down to his shoulder and his fingers cling to his lapel as above him the man whined in pleasure. Then Heath grabbed him so hard it nearly hurt, let out a strangled cry, and it was all over.
Anson swallowed easily and pulled away, then looked up to try and read Heath’s expression. He was looking away, his face all pink from the exertion. Anson was considering what to do next, if he should maybe ask for the same treatment, but then he spotted a tear fall down Heath’s cheek. When he looked down at him, still knelt on the ground, his eyes were red and puffy.
“You have to leave.” He said, and Anson felt his heart drop into his gut. For a moment, he was still and stiff with unpleasant surprise until Heath spoke again. “I’m married.”
“It’s alright, sweetheart.” Anson got to his feet with hopes that that was what the other man needed to hear, his jeans still tented. He took a step closer, but Heath turned his head. “Hey, it’s alright. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“Get out!” Heath spat, and Anson jumped at the unexpected outburst. “I said I’m married, now get the hell out!”
And in the chaos of the aftermath there was nothing more he could do, nothing else he could say to erase what they had just done. So he drew a heavy breath, lifted his chin in a false show of dignity and left the kitchen, then grabbed his coat and tie and whisked off without another word.