Fierce & Fabulous (Sassy Boyz) (5 page)

“True, but that doesn’t mean we have to put up with his bullshit.”

* * *

Fitch was watching the baseball highlights on ESPN later that night when his phone rang. He answered on the first jingle without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?” Could he help it if his voice was a little rougher than usual? He cleared his throat.

“Fitch? Honey? Are you coming down with something? Do you have a fever? I’ll whip up some chicken noodle soup for you tonight.”

His stupid heart sank and he sighed. “No, Ma, I’m not sick. Thanks though, you’re the best.”

Marge Donovan’s chicken soup would kill any virus within three hours. It was scientifically proven to scare away germs. It would also set your intestines on fire.

He could hear his mom calculating the probability of truth so he distracted her with a question. “Did you talk to Meg? How is she?”

She clucked. “Her hangover was still pretty bad when I called her, but not quite as debilitating as the time you decided it was a great idea to try your father’s brandy.”

“We agreed never to bring that up again. It never happened.” He smiled at her chuckle.

“When you see you sister again, just remember how terrible it felt.”

“Yeah, yeah, take all my fun away.”

“Listen, the reason I’m calling...” She paused and the tone of the call became more serious. “I just wanted to let you know that I made the doctor’s appointment.”

He sat up straighter and switched the phone to his other ear. “Okay, when?”

“The Monday before Mother’s Day.”

“But that’s not for four weeks. Isn’t there anything sooner?”

His mom sighed. “No, unfortunately. Your father will only go to Dr. Mac and you know he’s always booked. They did us a favor by adding an extra slot, but we’ll still have to wait.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. At least they’d set the date. “Are you all right?”

“Oh sure, don’t you worry about us, sweetheart. Hey, your dad wants to talk to you. We’ll chat later.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Son?”

“Hey, Pop.”

His father cleared his throat. “Listen, I, uh, I just want to apologize.”

“No need, really.”

“Did you speak to Greg?”

Greg was the owner of the development firm who’d hired them for the remodel. “Yes. It took a little negotiation, but he was very understanding. He’s a good man.”

“Yes, he is.”

“We’ll cover any extra costs needed, but he said the change was not a deal breaker.” He laughed, remembering the old guy explaining how he’d been inspired while watching the birds out his bathroom window.

His father chuckled. “That sounds like Greg. Thanks for taking care of it.”

“You know I’m ready to take over. You’re just too stubborn to retire.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it won’t be up to me.”

They said good-night and he promised to be at Sunday dinner. He placed his phone on the coffee table and rested his head in his hands. What would he do if his dad was sick? Meg would be devastated. She was Daddy’s little girl. Pop was still young, only sixty-five—it was too early to be dealing with this shit.

He spent the next hour zoning out to the television and trying not to think about his dancer and how to explain his lust for a man. It was one thing for his parents to eventually accept Meg’s sexuality. It was another for their son to suddenly decide he wanted to kiss another dude now that he was nearly thirty years old. They had plans for him. Ma wanted grandbabies. Pop depended on him to run the business. What would the crew think if they knew where his mind had been?

Christ.

Today had been one hit after another, first the problem at the site then having to negotiate with Greg. Even though it went smoothly, the whole meeting had stressed him out. Then a second confusing encounter with his dancer. No, Ansel.

His name was Ansel. A unique name for a unique person.

He turned off the television and all the lights on his way to the bedroom. His bed was still rumpled from his restless night and his laptop was perched on the nightstand. He stripped down to his boxers, slipped under the covers, and turned on the computer.

This afternoon he’d made a step that could propel him into a gay experience and he was woefully ignorant about such things.

Time for a little research.

* * *

The bell above the door of the neighborhood deli-slash-convenience store jingled as Fitch pushed through late Saturday morning. He winced at the sound and the answering pounding it ignited in his sleep-deprived brain.

He’d spent most of the night staring at pictures of cocks, watching gay porn, and trying to understand his sudden attraction to a leggy blond dancer. No matter how many video links he’d clicked he hadn’t gotten hard until he’d closed his eyes and pictured Ansel. With Ansel’s green eyes held in his mind, Fitch’s cock never wilted no matter what happened on the screen.

Conclusion, he wasn’t gay. Not in the traditional sense. He was just fucking crazy for one sexy-as-sin dancer.

Really fucking crazy.

“Seems like someone had a rough night.” Enrico, the deli owner, laughed in greeting. “You look like shit, Fitch.”

“I’m still better-looking than you, old man.” Fitch slid up to the counter like he had all his life and settled in for Enrico’s customary banter. The man was only about fifteen years older than Fitch and didn’t look a day over forty, but it was fun to tease him.

The deli was already packed with customers hanging around, nibbling on free samples and chatting around the tables near the back. Aisles on the left displayed all sorts of Italian and Spanish goods, plus anything one might need in a hurry like smokes, milk and bread. Under the glass counter they stored the fresh goods: cheeses from Italy and France, sliced meats to make Enrico’s famous hoagies, and antipasti fixings that would make your mouth water.

“That right? Wait ’til you’re an old man like me, and we’ll see how many ladies are knocking down your door.”

Ladies.
Not a beautifully effeminate man who danced like sin and made Fitch’s dick ache. Fitch hid his embarrassment with a cough and a scratch to the back of his neck.

“How many ladies you need, you selfish bastard? You’ve already hooked the best gal in town.” Fitch winked at Enrico’s wife, Esmeralda, who manned the register.

“You’ve always been a good boy, Fitch Donovan,” Esmeralda said. “And much more handsome than my no-good husband.” Her smile was wicked.

Enrico grumbled as he crossed to where she sat. “Woman, how many times have I told you to stop flirting with the customers?”

“But it’s good for business.”

“Good for business, bad for my ulcer.” He kissed Esmeralda on the cheek. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Essy.”

She patted his hand. “Maybe, but you’ll surely die happy.” She giggled at her own joke before focusing on Fitch again. “How’s your mother?”

“Ma’s good, whole clan is doing well. Meg’s studying real hard, just celebrated her twenty-first.”

“She didn’t.” The outrage in Enrico’s voice was comical and Fitch smiled.

“‘Fraid so, old man.”

“
Mama mia
!” Enrico crossed himself like he was chasing away evil spirits. “I must be dying, little Meg Donovan is all grown up.”

“Calm down, Rico. You’re not dying, you’re just old.”

The bell jingled again, signaling the arrival of another customer. Enrico waved at the newcomer then focused on Fitch again. “What can I get for you today?”

“A classic Italian with extra hot peppers and oil.”

While Enrico went to work slicing the meats and cheeses for the sandwich, Fitch took a moment to pick up a few essentials. He scanned the racks, grabbing pasta, jarred sauce, some bread, and peanut butter before moving to the next aisle. Various shampoos, soaps, toothpaste, and grooming supplies filled the space and at the very end were rows of condoms...and lube.

Lube.

He’d never bought lube before. That one time he’d had anal with a girlfriend she’d done all the prep work. All he’d had to do was slip his dick in, but from everything he’d read and seen last night, there was so much more to gay sex than that. And he was going to need a lot of lube.

He could feel the heat rising up his neck to color his cheeks and he quickly checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking. Thankfully he was alone so he could peruse the labels. Not that he was going to buy anything. Not at Rico’s Corner Store and Deli. Not where everyone who came in knew his name, his parents’ names, and the names of their last four pets.

No fucking thank you.

He’d stop at the superstore at some point where he could get in and out again without seeing anyone he knew. Without having to explain why he was staring at a bunch of colorful boxes of lubricant and trying to figure out which one to buy.

Because, Christ, he wanted to have sex with another man.

And not just that, he wanted to do all the things he’d watched the porn stars do. All the things that seemed to drive them crazy with pleasure. Yeah, he wanted to experience it all with his dancer. To make Ansel moan like those actors did, but for real. With his tongue, with his hands, with his cock.

Damn it, he was getting hard.

This was stupid. There wasn’t any guarantee that Ansel would even call. Why was he getting himself all worked up? And why did the idea that Ansel wouldn’t call twist him up inside?

Shaking his head, Fitch took a deep breath and forced himself back into the present. He couldn’t think about it here. There were too many friendly eyes, too many familiar faces.

Worrying about how to explain his sudden obsession made him ill.

No one would understand.

Chapter Eight

Saturday breakfast with his roommate, Ange, was a tradition dating back to the day they met. The location had changed over the years, depending on where they were living and how much cash they had, but they’d never failed to make the date. It was one way they both stayed connected to Ray, the homeless veteran who’d saved their lives.

But it was also a good excuse for greasy sausage and pancakes.

Since they’d moved into their current apartment, they’d frequented the tiny diner less than a block away. The eggs were awful, but the coffee was good.

He sipped from his steaming mug as Ange slid into the booth across from him.

“Hey, girl, how was your shift?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started. I don’t know why I decided I wanted to be a nurse. Who in their right mind volunteers for this?” Her light brown hair was cropped around her ears. A lock fell forward when she propped her head in her hand and closed her eyes.

“People with great big hearts.” He pushed his mug toward her. “Have some caffeine, it will help.”

She took a great gulp. “Yeah, that’s the stuff.” She opened her eyes with a sigh. “So, dish? What’s new in the world of divas and glitter?”

He opened the menu, an unnecessary action. He’d memorized every item six months after moving into the apartment. And he always ordered the same thing, which Ange knew too.

“Whoa, avoidance. Now you have to spill.”

“Nothing new, same shit different day. Castor’s being a pig, Tam created another work of art, Z is cranky as hell, and Lirim is still floating on rainbows.”

“Right, and where’s this bridge you’d like to sell me? Seriously, I know when you’re hiding something. I’m not going to let you get away with it. Please, please, please, take me away from bedpans, barf and genital herpes.”

“Ew, nasty.”

“You’re telling me.”

The waitress, a plump older woman, arrived. “What can I get you two today? No, wait, let me guess. You’ll have the six stack with whipped cream and maple syrup, a side of home fries, and three sausage links.”

He smiled at her. “You’re good.”

She winked and turned to Ange. “And you, my dear, will have coffee, orange juice, three blueberry pancakes and a fruit salad.”

“One day I swear I’ll order something different.”

The waitress chuckled. “Ain’t nothing wrong with knowing what you like.”

“Hear, hear.” He lifted his half-empty mug in agreement.

When the waitress left, he took another sip of coffee, hoping Ange was too sleepy to remember the thread of their conversation. Unfortunately, he’d never been a lucky one. Before he’d even had time to swallow, she was right back to begging.

“It’s nothing. I just, sorta, met a guy and he gave me his number. It’s no big deal. Happens all the time.”

She sat back and squinted at him. “Yes, it does. So why didn’t you tell me right off the bat? He must be different.”

He suddenly found the folding and unfolding of his napkin fascinating.

Fitch
was
different.

He was the first person to make him dream of possibilities. He was normally a suck, fuck, and fly kind of guy. He didn’t do future. He didn’t do feelings. Not to mention the fucking cannonballs of tension that exploded in his stomach whenever the guy was near.

“Not really,” he said. But he’d never been able to lie convincingly to Ange. She always saw right through him.

“Confess everything or I will tell you about the man who came in today with an acute case of genital warts—in graphic detail. And I’m talking leaking pus and massive swollen tissue.”

He cringed. “Okay, okay, I surrender, just please stop being gross.”

Apparently satisfied, Ange crossed her arms under her breasts and smiled. He took a breath and told her the story. All about the dance, the kiss, his crazy overreaction, and how Fitch had shown up at the club. He tried to gloss over the effect Fitch had on him, but knew he was blushing. When he was done, he swallowed the rest of his coffee and went back to folding his napkin.

Ange sat forward and touched his hand. “You really like this guy.”

“Don’t be silly, I don’t even know him. He’s just a really good kisser.”

“Call him. Right now.”

“No.”

“I’m going to bug you until you call him.”

“You’ll have to wait ’cause here’s our food.”

“Okay, we’ll eat first, but then you’re going to call him.”

He sighed and started digging into his breakfast.

* * *

He’d managed to put Ange off, but only because she was so tired she’d almost fallen asleep on her pancakes. She’d made him promise to call Fitch. It had been over an hour since their meal and he still hadn’t worked up the nerve. He sat on his favorite rock in Central Park overlooking the pond and watched the ducks swimming in the water. It was warm, a perfect spring afternoon, and if he weren’t feeling so anxious, he’d have soaked up the sun with glee. But as it was, the knots in his stomach were making it hard to breathe, and his palms were almost as wet as the water he was staring at.

If Ray were alive, he’d laugh his ass off over this. There were things to fear, like bombs, serial-killers, and starvation. Then there were things to embrace, like warmth, food, and friendship. Ray would classify calling someone you were attracted to in the latter category. Any other situation and Ansel would have too.

Ah
,
fuck it.
He was being a coward.

With one hand clutching the dog tags around his neck, he pulled out his phone. He’d already memorized the number because he was insane like that. He took a deep breath and dialed.

Fitch answered on the third ring. “Hello?” The guy’s sexy voice sounded deeper than he remembered.

Ansel’s fingers tightened around the necklace until the metal dug into his skin. “Uh, hey. This is Ansel, Ansel Becke.” When Fitch didn’t reply, he continued. “You gave me your card, at the club. Sorry if this is a bad time.” Smooth.

“Yeah, I remember.” Fitch cleared his throat. “Hi.”

God, just that and he was already gagging for it. “Okay, well, how are you?”

There was a rustle on the other end of the phone. “Good, great. How are you?”

Maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling nervous. “Good, just enjoying the sun for once.” Really? The weather? How fucking lame was he? He banged his forehead on his knee.

“I know, I was out back earlier, but I came in for the game.”

“What game?”

“Baseball, the Jackals are playing the Bears. Do you watch sports?”

The hazy memory of his parents taking him and his brother to a Yankees game in the Bronx slithered through him like a poison snake. His mother had actually smiled and laughed that day. She’d bought Ansel one of those foam fingers and let him eat a hot dog. But the happiness was temporary and Ansel had been so very careful not to destroy it that he barely remembered the game.

He blinked away the past and forced a laugh because Fitch’s tone was so hopeful. “No, sorry. Unless you count ice skating or the dancing on
So You Think You Can Dance
.”

Fitch’s chuckle was good-natured. “Some of those people are probably in better shape than your average professional athlete.”

“Right, don’t football players take ballet to improve their flexibility?”

“Yep, nothing wrong with that.”

“Which team do you like?” He stretched out his legs and picked at a section of grass coming up through a crack in the stone.

“I’m going for the Jackals, but just to piss off my sister. She’s an epic Bears fan. It’s hilarious when they lose.”

“Is this Meg, the sister you were with on Thursday?”

Fitch cleared his throat again, and after a short pause, answered with, “Yeah, that’s her. Only sibling I have.”

“She seemed great.”

“She’s all right.”

“Was it her purse you were looking for?”

Fitch chuckled and the sound rumbled through the phone like good whiskey. “No, I can’t believe I completely forgot about the damn bag. It’s her girlfriend’s, she left it at the club.”

“What’s it look like?”

“She said it’s blue with a silver clasp.”

“I’ll have a snoop around and see if I can locate it for you.”

Fitch’s appreciation was warm when he said, “Really? That would be great. Thank you.”

Basking in the ease of their conversation and the enjoyable day, he didn’t reply.

“What about you? Do you have any siblings?” Fitch asked, after a few seconds of silence.

A pang speared Ansel’s heart and he stopped picking at the grass to rub at the ache. “Yeah. A younger brother, but I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Oh, that’s tough. Does he live far away or something?”

“No, not really. It’s a long, boring story.”

The TV blared in the background, the cheers of the crowd filling the silence between them. “I get it,” Fitch said, finally. “Maybe one day you’ll tell me, I’d be happy to listen, but no pressure.”

Maybe it was the heat from the sun or the tone of Fitch’s voice, but something had his muscles relaxing. “Thanks.”

“So, can we—I mean—I’d like to see you again. Maybe dinner tonight?”

“I would, but I have to work every night except Sunday.”

“At the club.”

“Yeah.”

“Will you be doing the dance I saw you rehearsing?” Fitch’s voice was so gruff, it sent sparks of electricity from the roots of his hair down to his toes.

“Possibly. It’s up to Tam.”

The half growl, half moan resonating through the phone forced him to shut his eyes on a surge of lust.

“That dance was hot. I’ll come by the club. Can we go somewhere after?”

His skin was on fire at the thought of Fitch being in the audience again. Technically he could leave right after their show, but that meant missing out on a whole night’s worth of tips. He bit his bottom lip and pulled at the hem of his T-shirt, debating with himself.

He needed the money to pay his rent. But damn, if the guy could get him this excited from nothing more than a simple conversation, he’d be stupid to pass up the opportunity for a good fuck. Of course, he ignored all the other warning bells, knowing this wouldn’t be his typical one-night stand.

“Yeah, okay, sounds good.”