SWEET AND SOUR
Astrid Amara
www.loose-id.com
Sweet and Sour
Copyright © November 2013 by Astrid Amara
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eISBN 9781623004163
Editor: Judith David
Cover Artist: Ginny Glass
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Dedication
This book is dedicated to my amazing and inspiring readers.
Thanks so much for continuing to read, provide feedback, and stop by
when I’m at events. I wish you the best holiday season ever, and hope
this ridiculous holiday fluff makes your own holidays just a little
brighter.
Chapter One
Warmly Spiced Cranberry Chutney
“It’s a disgrace, what you’ve done to this pickle!”
Mr. Frank Elder, a loyal customer of Piekus Pickles for over fifteen
years, brandished a sad pickle aloft, as if its very appearance were
something so appalling everyone in the establishment would gasp in
horror.
As it was, Miles Piekus, owner of Piekus Pickles and the one being
verbally accosted, wiped the spatters of pickling liquid from his face
and affixed an apologetic smile upon his face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Elder. Can I get you another one?”
“You try it!” Mr. Elder cried, shoving the offensive vegetable in
Miles’s face.
Miles took the small green pickle and bit off the end. It tasted
crunchy, garlicky, and tart, just like a pickle should taste.
“It’s very sour!” Mr. Elder complained, and Miles understood the
problem.
“This is a full-sour pickle. You usually buy half-sours.” Half-sours
were brined in salt and spices only. This pickle had been brined in
vinegar and for a longer time. Miles wondered if the old guy had finally
lost his sense of smell. “See how dark it is? Half-sours are a lighter
green.”
Mr. Elder scratched his temple. “But I thought I got my usual…”
“Did you select pickles from that first barrel by the window?”
Miles pointed to one of six large wood barrels lining the wall of the
deli. “Because I moved the barrels around when I renovated, and I bet
you selected full-sours instead of your regular.”
“Even if that was the case, your mother would have caught the
mistake before ringing me up.”
That was likely true and not the first time Miles had heard the
complaint. He’d inherited his family’s store when his parents retired and
moved to Arizona three months ago, and the transition embittered many
of the older, traditional client base that found Miles’s youth and
enthusiasm off-putting.
“I’m sorry,” Miles repeated, his smile firmly attached. “Let’s get
you half a dozen half-sours on the house.”
“You don’t have to go that far—”
“I insist. You’re right. I should have caught the mistake, and I’ll
make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Miles gathered a jar and used the
tongs in the half-sour barrel to fish out half a dozen small cukes from the
brine. He sealed the lid and moved quickly to the cash register to ring up
the sale. As he did so, the bells over the front door jingled and two
couples hurried in from the rain, talking loudly. Miles smiled at them,
then stole a glance back to the closed door behind him. The door opened
to a narrow flight of stairs that connected to the second floor of the
building, where Miles’s boyfriend currently sat, ostensibly not helping
with the business.
Miles sighed.
He handed the jar to Mr. Elder and made a note for his Regular
Clients board hidden behind the counter about the man’s tastes.
“Thank you, Miles,” Mr. Elder said in a complaining voice. “I’ll
give you one more chance.”
“I’m so relieved.” Miles waved him good-bye, annoyed but also
grateful that when he called his mother that night to give her the daily
update, he didn’t have to admit losing an old customer.
He’d already lost others. When he took over the store, he’d gotten a
loan and renovated what had been a simple kosher pickle storefront into
a full-scale deli offering freshly made, exotic, ethnic pickles from all
over the world as well as a selection of soups and sandwiches. The
traditionalists disliked seeing kimchi and tamarind chutney lining the
counters alongside their kosher dills, despite Miles’s staunch adherence
to the rules of kashrut.
So some previously loyal customers had not returned. But of course
there were new clients, and the store’s location in the center of
Northwest Market Street, the heart of the Ballard neighborhood in
Seattle, made it a quick and popular lunch venue for the businesses in the
area. His sales grew weekly as word spread. He’d done little
advertising, yet every lunch crowd surpassed the last. And he’d had a
rush that morning on his warmly spiced cranberry chutney that he’d
advertised in the window for Thanksgiving.
The store had one staff member, a sweet woman named Chloe who
cleaned, ran the register, and made coffees while he cooked and made
the sandwiches.
But she went on maternity leave shortly after Miles took over. He
assured her she could keep her position and that he’d rely on Itai for the
extra help. After all, that had been the plan. Itai was supposed to be
working with him.
It was a flawed plan, he now realized, as he tried to do the job of
three employees all by himself.
Miles sold the last of his chutney to one of the couples that came in,
and had to quickly make four sandwiches to go before helping another
older customer with her order. When they all left, he was alone in the
deli for the first time since opening at eight that morning, and he realized
he really should start prepping another batch of the chutney before the
lunch rush. But he’d been on his feet all morning, and the temptation of
his stool called to him. After years of office work it was a difficult
transition to standing twelve hours every day.
Miles’s boyfriend, Itai, had purchased him fatigue mats for behind
the counter and in the kitchen, but they only provided so much relief.
Thinking of Itai, Miles glanced behind him again to the door that led
to the staircase connecting the ground-floor store to the upstairs living
area.
His parents had purchased the old two-story brick building in 1980
from a bankrupt manufacturing company. The storefront offered an airy
space with wide windows overlooking busy Market Street, a deep walk-
in refrigerator, and a large commercial kitchen. Upstairs, they’d
converted the open space into a quaint three-bedroom apartment where
Miles and his brother, Dan, grew up, steeping in the smells of vinegar
and pickling spices.
Now that Miles had inherited the apartment above, he’d spent his
meager savings from years in accounts payable. He’d renovated his
living space and taken out a line of credit to complete the remodels in the
store.
Itai had thought it stupid. Ballard was a Scandinavian
neighborhood, not known for any impressive percentage of Seattle’s
Jewish population, and a poor choice for a kosher deli. But opening in a
new spot would have cost a great deal more. Besides, the old brick two-
story was the only home Miles remembered.
“Itai?” Miles called loudly. He wasn’t surprised to get no answer. It
was Tuesday, and Itai had online conference calls every Tuesday with
the venture capitalists that had funded his startup. He rarely left the home
office, let alone visited the store itself.
As Miles cleaned the counter, he allowed himself a few moments of
self-pity. The plan had been that Itai would sell his share of Fantastic
App Engine, the startup he’d founded with an ex-boyfriend, and join
Miles full-time in the deli. Miles would teach him the family recipes, as
well as the basics of ringing in customers, making the sandwiches, and
doing the books at the end of the day.
But as the sale of Fantastic loomed, Itai seemed to further remove
himself from their original plans. It was harder to find time to get Itai
into the store at all, let alone hold him there long enough for training.
The lunch rush started early that Tuesday, and by ten thirty a line
stretched from the counter to the door. The five tables were full. The
phone kept ringing. Last-minute advance orders for cranberry chutney
stacked up, and he made a mental note to quadruple the usual batch for
tomorrow. But would he even be able to find enough fresh cranberries
the day before Thanksgiving? He made another mental note to call the
produce guy right after lunch.
By one o’clock he’d run out of the daily soup and switched it out for
the kosher cauliflower tahini bisque he’d planned on serving the
following day. Most customers took their lunches to go, but a few stayed
behind and waited impatiently for a free table. He wondered
absentmindedly, as he wrote down yet another complex sandwich order,
if he removed the pickle barrels from the front entirely, whether a bar
along the window could be installed to allow people to sit and look out
onto the street as they ate their lunch. It was worth measuring to see how
many folks could sit down—although the thought of removing all the
barrels made him cringe. The remaining old-school customers would
have a hissy fit if they couldn’t pick out their pickles themselves.
He’d already moved some of the lesser-selling pickle barrels
behind the counter, so when the next customer ordered a sweet-and-spicy
to accompany her sandwich, he had to pull on a glove and reach into the
oak barrel to grab one. He shook off the excess liquid and turned to the
counter.
“That’s a big pickle you got there,” said the burly-looking man next
in line.
Miles realized he was holding the cucumber at crotch level, pointed
toward the customer like a ludicrous green erection. He quickly dropped
it onto the waiting plate, feeling his face turn red. “Can I help you?”
The man’s dark hair was a lot like Itai’s: thick, black, and cut short
to keep it under control. But unlike Itai, who tended to his hair with an
army of products to keep it slicked and styled, this man clearly didn’t
care about his. It was tousled and wild, and Miles realized he liked the
look better. He wondered if he could get Itai to forgo the gel.
“Am I speaking to the owner?” the man asked. He studied the deli
wares in the cold case of the counter, his dark, arching eyebrows coming
together with an expression like he was examining a virus in a
microscope.
Miles generally tried to avoid people who asked for the owner,
since they typically wanted to either complain or to sell him something.
“Yes,” Miles said.
The customer made eye contact briefly before glancing down to take
in Miles’s body. At once Miles’s insides heated. It was pitiful how a
simple look was such a trigger for him. God help the innocent man who
just admired Miles’s belt buckle. He reminded himself that not every
glance at his body was laden with innuendo.
Whatever the guy was selling, Miles knew he must earn a great
commission.
“I came here a few years ago,” the man stated, “and it was just a
pickle place. So now you offer a full menu?”
“Mostly sandwiches and soups, but yes, I’ve expanded my parents’
business into a deli and catering service. Would you like to sample
something? All ingredients are organic, and I make an effort to seek out
sustainable local businesses for my cheeses and breads.”
“No meat?” The man frowned at the deli case.
“No, we’re strictly kosher, so this is a dairy-only facility. But I do
have fish and can recommend some great relishes, cheeses, and sauces to
go with any meat dishes you might prepare at home.”
The man flashed him a quick, crooked smile, then glanced back
down at the deli counter. He scanned the rest of the wares quickly before
moving to the barrels. He looked everywhere: the back of the counter,
down the corridor that led to the walk-in and kitchen and bathroom, the
small seating area to the right of the entrance.
If he didn’t keep glancing back at Miles and offering a devilish
smile, Miles would have suspected that he was casing the joint. As it
was, he finished his inspection of the food offerings and the walls,
floors, and equipment it was all housed in, and returned to the counter.
Really, Miles thought, what is this guy selling? Fire suppression
systems? Advertising?
“I’ll take two pickled eggs, two fire-and-ice pickles, and a cup of
hot lime relish.”
Miles packed up the man’s order. As he did so, the customer
continued to examine the deli, and Miles wondered if the man had
anything to do with the call he’d gotten last month from a realtor looking
to buy out the old building to knock it down and put a larger office
complex in its place. Real estate in Ballard had burgeoned in the last
decade, and offers came in regularly for the brick two-story.
But the man didn’t mention his inspection as he collected his paper
bag of goods. “May I also get a half-sour?” he asked.
“Sure. Help yourself from the marked barrel along the wall. Do you
want a bag for it?”
“Nah, I’ll eat it now.”
“That’s $13 total.”
The man handed Miles fifteen dollars. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” Miles put the change into his tip jar. He always felt a
little guilty having a tip jar with Chloe on maternity leave, since he
owned the store and it seemed ridiculous to tip himself. On the other
hand, a lot of customers had asked for it when he installed the espresso
machine, since they were used to tipping baristas. Now it became a
convenient place to throw the change customers didn’t claim.
“I like the changes you’ve made,” the man told him.
“Thanks.” Miles smiled. “It’s been a lot of work, but I’m happy
with it.”
“My parents owned a deli when I was a kid, and this reminds me a
lot of their place.”
“Oh?” Miles cursed silently as another four customers came in, all
wearing suits. More from the brokerage next door. “It was in Seattle?”
“No, in Portland.” The man seemed to notice the customers behind
him and smiled. “Well, thanks. Good luck with the business.”
“Come back soon,” Miles said. What demanding parting words. He
shook his head to clear his embarrassment and took the orders of the four
men.
As he prepared their sandwiches, he noticed the handsome customer
hadn’t left. At first Miles assumed he was waiting for a table, but when
one cleared, he didn’t claim it. He was examining the pickling barrels
closely. At last he selected his half-sour. Miles watched as the man
licked the sides of the pickle with excessive enjoyment before sticking
the thing in his mouth and biting it in half.
He chewed and then stuck the rest fully into his mouth, his lips
stretching around the wide, thick shape. Its pornographic connotations
undoubtedly brought an embarrassing flush to Miles’s face, judging by
the way his skin heated.
How much could that man fit in his mouth?
“What are you thinking about?”
Miles spun around at Itai’s voice. “What? Nothing. What are you
doing here?” he asked, flustered. He’d been so focused on the customer
he hadn’t even heard the upstairs door open.
Itai smirked knowingly. He knew Miles too well—knew that flush
on his neck only came when he was thinking something perverted.
“I thought you wanted me to train today.” Itai moved toward the
espresso machine and started up a drink for himself. He looked tired but
still was attractive enough to take Miles’s breath away. He was more
than just ruggedly handsome; he was gorgeous. Miles had always
considered someone that good-looking out of his league, but here he was,
living with him, planning a future with him.
Itai was tall for an Israeli, a little over six feet. His dark black hair
was brushed away from his face to highlight his warm brown eyes and
broad lips. He had high cheekbones and a perpetual five o’clock shadow
that lent him an air of dangerousness.
And despite the fact that he worked at home and didn’t need to dress
for the office, he always appeared stylish, even when he was sporting
sweatpants. The designer brand complemented his long, muscular legs
and perfectly contrasted with the charcoal-colored T-shirt he wore over
his gym-toned frame.
“It’s kind of late now,” Miles whined.
“Hey, I have a job, you know,” Itai countered.
“I know.”
“I had my conference calls, and then Travis couldn’t figure out why
the code was acting wonky on Mozilla browsers, so I had to help him
sort it out.”
Miles had learned over a year ago not to flinch or frown whenever
Itai’s business partner and ex-boyfriend was mentioned, but it still
inevitably caused a stab of jealousy when he heard Travis’s name.
“He always needs help,” Miles complained. “He must be a sucky
programmer.”
“No he’s not,” Itai countered, right on cue. If there was anything
guaranteed with Itai, it was his defensiveness about Travis. “He’s
awesome, but he’s exhausted with the launch so he doesn’t have time to
problem solve.”
“And you have time?” Miles asked. “You’re as busy as he is.”
Itai blinked at him.
“What?” Miles hated that chastising stare Itai gave him.
“Honey, don’t be petty. It isn’t attractive to me,” Itai said. The
words stung, but Itai lessened it with a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m
going upstairs again.”
“Wait, I thought you wanted to train!”
“You said it was too late.”
“Yeah.” Miles wiped a mess off the counter. “But I could use some
help cleaning up.”
“Sorry. If you don’t absolutely need me, then I better get back to my
wireframe.”
Miles scowled and scrubbed at the counter, listening for the door to
shut behind him.
Shit.
Handled inelegantly, like all their interactions these days. It seemed
everything Itai did pissed Miles off. And everything Miles asked for was
terribly inconvenient to Itai. Maybe it was just that stage in their
relationship.
They’d dated for a year, broke up, and were now on month eleven
of their second attempt at domesticity. This time round Miles had set
several rules, including the one about moving in together. At the time,
Itai had agreed to them all. He loved Miles, he’d said, and would do
anything to have him back.
But now Miles wondered if they weren’t both stagnating in the
forced twenty-four-hour companionship, in a way that made him yearn
for more and cause Itai to pull away. He couldn’t remember the last time
the two of them had gone out on a date night. Or seen a movie at the
theater, or gone to a restaurant instead of simply eating leftovers.
In fact, now that he thought about it, he felt like the only times they
didn’t argue were when they discussed completely neutral, pedestrian
topics like the laundry or the Seattle Sounders.
At some point in the last year they’d moved from dating to being
married, he realized, and without any of the fun stuff that came before it.
The lunch crowd trickled out of the deli, and the line shrank, and no
customers came in for the last fifteen minutes before three, so he was
able to get most of his cleaning tasks done before turning the sign off,
locking the front door, and pulling down the blinds.
Miles made himself a sandwich and did the books and his change
order before inventory. He then wrote out his shopping list for the
following day.
He spent an hour and a half shopping and making his deposit. When
he returned, he headed straight to the kitchen. Of course, the cranberry
chutney was first on his list. He’d marketed it for Thanksgiving, but this
was an interesting year since Thanksgiving and Hanukkah coincided, and
he’d sold a lot for those holiday dinners as well.
He also daily restocked his bread-and-butter pickles. He set about
scrubbing cucumbers clean, slicing them, and laying them in large
platters with layers of salt between them to sit overnight.
He took out those he’d salted the day before and moved them into
the kitchen to start the pickling process. For him, it was repetitive but
had a meditative quality he appreciated. He’d been making pickles with
his mother since he was eight years old, and he knew the recipes and
techniques by heart.
The only challenges came from the newer, expanded selection, but
he cherished those culinary ventures. His last batch of pickled grapes
with cinnamon and pepper had been left in the white-wine vinegar for
too long, so he’d ditched them and started over again.
He then chopped soup fixings. He stirred sauces. He added
ingredients to his weekly delivery list. By the time he was done in the
kitchen, it was nearly seven o’clock. His feet ached, and he wanted
nothing more than a shower, a beer, and a night sprawled on the couch in
front of the television.
The moment he finally made his way upstairs and opened the
second-floor door, Itai called out, “What are we doing for dinner? Are
you cooking?”
Miles suppressed his annoyance. It was only a question. “I’m beat.
Let’s order in.”
“Okay. Thai food?”
“Sure.” Miles kicked off his shoes and made his way across the
weathered gray carpet to the bathroom. He’d wanted to replace the old
flooring but it had been too expensive, so he was stuck with it until he
started making real revenue from the store.
The bathroom was old as well and had blue linoleum tiles on the
counter and cheap plywood doors on the cupboards. But the shower was
hot, the water pressure was good, and that was all that mattered at the
end of the day. He could enter their home in Architectural Digest
someday in the future.
He stepped out of the shower and shaved at the counter naked.
There’d been plenty of times in the past that Itai had come in during
Miles’s shaving routine and things had gotten quickly amorous. But that
hadn’t happened in months now. Miles was stuck with only his reflection
for companionship. He’d lost weight in the months since opening the
deli, undoubtedly an effect of stress. His brown hair was growing shaggy
around his ears and was in desperate need of a cut, but that would have
to wait a few weeks, at least until after Hanukkah. To his horror, he
discovered the gray patch that had formed at his temples was increasing,
not magically converting back to brown. And his hazel eyes were
beginning to make him look older, with dark shadows under them from
all the late nights working in the kitchen.
It turned out opening one’s own business did not improve one’s
physique.
He threw on a pair of sweats and an old shirt, poured himself a
beer, and cranked on the television. A few minutes later there was a
knock downstairs, and Itai made his way down the back entrance to meet
the delivery driver in the alley. He returned with a plastic bag full of
noodles and soup. He and Itai sat next to each other on the couch and ate
in front of the sports channel, saying nothing.
“I can change it if you want,” Miles offered, knowing the only thing
Itai hated more than American football was watching the endless
pregame and postgame analysis of football, but Itai shook his head.
“I’m not paying attention anyway. I have to get back to the
computer.”
“Did you meet with that marketing team for your launch?” Miles
asked. He didn’t particularly care, but he thought it was polite to at least
feign interest.
Itai shrugged. “Travis did, and I’m going to go over the strategic
plan tomorrow with him. The Saturday night venue is all set, and the
media packets are done. I think there will be a good turnout.” Itai
shuffled his fork through his noodles, not looking at him. “I’m sorry we
didn’t hire you for the catering.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want to do an event that large right now
anyway. I’ve got enough to worry about this Friday with thirty guests.”
“Travis didn’t want any ethnic food and got a great discount from
La Brie’s.”
“That’s fine,” Miles repeated. He hadn’t been upset, but for some
reason now he was. “You know I don’t do only ethnic food.”
Itai looked at him apologetically. “I know.”
“I can cook all sorts of things.” Miles realized he was sulking again
and looked away. “But it’s fine.”
“I figured you would be exhausted from the Friday night Hanukkah
dinner.”
“I likely will be. Maybe I can do your next launch party.”
Itai laughed at that. “God, I hope there is never another launch party.
The whole idea is to get this product sold off and never work on it
again.” Itai surprised Miles by putting his food down on the coffee table
and scooting closer. He put his arm around Miles. Miles stretched
closer, enjoying the brief and unexpected moment of companionship. He
leaned his head against Itai’s shoulder, breathing in his cologne. Itai
always smelled like products, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; he
found the scent of Itai’s shaving cream alluring.
But as he settled into the companionable comfort, Itai shifted away.
He gave Miles a brief kiss on the forehead and stood. “I have to get back
to work.”
Miles offered up his empty container of soup. Itai took this into the
kitchen, leaving Miles to slouch on the sofa, staring like a listless zombie
at the men predicting the Thanksgiving Day football game.
At nine o’clock Miles’s mother called, right on time. Since moving
to the desert, his mother called every week without fail, at the same time.
“Hi, honey,” she said, sounding thrilled. He wasn’t sure what was
more embarrassing: the way his mother still spoke to him with the same
level of enthusiasm she had when he was a child, or the fact that after all
these years it still filled him with joy.
“Hi, Mom.”
“How’s everything going?”
“It was a good week last week. We beat our sales record again.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you! How’s Mr. Nedlich?”
“He still hasn’t been in.”
His mother clicked her tongue. “I’m worried about him. Maybe you
should call his house and see if he is still alive.”
“Mom, I’m not going to call clients to see if they died because they
haven’t bought pickles in three weeks.”
“But it’s highly irregular,” she countered. “Mr. Nedlich would
come in every Tuesday morning, at eight o’clock, as—”
“I know. I know. You’ve told me a thousand times. He’d come in
right after dropping his grandson off at school. But he hasn’t come by.
Maybe he’s fine and doesn’t like the way I make pickles.”
That was the wrong thing to say. There was a long pause. “You
changed the recipes?”
Miles rolled his eyes. “No, Mom.”
“Because I made those recipes perfect over thirty years and—”
“I’m kidding, Mom. The pickles are fine. Maybe he doesn’t like
me.”
“Well why wouldn’t he like you?” she asked, genuinely baffled in
the way only one’s mother could be.
“I’m not you,” Miles reminded her. “I’m young. I’m gay. I’ve
changed things. I don’t know. There are a dozen reasons to dislike me.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He’s probably dead, that’s all.”
Miles grinned at that. Only his mother would find it more likely that
a customer would die than dislike her beloved older son.
“Have you seen Goldie and Len?” his mother asked.
“Yes. They came in on Friday. And Frank Elder showed up today,
distraught because he’d picked up full-sours.”
“He only orders half-sours.”
“I know that now. I gave him half a dozen on the house, so hopefully
he won’t hunt you down to call and complain.”
His mother laughed. “Let’s hope only old Ira is that crazy. How’s
Itai?”
“Busy. The launch is this Saturday.”
“Has he learned how to use the register yet? Make sure to tell him
about the broken tax key, because—”
“He hasn’t worked the register yet,” Miles said, hoping she
wouldn’t pry too much.
“Oh. I thought he was going to—”
“I’ve got him helping with other things right now.” He didn’t want
to have a long discussion about this, because he didn’t want her to be
right. She’d expressed concern when they’d gotten back together, so he
now worked to paint Itai in only the most favorable light.
“As long as he’s pulling his weight, honey,” she said.
“He is; don’t worry.”
“It’s just that I remember how much he hurt you before, and I don’t
want to ever see you like that again.”
Miles expelled a deep sigh. The last thing he needed right now was
his mother reminding him of the time Itai had cheated on him, leading to
their breakup. Things were better now, but it was still a sore subject.
“Mom, drop it.”
She seemed to sense the tension and gave in. “I’m sorry. You know
I worry, that’s all.”
“Itai and I are doing fine,” Miles lied. “And if Fantastic App Engine
sells, he’ll make a ton of money.”
“As long as he’s being helpful to you,” she said again.
“Yeah, yeah. Where’s Dad?”
“Out in the pool, of course.”
“At nine at night?”
“It’s the only time its bearable going outside,” his mother said. “The
rest of the day it’s too hot to do anything but lay indoors next to the air
conditioner.”
“I thought you moved for the heat,” Miles said.
“We did. We love it.”
“But you sit in air-conditioning all day. Isn’t that like living in
Seattle?”
His mother laughed like that was crazy talk.
Miles asked after his younger brother, and they chatted briefly about
his struggles in grad school back east before she ended the call.
“All right, honey. Call me if you need anything.” She said this every
time she called, as if he’d forget.
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too, honey.” She blew kisses into the phone, and he hung
up, feeling his typical mixture of embarrassment and affection for her.
He turned his attentions to the basketball game on television but
nodded off several times before finally rousing himself to officially go to
bed. The bedroom was his parents’, and it was a bit strange to now sleep
in the only room that had been off-limits to him as a child. To purge
heinous thoughts of having sex in the room where his parents had once—
maybe even twice—copulated, he’d sold all the bedroom furniture his
parents hadn’t taken with them and redecorated the entire room, peeling
off the muted floral wallpaper and painting the walls a dark gray, and
buying a king-size bed set that made the place look and feel more
masculine.
When they’d first moved in together, Miles made it a point to go to
bed at the same time as Itai. It was an opportunity to curl up together and
screw or talk about their day or simply complement each other. But in
the months that followed their schedules parted ways, Itai staying up late
to program and Miles getting up early to prep food.
Thinking of all the little ways they’d grown apart depressed Miles,
so instead of going to sleep, he turned on the light and decided to read
until Itai joined him. He nearly finished the biography he was working on
before he heard the sound of Itai’s laptop shutting and the shuffle of his
feet to the bathroom. Moments later Itai’s long, slender silhouette
appeared in the doorway.
He stripped carefully as he made his way to bed. Itai was a stickler
about folding his clothing, even used underpants, which baffled Miles to
no end. He watched the shadowy form of Itai’s cock as it jiggled with
each step.
Itai pulled back the covers. “You still awake?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Miles reached for him.
Itai kissed him softly. He was a gentle kisser, tentative and slow,
and he liked to suck on Miles’s lips. Itai pushed him down beneath him
on the bed and kissed him slowly, pulsing his groin against Miles’s in a
lazy, dreamy pace that drove Miles to desperation.
At first Miles assumed he was simply taking his time. When they’d
first gotten back together, they had marathon fucking sessions that would
last hours.
But as Itai slowed his pace to a lazy pump of his groin, Miles
realized they were both too tired to fuck with any enthusiasm. Miles
clambered out of his clothing and turned around, pulling Itai’s warm,
semierect cock into his mouth. It quickly hardened with Miles’s
ministrations, but he was frustrated that the action was not being
reciprocated. He glanced down to see Itai had his eyes closed, fondling
Miles’ scrotum with drowsy movements.
Even oral sex took longer these days, and by the time Itai was ready
to come, Miles was past the point of arousal and nearly angry with the
need for his own release. He sped his actions, but Itai slowed him down
with his hands on Miles’s head. Pulling his hair gently to set a rhythm,
Itai slowed Miles, sped him up, then dropped the speed again to make it
last as long as possible before his breath caught and his release flooded
over Miles’s tongue.
For all the time he took receiving his blowjob, however, Itai made
perfunctory work giving Miles a handjob. Not that Miles minded. He
was so ready to come it only took a few strong, knowing strokes before
he came in Itai’s fist, his seed spilling over Itai’s fingers as he gasped in
relief.
Itai leaned over the bed to fetch the clean towel he kept for such
purposes and wiped off his hands. They kissed a quick good night, and
Itai turned over onto his side.
Miles turned off the light and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Sex with someone after years got stale, he reminded himself. It was
inevitable in any relationship. It wasn’t one person’s fault or the other.
Still, he lay there feeling unsatisfied and then mad at himself for feeling
unsatisfied. What more did he want, anyway? Was it that they no longer
got sweaty when they fucked? That there was no spontaneity to their
lovemaking, that it was as rote as the brushing of their teeth, something
the clocks could be set to? Was it that the days of sneaky fucks in public
bathrooms were long gone, and now it was only here, in bed, at the end
of the day, that they brought each other to completion? Or was it the way
that it all ended, a pat on the shoulder, a quick kiss thank you, and the
turning of one’s back?
But Miles didn’t know how to fix something that wasn’t broken,
only old. And this wasn’t the time to be fixing anything anyway. On
Saturday Itai’s product would launch, they’d hopefully snare a buyer,
and be rich by next week. And Miles would have his first real catering
gig, survive the holidays, and hopefully settle into a more stable business
pattern.
They were going through a rough patch was all. The very things that
had brought them together in the first place—independent drives to run
their own businesses, to be the masters of their own fates—were now
coming to fruition, and in the process they had drifted apart. But the
relationship was still there. He still loved Itai, he reminded himself. And
he didn’t doubt that Itai loved him.
They would fix their communication, their sex life, their time
together. As soon as Fantastic sold and the holidays were over. It was
Miles’s promise to himself.
Chapter Two
Bread-and-Butter Pickles
It was almost easy to forget the following day was the first day of
Hanukkah.
After all, it was November, an unusual month for the holiday. And
without his mother’s decorations, extravagant menorah on the dining
room table, and festive blue-and-white Star of David streamers in the
deli downstairs, it felt like any other Wednesday.
But it wasn’t just any Wednesday, Miles reminded himself as he
carefully crawled out of bed, letting Itai snore into his pillow. It was the
last day open before two holidays, and only two days before the Festival
of Lights dinner.
This event would be Miles’s inaugural catering experience, and he
was terrified about it. He’d done small catering jobs for a restaurant in
Amherst, Massachusetts, where he’d gone to college, so he knew the
basics.
But this was the first time he was catering his own gig, preparing a
four-course Sabbath dinner for fifteen reform rabbis and their spouses at
the Jewish Community Center on Mercer Island. The proceeds of the
event were going to charity, and the price each rabbi paid for his seat at
the table was hefty, so Miles felt especially obliged to deliver something
special.
There’d been plenty of negotiations beforehand with Rabbi Kevin
Fine, the organizer of the event. He even created a sample menu for the
rabbi to use in convincing another of his fellow rabbis to hire Miles.
Now that he had impressed both rabbis with his menu, he had to
recreate those dishes on a large scale, all while still running the deli. He
gave a silent curse to Chloe’s untimely fertility and got to work on the
pumpkin soup for Friday.
Right before the store opened at eight o’clock, Miles rushed
upstairs and changed out of his sweatpants, put on a clean T-shirt, and
combed his hair. He hunted through the shaving creams, colognes,
aftershaves, hair gels, and various other grooming products on the
bathroom counter to find the sole item that belonged to him: a stick of
deodorant. He applied more than necessary, as if that would make up for
his deficiency in personal care.
Two people waited outside the deli when he unlocked the door,
both from the brokerage next door, looking for their morning coffees.
The morning routine occupied Miles’s mind and saved him from
rehashing last night’s thoughts regarding Itai. But they all rushed back
when the man himself opened the door behind the counter and entered the
store.
It was only nine, early for Itai, but he was dressed in khakis and a
clean button-down, he’d shaved, and his hair was impeccably slicked
back. He kissed Miles on the cheek.
“Itai Zahari, reporting for duty.”
Miles raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
Itai nodded. “I’m meeting Travis later to talk over Saturday’s
agenda, but until then I’m all yours.”
Miles felt love and gratitude flush through every part of him,
yesterday’s concerns washing away. “Thank you! With Chloe on leave,
it’s almost impossible to do it all myself.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“If you could run the coffees and ring folks up while I finish prep
for lunch, that would be amazing.”
“Sure.” Itai moved to the old register. He frowned. “You know, we
could use my iPad. It would be a lot easier than this dinosaur.”
“Good idea. Let’s do that later though. For now all you need to
know are these keys.” Miles gave him a quick rundown of the register
and its quirks. Itai was clever when it came to machines, and by the time
the next customer came in, he’d figured it out as he went along.
The rest of the morning Miles felt like whistling as he wheeled the
pickle barrels from the walk-in fridge out into the store and heated his
soup. Itai wasn’t the best help yet—he required direction—but it made
such a difference having a second set of hands that Miles realized he’d
been killing himself doing the job single-handedly.
The morning rush died off around ten, and Miles took advantage of
Itai in the front by going into the kitchen to label the chutney he’d made
last night, setting aside a dozen for the customers who’d requested it the
day before. After a few minutes, Itai leaned against the door frame,
looking bored.
“You want me to do something out here? No one’s around.”
“Could you wipe the tables down?”
“I did that.” Itai moved closer and rubbed Miles’s back. “You
know, when Fantastic is bought, we could hire all the staff you want
down here. You wouldn’t even have to work.”
Miles frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“So you don’t have to clean tables and serve customers?”
“But that’s sort of the point. I like doing those things.” Miles
realized Itai probably didn’t. He rubbed Itai’s back in reciprocation.
“It’s nice having your help. It makes a big difference.”
Itai shrugged. “I want to help while I can. But I’m also going to be
out with Travis all day, so I don’t want you to feel left out.”
“I assume it’s for work, right?” Miles joked. When Itai didn’t
respond, he felt that familiar kick of jealousy. “Tell me it’s for work.”
Itai snorted. “Don’t be so paranoid. Of course it’s for work.”
“Of course?” Miles said. “It’s not like I made up the fact that you
guys dated for two years, you know.” As soon as he said it, Miles
regretted it.
Itai gave him that blank look. “I don’t want to hash over this again.
You agreed to let it go.” Itai turned and went back into the deli.
Miles chopped cucumbers angrily. Itai was right, unfortunately.
After Itai admitted to having sex with other men, including Travis, he’d
requested an open relationship and Miles had refused and broken up
with him. Six months later, when Miles finally gave in to Itai’s begging
and took him back, they promised to only look forward. Itai would
change his philandering ways, and Miles would forgive and forget his
past transgressions.
Besides, reminding him of their past wasn’t going to improve
anything. But it bothered him that Itai considered his jealousy of the
countless hours he spent with his ex as something unreasonable. Any
person, regardless of whether they had been betrayed in the past by a
lover, would find the situation awkward at the very least.
“Sandwich order coming in,” Itai called out.
“I’ll be right out.” Miles washed his hands and joined Itai behind
the counter.
Itai remained at the register during the lunch rush, while Miles ran
about collecting pickle orders, slapping together sandwiches, and
serving out soup. Halfway through the rush the bell rang and a man
entered the deli but didn’t get in line.
Miles glanced up from his sandwich station briefly and did a double
take. He knew that curly brown hair and wide, angular smile anywhere.
His haughty expression as he took in the deli removed some of his
physical charm, but there was no doubt why Itai had originally found
Travis Spector attractive.
He was a sexy combination of masculinity and twink, a slim,
straight body with dark hair on his arms and his chest, protruding slightly
from under his T-shirt on display. He kept his beard trimmed and tidy,
and both ears were pierced with elegant gold rings.
“Travis is here,” Miles mumbled.
Itai immediately glanced up and grinned. “Travis! You want an
Americano?”
Travis sauntered over. He narrowed his eyes at Miles, nodding.
“Miles.”
“Hi.” Miles kept his eyes focused on the veggie Reuben in his hands
so he didn’t have to look at Travis’s smug face.
“I thought you were going to remodel the place when you took
over,” Travis commented.
“I did.”
“Oh!” Travis chuckled. “I couldn’t tell.”
Miles glared over at Itai, who tactfully ignored them both, focusing
instead on the espresso machine. Miles realized he was forcefully
squeezing the sandwich and leaving marks in the sourdough. He released
the innocent entrée but found particular pleasure in slicing the sandwich
aggressively in half and skewering the halves with sharp toothpicks.
“We’re meeting Andrea for lunch,” Travis announced over the
counter.
Itai poured hot water into a cup to mix with the espresso shot.
“Why? I thought we were set.”
“She wants to go over some last details of the PR campaign.”
“All right.” Itai threw in a dash of cream and two spoons of sugar
before handing the to-go cup over to Travis. The fact that he knew the
intimacies of Travis’s coffee made Miles inordinately jealous,
especially since the other day Miles asked Itai to make him a coffee and
he didn’t know how Miles took it.
But there were customers at the counter, so he tuned out Itai and
Travis’s conversation to take the order and the money of the two women
waiting, trying very hard to maintain an engaged, chipper expression and
purge resentment from his face.
“May I try one of your bread-and-butter pickles?” Travis asked
Miles. “Itai goes on and on about them.”
“Does he?” Miles smiled at that. “Well, yeah. He likes them, but
he’s into all my pickles.”
Travis blinked. Itai scowled, but Miles ignored this, whistling to
himself as he fetched bread-and-butter slices from the fridge. He
considered being petty and handing Travis a single slice, but the proud
cook in him couldn’t help it; he cut a thick slice of fresh white bread,
slathered some butter on it, and covered it in the pickles, the way they
were meant to be eaten.
Travis took the plate without even thanking him.
Dickwad.
“I’m going to run upstairs and quickly change.” Itai kissed Miles
briefly before fleeing for a change of attire. Travis stood at the counter
and ate while Miles cut bread for the soup orders. He felt like he should
engage Travis in conversation. But it was hard to make small talk with
someone he profoundly disliked.
Travis clearly felt the same way. He studied the glass counter
display case without making eye contact. When Itai returned a few
minutes later, Travis looked relieved. He polished off the last of his
bread and crumpled the paper plate Miles had provided, tossing it
across the deli toward the compost bin.
It went in, a clean shot. Damn it!
“I’ll see you later.” Itai enthusiastically followed Travis out the
front door, close behind him. A momentary image of the two of them
fucking filled Miles’s head, but he shook it. He was turning into a jealous
bitch.
He immediately missed Itai’s help, but at least he’d gotten caught up
enough to fulfill all the chutney orders, start the soup base for Friday,
and prep three more batches of pickles.
Miles felt completely wrung out by the time the lunch rush tapered
into a small crowd of folks enjoying their meals at the tables. He wiped
surfaces down and did dishes, taking advantage of the quiet. When he
heard the bell over the door ring again, he silently cursed and turned.
And gaped in surprise.
The customer from the day before, the one who could stuff an entire
pickle in his mouth, was back. Only this time he looked different.
For one thing, he was wearing a suit. He’d clearly attempted to
make something of the mess of his hair, but the effort was largely
ineffective, with strands breaking free of any control and spilling over
his eyes.
He marched without hesitation to the counter and flashed his wallet,
which Miles thought an odd thing to do.
Then he looked at the wallet and realized it was actually a badge.
Fuck.
“Hi, Miles. I’m Detective Dominic Delbene with the Seattle Police,
narcotics division. You got a second?”
Miles’s mind raced. What drugs did I do? He was panicked. Then
he remembered. Oh yeah, I don’t do drugs.
“Sure.” Miles wiped his hands and motioned for the detective to
follow him around the corner into the hallway that led to the kitchen.
Miles stood facing the deli in case another customer appeared. “What’s
this about?”
Detective Delbene quirked an eyebrow. He was quite good-looking
in a rough, unkempt way, Miles decided. “I can’t go into a lot of details,
but I’m going to need to stake out your deli for the next two weeks.”
“What? Why?”
“I need to do surveillance, nothing violent. But I’m investigating
criminal activity.”
Miles frowned. “Drugs?”
The detective shrugged.
“So it’s drugs,” Miles said.
“Let’s just say it isn’t food poisoning.” He smirked.
“I feel like I need to know more information,” Miles insisted.
“If, hypothetically, you were to agree to having a police officer
undercover in order to identify a supplier of narcotics, you would be
getting a real bastard off the streets and making my life a hell of a lot
easier in terms of how long this investigation is going to take.”
“I can’t believe there’s going to be a drug deal in my deli.” Miles
mind raced through a catalog of regular customers. “Who?”
The detective shrugged. “I don’t know who. That’s the reason I’d
like to stake it out.”
“So there’s a kingpin drug dealer who’s a regular customer?” Miles
said loudly.
The detective winced and glanced back into the deli. “Let’s keep it
down a bit, all right?”
“Right. Sorry. It’s just hard to believe. Most of my clients are on
drugs, but the anti-inflammatory kind. I mean, the roughest of the folks
who regularly shop here is a tattoo artist by the name of Cringe, but I
happen to know he works for homeless cat rescue, and—”
“It could be anyone. Don’t feel badly about not being able to pick
him out. That’s why small neighborhood locations like this are great
venues for illegal activity.”
Miles remembered a strange woman, Lois something, who started
coming in about a month ago. “Are you sure it’s a male? Because there’s
this insane lady who keeps telling me that drinking pickling liquid staves
off menopause.”
Detective Delbene barked out a surprising, exuberant laugh, totally
unbefitting an officer of the law with biceps the size of Miles’s face.
“I’m pretty sure our suspect is male.”
Miles frowned. “You sure there isn’t going to be any danger?”
Delbene shook his head. “I can’t guarantee anything, and I’d have to
be prepared. That said, it’s unlikely. And I’ll be here, undercover, and
usually will be accompanied by one or two plainclothes officers, so
when the deal goes down, we’ll be able to get you and your customers
out of the way before any trouble.”
Miles felt his palms go sweaty at the mere whisper of the word
trouble. Trouble was something he avoided, like high-fructose corn
syrup and stinging nettles—always around but unquestionably unhealthy.
His nervousness must have shown, because the detective tapped his
shoulder in a fraternal pat. “Hey, listen. You don’t have to agree. It’s up
to you. But it would make a big difference.”
Miles swallowed his apprehension. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. So you’ll
be hiding in the wall or something?” Now he understood why the man
was so keen on examining his store the other day.
“It would be easier if I could be in front. I could temporarily work
for you. It would allow me to keep an eye out for suspicious activity.”
He grinned. “And hey, maybe learn a thing or two about pickling! Those
eggs were incredible, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Miles felt himself flush with the honest enthusiasm of the
detective. “The only hesitation I have is that I’m really slammed right
now. My regular employee is on maternity leave, so I don’t have time to
pretend—”
“Oh, no pretending. I’d be happy to do actual work for you. As long
as I can stay out front and keep watch.”
Miles studied his expression. The detective seemed enthusiastic,
and Miles couldn’t determine if it was the prospect of catching his
suspect or working in the deli that excited him more. It seemed honestly
like he wanted to make pickles. Which, for a policeman, was…
unexpected.
Now that Miles considered it, the idea of having an extra pair of
hands around during the holiday week sounded like a blessing in
disguise. “That would be great actually.”
Delbene smiled widely. “Think of it as payment for your assistance
in letting us use your shop for undercover work.”
“What about the other officers?”
“They’ll be posing as customers. You don’t have to worry about
who they are. I’ll keep tabs on them.”
“When can you start?” Miles realized he sounded a trifle too
ebullient and rephrased his question. “I mean, when do you need to
start?”
The detective checked a calendar on his phone. “The drop is
supposed to occur sometime between next Monday and the following
week. Tomorrow’s a holiday, so why don’t we start Friday?”
“All right.”
“Thanks, Miles.” Delbene offered a large, toothy grin and shook
Miles’s hand.
“How’d you find out my name?” Miles asked. “Yesterday you
didn’t know I was the owner.”
“I looked you up when I got to the precinct.” Delbene winked. He
turned back toward the deli.
Miles followed, feeling a little bewildered by both this
development and Delbene himself. It was as though he was flirting, but
maybe it was his way of getting those he needed something from to
comply.
“Can I order a sandwich before I head back to the station?” the
detective asked.
“Sure thing, Detective,” Miles said. He moved behind the counter
and washed his hands.
“You can call me by my first name, Dominic. Or Nic is what my
friends call me. And since you’re supposed to be my employer, it’s apt.”
“Okay, Nic. What do you want?”
Nic studied the menu board. “I’ll try that veggie Reuben of yours.”
“It’s good. Trust me.” Miles sliced the bread. Chloe had once
complained building sandwiches was boring, and occasionally that was
true. But Miles sometimes found great enjoyment in it, layering the right
proportion of ingredients, creating a complex melody of flavors that
could be enjoyed with each bite. As Miles built the sandwich, Nic
watched intently.
“It comes with a side pickle,” Miles said. “What would you like?”
“Another half-sour. That was amazing.”
Miles smiled at the compliment and fished out a pickle to put on the
plate. He handed the plate across the counter to the detective.
Nic looked eager to eat it, which made Miles excited to serve it.
That was the fun part about food, in his opinion. Nothing beat cooking
for someone who truly appreciated one’s work.
“How much do I owe you?” Nic asked.
“As an employee, lunch is free,” Miles told him.
Nic laughed at that. “Wow, company perks on the first day.” He
took a large bite of the sandwich, devouring half of it in one chew. Again
Miles marveled at the man’s jaw stretching.
“Absolutely fucking amazing,” Nic said with his mouth full. He
closed his eyes. “Damn. I can’t believe there’s no meat in this!”
“All done with cheese, sauerkraut, Russian dressing, and some
really amazing smoked and spiced tempeh that I prepare here.”
“You are a master chef, amigo.”
Miles cleaned off his cutting board, looking down to hide his
warming blush. It had been a long time since he’d been complimented so
much. He was more used to the grumblings of his older clients, who
seemed incapable of experiencing satisfaction.
He had a brief rush in the store before closing as faithful clients
stocked up on last-minute purchases of pickles and relishes for
Thanksgiving. Despite the fact that Miles was occupied with clients, the
detective didn’t leave. He pulled up a chair at an unoccupied table and
finished his sandwich.
When he brought back his plate, he said, “I can wash this for you.”
Miles shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m inundated with dirty
dishes after today’s rush. You can toss it in the bin there with the rest,
and I’ll get to it when I can.” As Nic stepped behind the counter to return
the plate, Miles had an idea. “Though if you have a few more minutes, I
can show you around while we’re closed.”
“That would be great.”
Miles introduced each barrel of pickle before wheeling them back
into the walk-in fridge. He then pointed out the espresso machine, cheese
slicer, hot and cold stations, and the display case behind the counter
where he kept the pickles sold in bulk.
He gave Nic a complete tour of the small area behind the counter,
then led him down the hall, showing him the bathroom, the storage room,
the walk-in, and the back kitchen. Nic seemed especially excited by the
kitchen.
“This is huge!” he said, nodding in appreciation. “My parents
would have killed for a kitchen this size in their place.”
“Yeah, it was the determining factor for my parents in buying this
building. My mother hates cooking in cramped spaces, so she designed
this.” He waved his hand over the full commercial kitchen with pride. “I
grew up in here. I probably spent more time in this kitchen than in my
own bedroom.”
Nic quirked an eyebrow. “You grew up in the store?”
“Yeah. Well, here and in the upstairs apartment. That’s where I live
now as well.”
“Oh? Can I take a look?”
Miles tried to hide his surprise at the invasion of privacy, but it
must have been noticeable.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Nic explained. “It’s just that if there’s an
opportunity for us to stage an officer up there who has a line of sight to
the front of the deli, it could be useful in our planning.”
“I guess.” Miles shrugged away the sense of trespassing and led Nic
upstairs.
At least Miles and Itai kept a clean house, he thought, opening the
door to the main living area. The place looked like it had barely been
lived in for months, which was pretty accurate actually. Other than the
bedroom, the couch in front of the television, and Itai’s office in Miles’s
brother’s old bedroom, they’d both been too busy to occupy the rest of
the space.
Nic did a quick, thorough scan of the periphery, focusing on the
front room where the couch and television took up part of the room and a
dining table took up the rest of the space. On the wall between the two
windows overlooking Market Street, there was a large black-and-white
framed photograph of Miles and Itai, taken earlier in the year by a mutual
friend as a birthday gift for Itai. The two leaned their heads close
together, Itai’s arm around Miles’s shoulder, pulling him close.
Nic narrowed his eyes at the portrait. “Who’s that?” he asked
bluntly.
“Uh, that’s Itai. My boyfriend.” Miles watched Nic—he never knew
how people were going to react when he first informed them he was gay.
The news didn’t seem to take Nic by surprise. He turned and stared
inscrutably at Miles, even cocking his head a bit, as if trying to identify
some sort of skin rash on his face.
“Does he live here?” Nic asked.
Miles nodded. “He’s not home right now, but yeah. We live
together.”
Nic sighed. “Well, the view from the windows is limited by your
awning, so I don’t think it’s worth the invasion of your privacy to station
an officer up here.”
“Sorry,” Miles said inexplicably.
“Thanks for letting me look,” Nic said. He started back downstairs,
and Miles followed.
“Does Itai work in the store?” Nic asked. He started rolling up his
sleeves.
“Yes. Well, no…” Miles scratched his head and winced. “It’s kind
of a long story. To keep it short, he helps when he can.”
“Is he going to do those dishes?”
Miles laughed at that. “God, no. But we do have a dishwasher in the
kitchen. It simply needs to be loaded.”
“I’ll do it. You probably have to do inventory.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I don’t want to go back to the precinct.” Nic laughed, looking a
little embarrassed himself. “There’s a retirement party for a sergeant in
narcotics that I fucking despise, and if I can have a legitimate excuse to
not have to put on a smiling face and stand around eating cake with the
bastard, all the better.”
Miles laughed. “Wow. A detective who wants to do my dishes.
Will you marry me?”
As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Flirtatious comedy with
straight men you just met doesn’t work well.
But Nic posed dramatically, clasping his hands over his heart. “For
that pickled egg recipe, I’ll be yours forever.”
“Don’t sell yourself cheap. I can write that one down,” Miles told
him, smirking. He showed Nic where the dishwasher tray was and
started showing him how to load it, but Nic stopped him.
“I told you, my parents owned an Italian deli in Portland for years. I
know how to work a commercial dishwasher, unless this one is finicky.”
“Nope. Knock yourself out.” Miles turned but hesitated at the door.
It felt odd leaving a stranger in his mother’s kitchen, but the guy had
irrefutable ID.
The familiar sound of the dishwasher churning through its first cycle
filled the building as Miles crouched and counted items in the front
display case. He swiveled and came face-to-face with Nic’s crotch.
Nic stepped back, and Miles shot to his feet. “Hey.”
“The dishes have been solved,” Nic said. Miles thought he
observed a bit of color on the detective’s face, but it was hard to tell
under that rough stubble.
They stared at each other for a moment.
“Thank you so much,” Miles said at last, clearing his throat. “So I’ll
see you on Friday?”
“Yeah. What time do you open?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“You want me to come in an hour early to help with prep? I’m no
pickle master, but I could certainly cut a few onions and save you the
tears.”
“Sure. That would be great. How about seven?”
Nic nodded. He gave Miles a crooked smile. “Thanks again for
helping us out.”
“Just don’t let me get shot. My mother will kill me,” Miles informed
him.
Nic didn’t take it as a joke. He frowned. “I’m not going to let
anything affect you.”
For some reason, Miles didn’t believe him.
* * * *
Having spent so much time showing Nic around, Miles was now
behind schedule. He rushed to finish the books in time for his deposit
and complete his shopping.
The grocery store was packed with shoppers preparing for
Thanksgiving feasts. It was going to be odd, he realized, having
Thanksgiving at home without his parents around. It was even more
peculiar to have Hanukkah with only Itai to keep him company.
But when Miles finally retired upstairs for the night, it was past
eight, and Itai still hadn’t returned home. Miles originally planned to
whip up latkes to celebrate the first night of Hanukkah. But since Itai
wasn’t there to enjoy them, he defaulted to reheating the remnants of the
soup of the day. He searched through his drawers and found the small
silver menorah his parents had given him when he went away to college.
He texted Itai a few times to find out when he was coming back, but
didn’t get a response. This wasn’t unusual. Itai often forgot to check his
phone for messages. Tonight, though, it was particularly annoying.
Miles never had a Hanukkah alone, in all the thirty-four years of his
existence, and there was something inordinately sad about lighting that
first candle and saying the prayers by himself. He’d never placed the true
value of the holiday on family and friends until then. But without them, it
was nothing more than lighting a mere candle and having some leftovers.
His loneliness was made more acute by the realization that Itai was
not only not with him, but was with Travis instead. What kind of
planning required meeting until past eight o’clock at night?
His stomach clenched, the thought too close to the ones he’d had the
first time they dated. Back then, he began to suspect Itai was sleeping
around but only halfheartedly believed it until the evidence became too
overpowering to ignore.
But this was work, Itai had said. And he’d promised never to cheat
again. Miles had told him a breakup was better than infidelity, and Itai
had claimed to understand this. So the chances of this being anything
other than a work meeting were slim.
Still…
The small, inch-long candle in the menorah sputtered as it guttered
out. Miles stared at the smoking remains of the candlelight, trying to
convince his aching, tired body to go to bed, but still somehow unwilling
to end the day like this.
He did dishes, worked out, took a shower, and found the first of the
small gifts he’d purchased for Itai months ago when he’d had the time. It
was a nice pair of wool socks. Socks weren’t fancy, but Itai was so
picky with brand names they ended up costing more than Miles’s
budgeted amount for the gift.
He hadn’t planned on wrapping it for Itai, but now he did, and the
gesture seemed to give him perverse grief. He checked his phone for
messages, but Itai hadn’t called. He passive-aggressively left the present
by the back door so Itai would see it and hopefully feel racked with
guilt.
Miles went to bed.
Then he got up twenty minutes later and returned the gift to his
hiding spot because petty guilt mongering was a low blow.
As he drifted off to sleep, he realized the high road was good for the
soul but unsatisfying for the heart.
Chapter Three
Fire-and-Ice Pickles
Miles woke at five thirty in the morning, like he always did. He sat
up, rubbing his eyes, and then blissfully realized it was Thanksgiving and
the store was closed.
He threw his head back against the pillow with relish. He stretched
his legs and rubbed against a naked Itai, who must have come in
sometime last night when he was sleeping.
Miles reached over and curled around Itai’s back. His skin was
warm and smelled of yesterday’s cologne and pine soap. He rubbed his
hand over the rough stubble of Itai’s beard. His Mediterranean levels of
hair growth always astonished Miles.
Itai grumbled in his sleep and buried his head deeper into his
pillow. “Mmm…sleeping.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Miles said, voice cracked with sleep.
“Mmm.”
“And Happy Hanukkah,” he added.
“…ackshav ten lo l’lechet lishon…” Itai mumbled Hebrew Miles
didn’t understand. Itai only reverted to Hebrew when truly exhausted, so
Miles spared him further torment and turned over, going back to sleep
himself.
He woke up again two hours later, his body unused to such
luxurious slumber. Warm light filtered through the dark curtains. It was a
rare to have a sunny Thanksgiving.
He was sporting a hard morning boner and really wanted a fuck. He
slid up against Itai again, rubbing alongside his back, more determined
that he had been hours before.
Itai mumbled again, but this time he rolled over, curling his arms
around Miles to pull him close. Miles rubbed his erection against Itai’s
naked crotch, and soon there was movement, Itai’s slumbering cock
coming to life.
Itai rubbed his eyes.
“Morning,” Miles whispered. He kissed Itai. Itai’s mouth tasted
stale with sleep but was hot and wet.
“Hello,” Itai whispered back. He kissed more enthusiastically.
“Late night?” Miles asked, kissing around Itai’s mouth as he
lowered his hands to stroked Itai’s thickly haired chest.
“Mm. Had some problems with the RPC services, had to redo part
of the module for it.” Itai kept his eyes closed as if still attempting to
sleep, but his hands began to wander, rubbing along Miles, reaching
lower until they found Miles’s cock. He began to slowly pump Miles in
his hand, a lazy rhythm that filled Miles with hunger for more.
Miles kissed his way down Itai’s chest. Itai’s erection glistened
with precum, standing aloft despite the sluggish pace of the rest of his
body.
Miles leaned down to take Itai’s cock in his mouth when he
hesitated. Itai’s crotch smelled strong, like semen and sweat and…
Someone else?
Miles jerked his head back, feeling as though ice water rushed
through his veins.
Itai cracked open his eyes. “What?” he asked sleepily.
“You’ve fucked someone,” Miles said.
“What?” Itai scowled. He sat up. “You’re talking crazy.”
“Itai—”
“Is this about Travis again?” Itai snapped, coming to full alertness.
He rubbed his hand over his stubble. “You can’t let it go, can you?”
Miles sat back on his haunches, his cock wilting. “Did you have sex
with him?”
“Miles—”
“No, just answer me honestly. Did you?”
Itai rolled his eyes. “I told you. We were programming last night.
But maybe I should sleep around, if this is going to happen every time
we have sex!”
The words cut Miles to the core. “This doesn’t happen every time
we have sex!” he shouted. “But I know what you smell like and what I
smell like, and your dick smells like it’s been in some other asshole!”
“Are you a bloodhound?” Itai sneered. He rolled away from Miles.
“This is bullshit. I’m getting up.”
Miles leaned against the headboard, feeling pissed off and hurt and
disappointed all at once. Itai shuffled out of bed and immediately
dressed. He slammed the bedroom door on his way out.
Miles stared at the bedsheet. What if he was wrong? God, what if
he was losing his mind over jealousy? He had to trust Itai. If they didn’t
have trust, what was left?
He wished he could languish the rest of the morning in bed, feeling
sorry for himself. But he wasn’t that kind of person. Focusing on other
projects took his mind off heartache; besides, he had a ton of prep to do
for tomorrow’s dinner.
So he dressed in jeans and the old T-shirt he liked to cook in and
headed toward the kitchen to grab some breakfast. On his way he looked
out the back window and saw Itai’s Acura was still parked outside. He
hadn’t run off, at least.
He then heard the familiar clack of Itai’s keyboard emanating from
their office. So he was working. Either that or avoiding Miles. Miles
wanted to go in and apologize so they could enjoy the holiday. But he
also didn’t want to apologize after being stood up for the first night of
Hanukkah. So he went straight downstairs.
* * * *
Two hours into prep, anger had faded and worry had taken its place.
At this rate he’d be spending Thanksgiving alone.
And for what? Maybe Itai hadn’t cheated. It was a reaction based on
a hunch. There was no evidence.
Miles finished grating the last of the potatoes and returned upstairs,
hesitating at the doorway to Itai’s office.
Miles had spent much of his youth lingering in that doorway, yelling
at his brother. He hoped this interaction went more smoothly than the
ones with Dan that usually ended with him grounded.
“Knock knock.”
Itai’s computer screen was an indecipherable assortment of code.
He looked over his shoulder. “Hi.” He turned back to his program.
Miles entered quietly, stomach in knots. He observed Itai’s jaw
clenching and unclenching in unspoken anxiety. He looked tired. Miles
placed the small gift beside Itai’s laptop. “Happy Hanukkah. Sorry about
this morning.”
Itai stopped typing. He turned back and studied Miles with an
uncertain expression. “Baby.” He reached up and cupped Miles’s neck,
pulling him down gently for a quick kiss. When they broke for air, Itai
sighed. “I am also sorry. I feel bad about not being here more so I get
snappy.”
Miles smiled. “Snippy.”
Itai smiled back. “Right. Snippy. Snappy is happy, yes?” He shook
his head. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I know, but it’s tradition. It’s weird spending Hanukkah without my
parents, so I needed to buy someone gifts.” He blew it off as if he hadn’t
thought hard about each gift he’d gotten his lover.
Itai’s expression softened. “And I wasn’t here last night. I didn’t
realize it was important.”
Miles shrugged, not wanting to admit how much it had hurt. “I know.
You had work.”
Itai shook his head. “I will always have work, though.” He carefully
unwrapped the gift, preserving the gold paper and folding it as if he
would cherish it forever.
He opened the box and pulled out the socks. “Oh, lovely! Paul
Smith. Thank you, darling.” He stood and embraced Miles. They kissed
again, and quickly the kiss grew heated. “Where were we this morning?”
he whispered in Miles’s ear.
Miles laughed against Itai’s lips. “If I recall, I think I was getting
ready to stick my ass in the air and have you fuck me.”
Itai’s eyebrow lifted. “Here I am, exhausted from programming, and
you want me to do all the work?”
“Yes.”
Itai laughed at that. “Fine, fine. Be that demanding.” Itai removed
his clothes carefully, folding each item and placing them in a neat pile on
his computer chair.
For his part, Miles simply undressed and left everything sprawled
on the floor. He lay on the carpet waiting while Itai went to the bedroom.
He returned with their lube and a condom. He wasn’t hard, so he
squeezed lube onto his palm, rubbed his hands together, and starting
fingering Miles’s ass as he stroked himself.
Itai loved ass play and could stretch and finger Miles’s opening
forever. He loved pressing lubricant deep inside of Miles, smoothing it
over the puckered flesh, scissoring his fingers and breathing heavily
behind Miles, his other fingers stroking the back side of Miles’s scrotum.
It was torture. Pleasant torture, but excruciating nevertheless. He
was a cruel, selfish lover, Miles realized, taking endless pleasure in
drawing Miles out to beyond comfort, when all Miles ever wanted was
someone to fuck him hard.
But there was always this, until even thrusting down on Itai’s thick
fingers didn’t speed up the process, even begging, even groping between
his legs to stroke Itai’s own hard member.
“I’m getting there,” Itai said huskily.
“God…” Miles grabbed his own cock and started stroking it, unable
to stop himself. But Itai put his hand over Miles’s and gently pulled it
away.
“Don’t. You’ll come too fast.”
“Itai! For God’s sake. Fuck me now!”
With a sigh of contentment—or maybe frustration, Miles didn’t
know—Itai finally pulled his fingers from inside of Miles’s body. Miles
watched over his shoulder as Itai rolled a condom on his cock, his
fingers shiny and oily with lube.
He spread Miles’s cheeks wide, lined up his cock, and slowly
entered Miles’s body. After all that preparation, his entrance was smooth
and open, and Miles didn’t get that flush of pleasure until Itai was all the
way in, the tip of his cock brushing against Miles’s prostate.
Yes, finally.
Miles thrust back hard, and Itai groaned. He started a slow, steady
rhythm, but Miles wanted it faster, wanted it deeper. He rammed his ass
against Itai, trying to fill himself with that cock until he exploded. He
was almost ashamed by the way he needed it, the wanton desire to
spread himself apart and be taken.
Itai sped his movements. Miles couldn’t help it; he grabbed his dick
again, but this time Itai was too focused on fucking him to stop Miles
from pleasuring himself. Within a few quick strokes Miles came into his
own hand, clenching his teeth down on his groan.
Itai pounded away longer. At first it was nothing, and then it became
a bit painful, Miles’s sensitive flesh well past the point of sensory
overload. By the time Itai came, Miles’s ass felt raw and gaping, and he
wouldn’t be surprised if Itai could stick his hand in there.
Afterward, they lay on the floor, catching their breath. Miles noticed
for the first time that a large crack split the plaster of his brother’s old
room. It was yet another repair needed for the aged building that he
would not be able to afford.
“What do you want for Thanksgiving dinner this year?” Miles
asked. They’d done the traditional turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes,
gravy, and pumpkin pie the first time they’d dated. Itai had been polite
but clearly unimpressed. Maybe it was solely an American pleasure.
“It’s Hanukkah too,” Itai mumbled, sounding once again on the
verge of sleep. “How about latkes?”
Miles shrugged. “Why not. I’m already grating enough potatoes to
feed an army. Or in this case, half a platoon of rabbis who will no doubt
feel jilted of their traditional brisket.”
Itai slowly re-dressed. “Surely they know it’s going to be halavi,
yes?”
Miles shrugged. “It was Rabbi Kevin’s idea to hire me. I’ll let him
handle the PR fallout.”
In actuality, Miles had had a long, hard discussion with Rabbi
Kevin about tomorrow’s Festival of Lights.
Rabbi Kevin Fine was one of Miles’s more quirky regular
customers. He was the head of a reform synagogue outside of Seattle and
a man whose ecstasy at discovering a Jewish kosher vegetarian deli in
his neighborhood was barely controlled.
Rabbi Kevin was a vegetarian, not for kosher reasons but because
of his belief in animal rights. And so when he was put in charge of
organizing the fundraising dinner, he immediately turned to Miles.
“But you’re serving fish at least, right?” Itai asked.
“Yeah, against Rabbi Kevin’s desires. He wanted me to work some
sort of tempeh miracle. But I’ve placed an order for a lovely copper
river salmon.”
Itai finished dressing and frowned down at Miles. “You going to lie
like that all day?”
“Maybe.” Miles stretched and yawned, enjoying the simple act of
being naked on the carpet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done
that. Damn, he was getting old fast.
Itai nudged Miles’s hip with his toe. “Get up. I have to work on this
object model.”
“I can model my object.” Miles wiggled his hips for emphasis.
“Very funny.” Itai nudged Miles harder. “Go away.”
Miles sat up and scowled. “There was once a time when you liked
having me lie around all naked.”
“It’s not sanitary having your cum-filled ass leaking onto the carpet.
I’m going to have to clean it now.”
“It’s your cum,” Miles sulked.
Itai sat down and started typing.
Miles admitted to himself he was procrastinating. He lurched back
to his feet and started toward the bathroom.
“Pick up your clothes!” Itai yelled.
Miles rolled his eyes and scooped up his discarded clothing.
Really, what was the harm in leaving a pair of pants on the floor for a
mere ten minutes? It wasn’t as though he was going out. He was only
heading downstairs into the kitchen again.
He took a quick shower, dressed, and resumed his prep work
downstairs. He also called the three temps he’d hired to help with the
event and arranged where to meet Friday. Two of them seemed annoyed
to be bothered on a holiday. But it wasn’t his fault that the Jewish
calendar was inconvenient this year.
As Miles worked, he began a list of items he’d forgotten to pick up
earlier and would now need to purchase Friday. Just thinking about how
crazy the following day would be made his stomach churn, so he
distracted himself by switching gears and mixing up a sour-cream
dipping sauce for his latkes and making a quick salad for dinner.
“Baby.”
Miles started, nearly dropping his knife on his toe. “Don’t startle me
like that!”
“Sorry.” Itai looked sheepish, his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got
some bad news. Travis called. The article on Fantastic has an earlier
deadline than we thought, so they want to do the interview tomorrow
morning.”
Miles shook his head. “Of course they do.” He went back to
chopping tomatoes.
“I can’t change it.”
“I know. It’s fine.”
Itai’s eyebrows came together. “It is?”
“Yeah. It’s disappointing but not surprising.”
“I thought you were freaking out about it being slammed in the store
tomorrow.”
“I am, but I’m training a new employee tomorrow, so it should be
fine.” Miles tossed the sliced tomatoes into a bowl. “I’ll have to—”
“New employee?” Itai interrupted. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday,” Miles said. He considered telling Itai the whole story
about Detective Delbene’s undercover work but decided against it. It
wasn’t that he was intentionally keeping secrets, but…
Okay, he was, he admitted to himself. But it was for a reason. Itai
had suffered some pretty intensive post-traumatic stress after his stint in
the Israeli army, and an unfortunate incident that occurred outside the
base where he was stationed had left him particularly sensitive about any
issue involving guns. It didn’t seem like the best idea to mention there
would be an armed officer in the shop for the next two weeks. Or the
possibility that, as remote as Nic suggested it would be, there could be
violence in the deli. The idea made Miles sweaty with anxiety, and he
didn’t have PTSD or any personal negative experiences with weapons.
So he kept his response short.
“A guy came in the store wanting to know more about pickling. He
asked if he could work with me for a few weeks and learn how to
pickle.”
Itai scowled. “Why, so he can turn around and open a competing
business somewhere? That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Miles.”
“No, it isn’t.” Miles’s hackles rose. “He’s not an entrepreneur. He
just likes my food.”
“How do you know anything about this guy? He might rip off the till;
he might steal your mother’s recipes and sell them. Who knows?” Itai
angrily slammed the dishwasher. “And I thought you were going to
consult with me on the business decisions! How come I wasn’t part of
the hiring process?”
Miles narrowed his eyes. “You serious? You’ve spent—what?—
three hours working in the deli so far?”
“I’m planning on spending more time there! I—”
“You’re busy. I get it. You’re always busy, Itai. It’s not going to
change.”
“The sale is this weekend, for God’s sake! Afterward—”
“Afterward, what? You’ll be sitting on a stool, wondering what on
earth you will do with all your free time?” Miles snapped. When Itai
didn’t reply, Miles answered for him. “Of course you won’t. You’ll
immediately begin a new project. You and I both know that. And if
you’ve shown no interest or inclination in learning to cook before now,
why would you decide to take it up?”
Itai looked furious. “I thought you wanted me to be your partner in
the deli!”
“I do!” Miles cried back. “But only if you want to as well. It
shouldn’t be something you dread doing!”
“Well, I dread doing it now!” Itai stormed out of the deli.
Miles grabbed the bowl of sliced tomatoes and threw it against the
wall. It was aluminum so the bowl survived, but the tomatoes did not.
They splattered against the kitchen wall in a dramatic display of mess.
Miles kicked the counter.
He breathed heavily.
He counted to sixty.
And then he bent over, picked up the bowl, and cleaned up the
ruined tomatoes. His hands were shaking with adrenaline.
Two large fights in one day was a new record for the two of them.
Well, unless he considered the epic twenty-four-hour ordeal of their
breakup that included Itai sobbing and Miles vomiting on the sidewalk.
Oh, fond memories.
He wiped up his mess and went back to prepare their Thanksgiving
dinner salad as if nothing had happened. He wasn’t apologizing first this
time. It was Itai’s turn. He had been the irrational one.
He carried his cold plate of latkes, sauce, and a tomatoless salad
upstairs.
Itai was still in the office, likely instant messaging someone from
the rhythm of his typing: a burst of activity, then a minute of silence
before resuming his typing.
Miles put the food in their fridge, took a shower, and sat himself in
front of the television to watch the second half of the Raiders and
Cowboys football game. He had a second gift for Itai in his wardrobe,
but he was very purposefully avoiding wrapping it.
Presents weren’t for assholes.
He realized he hadn’t heard typing for a while and turned. Itai stood
behind the couch, jacket on, looking upset.
“I’m going to the store. You want anything?” Itai asked.
“Store’s closed,” Miles told him. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“The gas station will be open. I just want beer.”
“Knock yourself out.” Miles turned back to the coverage of the
game, anger making him incapable of looking Itai in the face.
Itai left. Miles felt like his heart was bruised.
What had happened to them?
How could they have been so madly in love only a year before that
the idea of spending even hours apart terrified them both?
He tried to enjoy the football game, but the thing about fighting with
someone he loved was that he couldn’t let it go.
And he did love Itai, he reminded himself. But maybe not as much
as he used to.
Just as he was successfully distracted by the football game, Itai
returned. His cheeks were flush from the cold air, and he looked happier
than when he’d left.
He marched up to the sofa and dropped a large bottle of champagne
on the coffee table. “Sorry.”
Miles glanced up. Itai sat beside him. They both stared at the game
for a minute.
“I’m sorry,” Itai said again, gripping his knees. His hands were
white with cold. “I was mad you left me out of the decision-making
process. But I know I haven’t been around.”
Miles opened his mouth to add the part about Itai not wanting to be
around, but Itai interrupted him.
“Yes, I haven’t been involved. I didn’t expect to be as engrossed in
Fantastic until the end like this.” Itai looked at his hands. “And you’re
right. I’m not sure I want to spend all my time working in the deli.”
There. It was out. Miles breathed out slowly, worried something
would hurt. It did, but only in a dull, achy way. He’d expected this.
“All right,” he said quietly.
“It doesn’t mean anything more than that,” Itai clarified. “I don’t see
myself working in the deli, is all.” He swallowed. “And therefore of
course you have the right to hire whomever you want, whenever you
want.” Itai looked at Miles expectantly.
His anger had been so sharp he still felt cuts on the inside of him
from holding it in. Still, he tried to let it go, accepting Itai’s olive branch
for what it was. He motioned to the bottle on the table. “Gas station
champagne?”
Itai smiled, looking relieved. “Best I could do, I’m afraid. Oh!” Itai
searched in his jacket pocket and pulled a small paper bag out. “And this
is for you. Hag sameach, shirinli.”
Miles smiled and took the proffered gift. First he pulled a car air
freshener from the bag.
“Oh, wow. For my very own?” Miles laughed and sniffed it. “Ooh,
even evergreen scent.”
Itai laughed. He shrugged out of his coat. “Since you don’t have a
car, you can put it in mine,” he offered.
“No, I’ll treasure it forever.” Miles smiled as he placed the tree-
shaped freshener on the table.
“But wait, there’s more!” Itai motioned back to the bag.
Miles dug deeper and pulled out a deck of cards, followed by a
moon pie.
“I love moon pies,” Miles admitted. He ripped it open without
hesitation.
“I know you do. I wanted to also get you a candy ring, but they were
out. And the only flowers they had were the kind of folded roses made
out of women’s underwear, so I passed on those.”
“I appreciate that.” Miles bit into the moon pie, then offered it to
Itai.
He waved it off. “It’s your Hanukkah present, baby.”
“I have another one for you,” Miles admitted. “But I didn’t wrap it
out of spite.”
“Where is it?” Itai asked, looking excited.
Miles nodded toward the bedroom. “It’s in my wardrobe. I bet you
can guess what object in there is for you.” He leaned back against the
sofa and smiled as he heard Itai rustle through the contents of his
wardrobe.
A few minutes later Itai came bursting out, exceedingly excited,
clutching the small box in his hands. “Buckyballs?” he cried, “You found
buckyballs!”
Miles nodded. “They’re still for sale online, you know, even if
they’ve been banned for killing stupid children.”
“Oh my God!” Itai cried, his enthusiasm surprising Miles. He knew
Itai had wanted the nerdy toy for ages and bemoaned their sales
restriction with great ado, but he hadn’t expected quite such an explosive
reaction. It made him both pleased with his choice and also a little sad.
It was easy to pay attention to the little things someone said, make
note, and plan to buy them in the future. How come Itai never noticed all
the little things Miles had said over the last few months? The melted
spatula, the broken alarm clock, little things.
Miles shook his head. He was being petty and materialistic. It really
was the thought that counted. That’s what he told himself as he crumpled
the moon pie wrapper in his hands.
“Thank you so much,” Itai said. He kissed Miles.
“You want dinner?” Miles offered. “It only needs reheating.”
“I’ll do it. You can watch the rest of the game.” Itai didn’t let go of
his toy, carrying it with him to the office.
“It’s a deal.” Miles kicked up his feet, watched the game, and held
the deck of cards in his hands, not because he wanted to play but
because, cheap as they were, they were one solid thing left between them
to hold on to.
Chapter Four
Kosher Dill Half-Sours
“What’s your Black Friday sale?”
It was the fifth time that morning customers had asked Miles for
discounted items.
He didn’t explain the intricacies of being a small-business owner
who made practically everything for sale from scratch. Nor did he tell
him to fuck off for being a cheap bastard.
Those were things he wanted to do. But they were bad for business.
“No Black Friday sale, but for Hanukkah I’m offering an additional
pickle to go with every sandwich order!” Miles said with forced
enthusiasm. He plastered his grin on and continued to smile even when
the guy shook his head and left the store.
Maybe it was the grin, now that Miles considered it. He had a
tendency to look maniacal when he forced a smile for too long. He
swung by the reflective surface of the fridge in the kitchen. Yep. He
looked wild-eyed and smiley in the style of a serial killer or someone
suffering terrible muscle spasms.
“Hello? Anyone here?” someone called from the front.
He tried to neutralize the shady-looking grin, but at this point it was
frozen on his face, like his mother had always predicted would happen.
You make that face long enough, one day it’ll stick.
He rushed from the kitchen, carrying the bowl in which he was
beating eggs.
“Hi,” he said, stirring frantically, lips trembling from the stress of
smiling so broadly.
“Can I get a double short Americano with a splash of cream and a
tall vanilla soy latte with hazelnut and caramel?”
“Anything to eat?” Miles asked, ringing up the order with one hand.
“Uh…got anything on sale?” Something about his smile made the
woman flinch. “Never mind. I’m not hungry.” She gave her friend a
glance that seemed to say psy-cho!
Miles put his eggs down, pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, and
took her money. For the hundredth time, he cursed Chloe’s unborn child,
the journalist that had taken Itai away first thing, and Detective Dominic
Delbene for leading Miles on and making him believe he’d be there to
help Friday morning when he was, in fact, not.
It wasn’t like Nic was an actual employee, which made it difficult
to fire him his first day. But oh Miles wanted to. Every time he had to
switch between handling cash and cooking, he dreamed of firing Nic’s
nice-looking ass.
In some twist of petty, cruel fate, the deli was slammed that
morning. He would have been underwater on a normal Friday, but the
fact that he was also trying to prep for a large dinner at the same time
was impossible.
A little after ten o’clock, two hours after opening, who should
saunter in but the cursed, prefired employee himself. Nic was dressed in
a nice pair of black denim trousers and a white button-down shirt that
Miles was glad would get filthy by the end of the first day.
Nic looked frazzled as he peeled off his blazer. “So fucking sorry
about being late.” He shook his head. “We’ve got problems on another
case. I had to be at the crime scene and couldn’t break free until now.”
Miles’s anger vanished in the realization that not only was Nic not
his employee, he was a police detective, one who had a job far more
important than pouring shots of espresso.
“Don’t worry about it,” Miles said. “Grab an apron from the
kitchen, and I’ll show you the ropes of the till and the espresso
machine.”
Nic rushed off while Miles finished another drink order. When Nic
returned, he was looping the tie of the blue apron. Miles couldn’t help
but notice the bulge under his button-down where Nic’s gun holster lay
close to his chest. It was a sobering reminder of the actual reason he was
there.
Luckily Miles’s parents had bought a nearly fully automated
espresso machine that required minimal babysitting. Miles gave Nic a
quick demonstration of how to properly tamp the beans and load the
machine, and what the buttons meant.
“Now I’ll show you how to froth milk,” Miles said, but Nic shook
his head.
“I know how. I made espresso in my parents’ deli.”
Miles lingered over Nic’s shoulder for the next two orders, but it
was obvious Nic was a trained barista who knew what he was doing.
Next he walked him through the nightmarish old till.
“So what you’re saying is that fifty percent of these buttons either
don’t work or will calculate the wrong totals,” Nic summarized.
Miles had to laugh at that. “Uh, yeah. Just stick to the ones that have
caved in from years of prodding.”
“Got it.”
“While no one’s waiting, I’m going to run in the back and prep for
my dinner tonight.”
Nic frowned. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.” Miles wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his
hand. “I’m branching into catering, and tonight’s my first official job.
I’ve been hired to cater a thirty-person Hanukkah dinner at the Jewish
Community Center tonight starting at seven thirty.”
Nic whistled. “That’s a lot on your plate. You go back and do what
you need to do.”
For the first time that morning, Miles felt like his mouth obeyed him
and created a semblance of a normal, actual human smile. “Thanks.” He
started back toward the kitchen, but Nic reached out and grabbed his
bicep.
“Wait. One quick thing.” Nic glanced at the three occupied tables
beside the window. He stepped close enough to Miles that he could tilt
his head down and whisper in Miles’s ear. Only then did Miles realize
how much taller Nic was, and his proximity sent an unwanted flutter of
desire through Miles.
“If I shout to clear out, don’t come back into the deli, all right?” Nic
said quietly. He looked over the customers again with concern. “I’ll take
responsibility for getting bystanders out of the way. But you need to be
prepared for me to give you a signal to stay clear of the storefront, and I
mean it.”
Alarm rang through Miles. “I thought you said there was no danger.”
“I said it was unlikely,” Nic reminded him. “But we have to be
prepared for any scenario, and I’ve seen simple jobs go badly as often as
I’ve seen complex operations sail smoothly.”
Miles nodded stiffly. “If you say clear out, I’ll hunker in the
kitchen.”
“And call your boyfriend upstairs and warn him not to come down.”
“That’s unlikely in any case,” Miles said with unexpected
bitterness.
Nic clearly caught it. “Oh. You want me to accidentally shoot him
for you?” He smirked as Miles shook his head.
“No!”
Nic laughed. “Of course not. Just stay clear, all right?”
Miles nodded, feeling a little annoyed to be instructed to stay out of
his own store. “I’m going to work on my kohlrabi.”
“I’ll holler if I need help.” Nic turned happily back to the register,
pointing at the keys and talking under his breath as he memorized each
one’s purpose.
Miles stayed in the kitchen until the front door chimed. He put down
his knife and started back out, but stopped when he saw Nic cheerily
greet the two guys from the brokerage next door and take their bagel and
coffee orders. He rang them up without fail and whistled as he made
their drinks.
“Miles. Bagels toasted?” Nic yelled around the corner.
“Yeah. Spreads are marked in the fridge. There’s lox there too, and
I always serve the lox with capers.”
“Got it.” Without missing a beat, Nic rinsed his hands and reached
for a sesame and a pumpernickel bagel. He grabbed the sharp bread
knife and held it up over his other hand. Miles nearly called out a
warning about how easy it was to slice a finger when cutting bagels, but
Nic clearly had done this before. He held the bread flat and sliced
horizontally through it, keeping extraneous appendages clear of the
serrated edge.
Maybe this would all be okay?
Miles stood in the doorway and watched for the next two customers,
but then he started in on his appetizers and couldn’t break free. From the
sounds emanating from the front of the store, it seemed everything was
fine. He heard Nic happily joke with the next customer who wanted a
Black Friday sale, and unlike Miles, he didn’t need to apply a freakish
mask of pseudojoy to hide his bitterness.
And there were no gunshots. So far so good.
Around eleven there was a lull, and Nic came back into the kitchen
for more orders.
“I usually wipe the tables down and the counter, and unload the
dishes during lags,” Miles explained. “Then I prep for the lunch rush by
preslicing bread and setting up my station.”
“What’s today’s soup?” Nic asked. Without asking he lifted the lid
off the large soup pot on the stove and sniffed.
“I’m making a pumpkin soup for tonight, so I figured I’d double the
batch and serve it for today’s lunch.”
“It smells amazing,” Nic said.
Miles fished out a spoon from the drawer. “Here, try it. Tell me
what you think. Is it salty enough?”
Nic reached into the large pot and got himself a sample. At once, an
image of Itai doing the same thing sprang to Miles’s memory. Itai had
nearly burned himself leaning over such a large, extremely hot metal pot.
Nic, however, maneuvered around the stove like someone who spent a
lot of time in kitchens.
“Fuck. It’s the best soup I’ve ever had, Miles,” Nic declared. He
dropped the spoon and without hesitating reached for another and took
another bite. “Damn! I have to get this recipe.”
“You cook at home?” Miles asked, amused and flattered as a third
spoon was removed and used for tasting. He handed Nic a small bowl
and ladled out a portion.
“I cook every night,” Nic said. “I’m going through a noodle kick at
the moment, but I’d love to tackle a soup like this.” He greedily spooned
from the bowl Miles had provided.
“My dough skills aren’t great,” Miles admitted, “so if you know
how to make good noodles, that would be cool to see what your
techniques are.”
Nic’s face brightened in a big, beautiful smile. “Sure! We could
whip up a batch in this kitchen when you have some time.”
“That would be awesome.”
“I’ve wanted to noodle with you ever since I met you.”
Miles choked on his follow-up comment. “Uh…” He couldn’t read
the twinkle in the detective’s eye. “Maybe I could make my
grandmother’s kugel recipe.”
“Kugel…that’s a noodle dish?” Nic asked.
Miles nodded. “Jewish noodles, either sweet or savory. I could
make the dessert kugel with cinnamon and cheese, but the savory is
traditionally made with schmaltz—rendered chicken fat—so obviously
I’d have to modify to make it pareve.”
“Pareve?”
“It means kosher neutral,” Miles explained. “Anything that isn’t
either specifically dairy or strictly meat gets put in the pareve category.”
“So fish is pareve?”
“For the most part. It depends on the type of fish and how obvious
its scales are, since you can’t have shellfish. Speaking of fish…” Miles
remembered it was almost noon and his fish distributor still hadn’t
shown up with the Copper River chinook he’d ordered last week.
He called Vince, his fish purveyor, and left a message asking where
he was.
The beginnings of the lunch crowd started to trickle in. Miles
showed Nic how he built sandwiches, and then he returned to the kitchen
to work on frying his Israeli doughnuts for the evening dessert.
His phone rang in the middle of frying. “Hey! Miles, my man!”
“Hi, Vince.” Miles switched the phone to speaker as he handled his
frying pan. “Where’s my fish?”
“Yeah. Problem with your fish.”
Miles froze in place. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m saying that. I’m saying I’m out of Copper River salmon, man.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving and I didn’t get anything in until this
morning, and there’s none left.”
Miles clenched his teeth. “What do you have?”
“Just pink. They’re beautiful, but it’s pink salmon. I also got some
gorgeous sturgeon if you prefer. It’s—”
“I can’t do sturgeon. It isn’t kosher. Damn!” Miles pinched the
bridge of his nose. “You’re screwing me here.”
“Sorry. You want the pink?”
“Yeah, fine. Give me the pink. I’ll need seven.”
“I’ll be right over,” Vince told him.
Miles hung up. “Fuck!” he declared loudly.
Nic stuck his head back into the kitchen immediately. “Everything
kosher?” He laughed at his joke.
“Never heard that one before.” Miles growled.
“What’s wrong?” Nic asked.
Miles shook his head. “Change of plans. I have to come up with
something for my main course, and fast.” His mind whirled. Pink salmon
wasn’t good as a fillet, but he could make cakes out of it if he combined
it with bread crumbs and onions…
“Just don’t eat anything else,” Miles warned, already heading to his
walk-in. “I’m going to need you to try a fuckload of salmon cakes,
because I haven’t made this before.”
“Awesome!” Nic declared, whistling on his way back to the front of
the deli.
The knock at the back door of the kitchen came only a few minutes
later, with Vince sheepishly handing over the fish.
“Sorry again,” Vince said. “It’s the way the holidays fall this year, I
guess.”
“Yeah. It’s fucking fantastic.”
“Well, hey, at least Christmas and Hanukkah aren’t on the same
date,” Vince reasoned.
“That was last year.” Miles sighed. “Thanks.”
He immediately went to work breaking down the fillets. For the next
three hours, he only had to bail Nic out twice, showing him how
something was made or where to find a particular pickle.
As the lunch rush died out, Miles started plying Nic with his first
two batches of salmon cakes.
“Of these two, which is better?” he demanded.
Nic tried them both. Miles didn’t have much hope that Nic could
help; he tried recipes all the time on Itai, and Itai always shrugged and
said he liked them both equally.
But Nic pondered the question as he chewed. “The first one is
better. Saltier, better balanced mustard taste. But they both have too
much onion, I think.”
“Thank you, that’s helpful!” Miles rushed back to start a third small
batch, and then a fourth. Each time Nic stuffed the entire cake into his
mouth and chewed with deliberate and obvious enjoyment.
This was a man who loved food, Miles realized. And Miles liked
that.
“You nailed it,” Nic said through a mouthful of Miles’s fourth batch.
“This is it. Go with it.”
Miles tried it himself. It was delicious, and now he was excited,
because he could serve it on top of the sauerkraut he’d been fermenting
all month.
“Is there more? I need another one.” Nic laughed.
Miles reached out to hand him the rest of the one he’d been eating,
but it broke apart in his hands. “It needs more egg to bind it together.” He
stuffed the smaller piece in his mouth and offered up the rest of the cake
to Nic. Miles expected him to grab it. Instead Nic ducked down low and
scooped it into his mouth with his tongue. The erotic gesture surprised
Miles.
“Hello?”
Both Miles and Nic spun around to the entrance of the kitchen. Itai
stood there, looking like a supermodel, dressed as he was for his
publicity shoot.
He had his hair carefully slicked back, and he wore a tightly
tailored, gray silk suit with a casual silk shirt left open at the collar, and
polished leather boots.
Miles wiped salmon-cake crumbs from his palms. “Hi, Itai. Meet
Dominic Delbene.” With sudden horror, he realized he hadn’t told Nic
not to go into detail about his undercover work. “He’s the guy I said was
interested in learning how to pickle so he will be working here for a few
weeks.”
Miles stared pointedly at Nic, hoping he would get the silent
message. But silent communication was really best practiced between
longtime friends, not complete strangers.
“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Nic stepped forward and offered Itai his
hand.
“Itai Zahari,” Itai said. If he found the scene he’d walked in on
disturbing, he didn’t show it. He glanced over at Miles, looking tired.
“You need my help, or can I go crash for an hour or so? I’ve got the
meeting with the investors over dinner tonight.”
“Go for it. I’m fine,” Miles said and was happy it was the truth. It
amazed him how a single competent employee made so much difference.
“Don’t forget I need your car tonight.”
“I know. Travis is picking me up later.”
“Investors?” Nic asked Itai, quirking an eyebrow. “What are you
working on?”
“I’m a software developer. My company is launching a new app
engine.”
“What’s that?” Nic asked. He shrugged. “I’m sort of a Luddite.”
“It’s basically a way for other developers to make applications that
can be used online or on mobile devices. It provides shortcodes and
other tools they can apply when developing their product to save them
time and troubleshoot their code.”
Nic glanced over at Miles. “Do you get that?”
Miles shrugged. “Some of it, but only because I’ve heard it for
years.” He kissed Itai briefly and then turned back to his stove. “I’ll see
you upstairs before you leave.”
“Nice to meet you,” Itai mumbled at Nic before leaving again.
Miles returned to the counter to reproduce the last cake on a larger
scale. Nic was quiet. After a minute he moseyed over to stand by Miles.
He rolled up his sleeves. “Is there a reason you aren’t telling him who I
am?”
Miles was grateful Nic had been observant, although now he felt
foolish about the whole secrecy thing. He shrugged. “Itai has PTSD from
his experience in the Israeli army, and has a bad reaction to guns. I don’t
want to freak him out, especially the day before his big launch. Maybe
after the weekend it’ll be safe.”
“Your call.” Nic started cleaning up Miles’s workstation, wiping
down his cutting board and knives. “Was he shot?”
Miles watched the muscles of Nic’s forearms bulge as he washed
the knife, fascinated. He’d never seen a guy with such built forearms.
“Miles, was he shot?” Nic asked again.
“Oh. No,” he clarified. “But he saw a kid get shot or something, and
it really affected him.”
Nic nodded. “I get that.” He rinsed the knife. “My first year of
patrol I was the reporting officer on sight where an eight-year-old boy
shot himself in the head with his father’s Beretta. It’s something I’m
never going to get out of my head, I guess you could say.”
“I’m sorry.”
Nic shrugged. “It’s part of police work. My older brothers are both
officers. They warned me, but I hadn’t appreciated what they were
talking about until I saw it myself.”
The front bell chimed. Nic replaced Miles’s knife and cutting
board, perfectly clean, and then wiped his hands on his apron. “Break’s
over! Time to go to work!” He whistled on his way out of the kitchen.
Miles stared after him, shaking his head. What the hell was with that
guy? He glanced down at his clean prep area.
I’m going to have to marry him, Miles thought.
The flow of customers slowed the last hour of business. Only
twenty minutes before closing, a woman came in and spent a lot of time
taking in the store, examining the barrels, the cold case, and the menu.
Nic offered to take her order, but she hesitated, saying she was looking
around.
Miles immediately became suspicious. He looked at Nic and
frowned. Nic’s eyes widened in understanding. He turned back to
carefully track the woman’s movements around the deli. Without a word,
one of the other customers, a fellow sitting by himself at one of the
tables, reading a paper as he enjoyed a bagel, stood and started milling
around as well, his glances flashing back and forth between Nic and the
lady.
Shit, Miles thought. He’d been right. The perp was a woman.
“Are you the owner?” she asked him, coming up to the counter.
“Miles Piekus?”
Miles glanced at Nic, then back at her. “Yes.”
She smiled crookedly and held out her hand. “I’m Farrah Chapman.
I’m a food critic. I’m syndicated in the Times under a column called
Farrah’s Foodie Finds?”
Miles’s mouth went dry. “Hi. Hi! Yes…yes of course, I know your
column! I read it religiously every week online.”
Farrah didn’t seem to find his enthusiasm moving. She looked a
little glacial in her expressions. Was a perfect poker face a critical
characteristic for food reviewers?
“I’d like to do a piece on your restaurant. Would Wednesday work?
Two o’clock?”
“Uh…sure!” Miles hunted for a pen and scrawled the date and time
on his white apron. “I didn’t know you told restaurateurs you were
coming ahead of time.”
“I give advance warning, because I’d like to try a sample of
everything on the menu.”
Miles’s eyes widened. “Good to know now.”
“I don’t expect any special treatment. If you could set me up a table
and write down the names of the dishes and place the names with the
ones I try, I should be able to be in and out within an hour.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.” Farrah shook Miles’s hand again. Now his hand was
sweaty. Awesome. Great impression there. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“Sure, thanks.” Miles followed her out to the front door and shut it
behind her. He looked over at Nic, who wore a great big smile.
“Shit! A review in the Times!” He held out his hand, and Miles
slapped it. “Way to go, Miles!”
“This is huge.” Miles was already scheming what to serve. “A
friend of mine makes these artisanal bitters, and after a Farrah’s Foodie
Finds article praising her jasmine and ginger blend, it got picked up by
all these restaurants for distribution, and she started getting national
orders.”
“We good?” the customer asked Nic.
Nic nodded. “Yeah, thanks, Rick.”
Miles smiled at the undercover officer. “Now that I know who you
are, do you want a sandwich on the house?”
“Nah, I had a bagel. But a coffee would be good.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Nic offered. “You’ve got to work on your
dinner.”
“Thanks,” Miles said, once again heading back to the kitchen. It was
hard to focus on the evening’s meal, however, now that he knew a
reviewer was coming a few days later.
By the time Miles closed and locked the front door at three, he was
amazed and grateful to have survived.
“There is no way I could have pulled off today without you,” he told
Nic, and he meant it. “I owe you.”
Nic was already wheeling the pickle barrels back into the walk-in,
just as Miles had done the day they’d first spoken. “Actually, I owe you.
For a couple of things. Not only for the opportunity to observe your
customers, but for keeping me busy while I do so. I really enjoy working
in a deli. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until today.”
Nic stayed behind and helped Miles clean up. They chatted about
the deli Nic’s parents had owned, Delbene’s, which had been a small
place off the interstate south of Portland proper that specialized in
gourmet sausages and cheeses and his mother’s homemade pasta and
cannoli.
“So why didn’t you take over the business when you were older?”
Miles asked. He pulled out the cash drawer and started counting.
Unasked, Nic reached over and took the credit card receipts.
“I’ll count these up if you have an extra calculator,” he offered.
Miles handed him the calculator. “You can use this. I’ll use my
phone.”
They sat on stools at the counter together, counting.
“Well, my parents sold Delbene’s when I was in high school, so I
never got a chance to inherit it.”
“Why’d they sell? It sounds like it was successful,” Miles said.
“To a degree.” Nic shrugged. “It wasn’t the best location, it was a
lot of work, and when my father’s health started failing, it made sense to
sell.”
He sounded sad admitting it, so Miles decided to drop the topic.
Besides, it was now three thirty, and he needed to get over to the
community center and set up for dinner. He stood, and Nic followed suit,
removing his apron. “I should check on what’s happening with this
morning’s case anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Well, thanks again.” Miles awkwardly held out a hand to
shake. Nic shook it warmly, then pulled Miles into a fraternal hug.
“Thanks for helping me with this.” He frowned at Miles. “You look
frazzled. You got help for this evening?”
“Yeah. I should be fine. I’ve got all the food, my chafing dishes,
cutlery, the wines, serving…” His mind blanked, and he froze.
“Fuck!”
“What?”
“I forgot cream! Cream for the fucking coffee! Oh shit!” He yanked
on his hair, pulling it straight up. “How the hell am I going to get to the
store now? I gotta go straight to Mercer Island!”
Nic squeezed his shoulder. “Deep breath, pal. Is creamer all you
need?”
“Yes. Oh shit, and paper towels! They don’t have any at the center,
and I meant to… How could I have forgotten these simple things?”
Nic handed his bunched apron over and grabbed his blazer from the
kitchen hook. “I’ll pick those up while you load your vehicle.”
“I have to leave in ten minutes!”
Nic pulled out his phone. “Where is the event? Jewish Community
Center?” He typed something in. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“It’s not a problem, really.” Nic smiled. “I can swing by my best
friend Wyatt’s place on my way home. He lives in Bellevue. It’ll be a
good excuse to get out there.”
Miles wanted to say no. He wasn’t the kind of guy to abuse the
kindness of strangers.
That said, he needed all the help he could get, and he’d be a fool to
turn Nic down.
“I owe you big-time,” Miles told him. He fished for his wallet and
handed a twenty to Nic. “Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure. I’ll see you there.” Nic rushed out, and his decisive
behavior inspired Miles to be the same way. He immediately packed the
precooked items into boxes, loaded other boxes with any cooking gear
he feared might not be available at the JCC’s kitchen, and carted the
cases of wine to the Acura.
The car looked like it had raided a supermarket by the time he was
done, but at least it all fit.
Miles had hoped to have enough time to shower before the event,
but that was not in the books. So he changed into clean clothes, applied
an apologetic amount of deodorant, and made sure his hair was
horizontal and not vertical.
Itai wasn’t around. Miles checked his phone and saw he had a text
from him, saying Travis had picked him up earlier than expected and he
was already gone.
So much for parting words of wisdom or a good-luck kiss.
Miles got in the car and made his way along congested city streets
until he reached the interstate. When he hit I-90, the bridge was
completely backed up, the afternoon traffic jam having merged into the
morning traffic jam a few years back. It was a beautiful day, Mount
Rainier was visible over Lake Washington, the air crisp and fresh, but
Miles didn’t care. What mattered right now was that he had food
warming in the backseat and was stuck on a floating bridge, still a good
three miles from his destination.
Luckily the Jewish Community Center was off the highway, so when
he finally made it across the bridge and onto Mercer Island, he arrived in
a few quick turns.
Two of his three hired helpers were already there. Chloe’s sister,
April, was helping him out, as well as Jason, the teenage son of Rabbi
Fine, who was looking for his first opportunity to put something on a
résumé.
They’d both dressed all in black, per Miles’s request, although
Jason’s black Chuck Taylors with white trim were sort of killing the
whole “professional” appearance.
His third helper arrived. Debra was the only one trained as a
caterer, an old coworker whom he hadn’t seen in years, but was
desperate for evening work she could fit in with five kids. They hugged,
and then she took over ordering the others around, setting up the table
and prepping the dining room while Miles focused on the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes behind Miles, Nic showed up brandishing an absurd
gallon jug of cream and three rolls of paper towels.
“One can never have too many paper towels,” Nic declared,
handing the plastic bag over.
“Or cream, apparently.” Miles examined the label on the jug. “I
didn’t even know you could buy cream in bulk.”
“The couple that owns my apartment building is Indian. They know
all the great dairy providers.”
“I’ll cook you something awesome tomorrow to pay you back.”
“Oh, no need. Seeing you should satisfy me enough.” He winked.
Miles’s eyes widened. What the hell did that mean? He was too
busy to think about flirtation though. “I gotta go.”
“Good luck!” Nic tapped his arm. “You can do this.”
“You don’t know me,” Miles said.
“I’m excellent at reading people,” Nic said. “I know you.” He
stared at Miles, and Miles felt his whole body quiver with excitement.
Whether it was because of the faith someone had in him, or the fact that
someone was actually showing interest in him after what felt like a year
of being ignored by his lover…
He wasn’t sure.
But he liked it.
He straightened his shoulders. “You’re right. I can do this.”
Nic grinned. “See you tomorrow.” He waved as he turned. Miles
noticed his car was a big diesel truck, and wondered how much gas it
took to go that far.
“Miles!”
Miles turned and saw Rabbi Fine approach. He was a tall, lanky
string bean of a fellow with light brown hair, a face full of freckles, and
pale eyes.
“Hi, Rabbi.” Miles shook the rabbi’s hand. “You’re here early.”
“I had to drop Jason off, so I thought I’d check on the room decor.
The center did a nice job with the Hanukkah party favors!”
“I’m heading off to the kitchen. Any changes from the last time we
spoke?”
“Nope. “ Kevin clapped his hands together. “You ready, Miles?”
Miles nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Excellent! Then bring on the nosh.”
* * * *
As Nic had predicted, everything was fine.
There were some rocky moments, especially at the beginning, when
the guests first arrived and peered upon the printed menu Miles had
Debra write out in her nice handwriting and display in the entrance.
Hors d’oeuvres: Hazelnut tahini crudités, Melon-cheddar
skewers, and Romano-stuffed mushrooms. Paired with a Baron Herzog
White Riesling.*
First Course: Warmly spiced pumpkin soup with Gruyère served
in seasonal squash. Paired with Kinneret Chardonnay from Israel’s
Ella Valley.*
Second Course: Lemon-spiked salmon cakes on a bed of Alsatian
choucroute, accompanied by potato-and-kohlrabi rösti and an Israeli
fresh vegetable salad. Paired with Hagafen Napa Valley Pinot Noir.*
Dessert Course: Sufganiyot with Mexican chocolate glaze and
marshmallow crème or strawberry-and-rhubarb jam fillings. Served
with coffee or tea. Paired with Kedem Port.*
*All wines are meshuval.
It was immediately apparent that no brisket was going to be served,
and the complaints started. Miles cursed Rabbi Kevin for not informing
his guests the meal was vegetarian, but there wasn’t anything he could do
about it now.
However one brave old lady, the wife of a rabbi so white and
withered he looked to be Moses himself, said, “I think it’s brave to not
serve brisket,” and Miles wanted to kiss her.
The appetizers went over well, and Miles made sure to ply all
generously with the wine. It was interesting, hearing the suspicions of a
terrible meal spoken right in front of him. Then he realized that putting on
serving attire made him invisible; these people were insulting the chef to
his face and didn’t even know better.
As soon as the candles were lit and the Sabbath prayers uttered,
Miles served the pumpkin soup. The small squash tureens went over
well, as did the chardonnay, to which Miles helped himself. By the main
course half the guests were guffawing to each other loudly and were
clearly buzzed enough that he hoped the lack of meat would slip by
unnoticed.
To his utter delight, the salmon cakes were greeted with joy and
compliments. Even the rabbi who had been warming up all night to get a
good complaint in changed his tune, declaring the fish “exactly what I
wanted tonight.” Someone said the homemade sauerkraut reminded them
of their bubbie. Another said the sauerkraut smelled like their bubbie.
By the time the course there came to a close there was only one
guest still grumbling about the lack of meat, and his wife promptly shut
him up, shouting, “You had a brisket last night, and you’ll have another
one tomorrow, so shut up and eat your fish!”
The dessert course was served next and was highly praised,
especially by those who’d been to Israel. The only thing Miles worried
about was whether he’d prepared enough. He didn’t have the ingredients
to prepare more doughnuts on site, so the sixty he’d fried would have to
make do.
When the last of the wine was poured and the guests started to
depart, only one doughnut remained—a perfect triumph, in his mind.
And in Rabbi Kevin’s as well. He came into the kitchen as Miles
and his staff cleaned up, and congratulated Miles with a slightly
inebriated half hug.
“Well done, Miles!” he cried. “You showed everyone what kosher
vegetarianism can really offer!”
“Thank you,” Miles said, feeling too tired to be thrilled, although he
knew tomorrow he’d want to celebrate. He frowned as the rabbi tilted
over slightly. “You have a ride home?”
“Jason’s learning how to drive. Jason, you want to drive your old
folks home?”
“Aww, in the Volvo? Lame.” He held out his hand, and Rabbi
Kevin handed him the keys.
“Oh, there’s one left.” Rabbi Kevin grabbed a platter from the table
and offered the last doughnut to Miles. “They were delicious.”
The idea of eating one after this day made him sick, but Miles
thought Itai might like to try it.
Or, scratch that. Nic. Nic deserved a doughnut as the minimum for
being there to help.
By the time he got everything cleaned and packed up, paid the
servers, and drove back across the bridge and home to Ballard, it was a
little after one in the morning. And he had to open the store at eight.
There were some good lessons in all this, he realized. One, he’d
charged enough but could have used another staff member for prep, so
should add that to the cost next time. Two, he should list all the items he
needed to buy, even if they were small items like paper towels that he
thought he’d never forget.
And three, to not do this and run the deli at the same time.
The lights were still on at home. He unloaded Itai’s car and shuffled
his way up the stairs, his entire body aching.
Itai was in his office when Miles entered. “Hello?” he called out.
Itai stopped typing and appeared. “Hey, you’re back late. You
okay?”
“Fine. Great, actually.” He fell forward and leaned into Itai. Itai
gave him a comforting hug but then stepped back.
“You smell like fried food and sauerkraut. It’s a bad combo.”
“Yeah. I’m not a fan either.”
“Hold on.” Itai stepped back into his office and returned with a
boxed present.
Even though he’d spent the night immersed in a Sabbath and
Hanukkah dinner, Miles had forgotten about the holiday as it related to
him.
“Wow. Thanks.”
“Open it,” Itai said.
Miles opened the box. Itai had bought him a beautiful brown
cashmere sweater. It was the kind of gift Itai himself would adore, brand
name, no doubt expensive as hell, soft and finely made. And something
Miles would never wear.
“It’s gorgeous,” Miles said. He gave Itai a kiss. “Thank you.”
“I was thinking you could wear it tomorrow, to the launch,” Itai
suggested.
Miles frowned. “You don’t like my blue shirt?”
Itai made a face.
“Fine,” Miles gave in. “I’ll wear the sweater. Did you buy me new
shoes too, or are my suede lace-ups acceptable?”
“They’ll go great with the sweater.” Itai squeezed Miles’s shoulder.
“I have something for you too. Hold on.” Miles put his box down
and took off his coat.
“The photo session went well today,” Itai started, following behind
Miles as he headed to the bedroom. “You should see the pics Gelia took
of us! They look so professional, so amazing.”
“That’s awesome.” Miles fished around in his jeans drawer until he
found the small gift for Itai. This one had been wrapped by the lady at the
store where he’d bought it. He handed it over with no ceremony. “Here
you go. Happy Hanukkah. Sorry I’m not doing the candles or anything.
I’m beat.”
“I’m fine with that.” Itai carefully peeled off the tape and
unwrapped the small box. It was a sushi-shaped USB drive, and he
studied it with a puzzled look. “It’s…a USB?”
Miles nodded. “One gig. Since you always lose your small ones, I
thought this one was big enough and bright pink so it would be hard to
lose.”
“Uh, thanks.” Itai seemed disappointed. And his disappointment
disappointed Miles. Well, he could get eight straight hits. Just because
he bought it at the same site as the buckyballs apparently wasn’t enough.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said.
“That’s a good idea.” Itai went back to his office, and Miles went to
the bathroom.
It was only when he was under the hot water, finally processing
what a long, intense day this had been, that he realized Itai hadn’t even
asked how the dinner went.
Chapter Five
Tangy Gherkins
Itai wasn’t in bed when Miles awoke, which was strange. He never
woke up before Miles.
Then again, this was the day he’d been working toward for over a
year, so it didn’t surprise Miles that Itai couldn’t sleep. Miles yawned
and made his way to the office, where Itai looked deeply engrossed in
something on his computer screen. Miles leaned against the door frame,
still too sleepy to support himself on his own. He noticed Itai was instant
messaging someone, despite the early hour.
“Who’s awake at six in the morning?” Miles asked, yawning.
Itai flinched and spun. “What are you doing?” he choked.
Miles blinked. “Waking up. Seeing what you’re up to. Why?”
Itai shook his head. “Sorry. Jumpy this morning. I think I got about
three hours of sleep last night.”
“Well that’s understandable, given the day.” Miles shuffled over to
Itai and gave him a kiss on the top of the head. He noticed the screen
blinked, with Travis’s name showing up at the bottom, and a message
waiting for Itai:????
Miles said nothing. He backed away, doubt slithering around his
gut, which deepened when Itai closed the laptop, something he never did
while working. “I’ll see you downstairs in a bit. I have to finish a few
things.”
“Sure.” Miles smiled and left. He brushed his teeth, shaved, and
stared hard at his reflection. It was the fourth day of Hanukkah already,
and it had been a pretty underwhelming holiday so far. Tonight, instead
of celebrating with the love of friends and around a big meal and
exchanging presents and good wishes by candlelight, he would be at a
slick techie corporate shindig with complete strangers, eating appetizers
and feeling out of his depth.
Maybe he’d get vomitus between now and this evening and be too
ill to attend?
As he shaved, he evaluated his looks. He was too thin, and his hair
was graying, and he wore shirts without collars. Was that why Itai no
longer wanted to be with him alone?
Stop it. He hated the way he immediately started to blame himself
whenever things got rocky. It wasn’t him.
But saying that didn’t take the hurt away.
Miles made himself a coffee when he got downstairs and fried up a
few eggs for comfort food. He barely finished before Nic was at the
front door, knocking to be let in early.
He dressed more appropriately today, Miles thought. He was in
jeans and a blue, tight-fitting T-shirt with some bar advertised on the
front, and had a backpack slung over his shoulder. His hair looked damp,
as if he’d just showered, and he appeared chipper.
Miles unlocked the door and let him in. “Morning!”
“So?” Nic asked.
Miles frowned. “So…what?”
Nic gestured widely. “The dinner! How’d it go?”
“Oh, that.” Miles grinned. “It was a huge success.”
“ I told you!” Nic laughed. He dropped his bag on the counter and
fished around for something. “That’s great, Miles. The salmon cakes
went over well?”
Miles nodded. “Yeah, they were gobbled up, and even the grumpy
lady with the permanent scowl temporarily stopped complaining to run
her fork over the surface of the plate to scoop up every last morsel.”
“I can’t blame her. I’d suck on a stranger’s pickle to get myself
another one.”
Miles stared. “Uh…yeah.”
Nic laughed. He withdrew a pistol and shoulder holster. Miles
glanced at the door behind the counter, checking to make sure Itai wasn’t
in sight.
Nic holstered his weapon, then pulled on a button-down shirt to
cover the gun. Now Miles understood why Nic looked overdressed in
the kitchen. He needed to hide his weapon.
Nic noticed Miles staring. “Sorry. I was in a hurry to get out of the
house this morning and had to come straight from the gym.”
Miles opened the paper bags of bagel deliveries from the bakery
down the street and started unloading the bagels. “You worked out
before coming here? I’m impressed. I barely managed to brush my teeth.”
“I prefer working out at night, but I stayed out late playing poker at
Wyatt’s house and didn’t get home until one in the morning.”
“Did you win?” Miles asked.
Nic laughed. “Hell, no. I suck at poker. I had to cough up fifty bucks
and almost resorted to stripping to get my cash back.”
Miles smiled at that. He realized how nice it was to converse with
someone who could admit failures of character. Self-effacement wasn’t
something he thought he’d need in a companion—single, STD-free,
willing to mock own inabilities—but it was noticeably missing in Itai.
“What can I do to set up?” Nic asked, clapping his hands together.
“How about making yourself a coffee and eating the sole remnant of
last night’s doughnuts?” Miles found the doughnut he’d saved and offered
it to Nic. It was one of the ones filled with marshmallow crème. “I doubt
they’re as good day two as they were fresh, but you still might—”
Nic stuffed the entire doughnut into his mouth.
“—find it okay?” Miles finished.
Nic chewed dramatically. Then his eyes grew wide. “Fckkk!” he
mumbled over his mouthful. “Lvv it!” He choked.
“Coffee?” Miles raised an eyebrow.
Nic nodded, still trying to chew.
There wasn’t his usual morning crowd on Saturdays, so they got off
to a slow start. The atmosphere changed on weekends, the frantic rush of
breakfast and lunch professionals replaced with the laid-back, curious
tourists and Saturday shoppers.
Itai came through the store several times, usually on the phone with
one or another of his investors. He made himself a coffee, then a
sandwich at another point before heading upstairs.
Nic watched Itai’s movements vigilantly. Maybe he thought Itai was
the drug dealer?
The idea made Miles laugh. Itai would be so terrified of getting
caught he would never commit any crime.
Then he remembered Itai shutting his laptop, and wondered if Itai
was a better liar than Miles gave him credit for.
Nic asked during a lull how Miles had made the sauerkraut he’d
served the night before. Miles needed to restock the supply he’d raided
anyway, so he decided to show Nic. He set the detective up on the
corner of the prep counter to julienne carrots while Miles split his time
between the front of the store and shredding cabbage in the back food
processor.
On weekends many of the customers were new faces to Miles, not
his regular crowd, but he tried to spot Nic’s undercover accomplices.
There was a tough-looking lady who came and ate a sandwich by
herself, observing the goings-on around her table carefully, and Miles
nearly asked Nic, but then a man joined her with a small child, blowing
that theory.
And at lunch a young, strong gentleman glanced around before
ordering a pickle.
“What kind would you like?” Miles offered.
“Uh…” The man squinted at the menu board. “Whatever is the
cheapest.”
Miles thought he noticed a bulge on the man’s chest. He looked
toward Nic to see any acknowledgment that this guy was one of the
undercover agents, but Nic was either intentionally or unknowingly
ignoring him, slicing carrot after carrot with effortless expertise.
“I’ll give you any pickle, on the house,” Miles offered with a smile.
“Really?” The customer looked surprised. “Well…what’s a
gherkin?”
“They’re very small pickles. Some are sweet; some are tangy.”
“Can I have a tangy gherkin?”
“How about I give you a serving of them with some bread, on the
house?”
The man looked pleased. “Wow. Thanks.”
He took his plate and sat down. Miles stood next to Nic and
whispered, “Is that one of your guys?”
Nic glanced up, scanned the room, then looked back down again.
“Nope.”
“No?” Miles scowled. “Shit, I gave him free pickles!”
Nic smirked. “Doesn’t pay to be nice, Miles.”
“How am I supposed to know who to comp a lunch to if you don’t
tell me who is undercover and who isn’t?”
“They can pay for their sandwiches.” Nic straightened, a glint in his
eye. “Though if a certain fellow comes in, we need to replace whatever
he requests with a spicy pickle. He’ll hate that.” He chuckled to himself
as he went back to his carrots.
After the lunch rush died down, Miles tried to coax Nic into the
back to show him what to do next to the sauerkraut, but Nic refused to
leave the front of the store for anything longer than a bathroom break.
“I need to stay up front,” Nic said quietly. “I don’t want to miss
anything.”
Miles rolled his eyes. “But just a minute—”
“Is all it takes for a deal to go down.” Nic shook his head. “This
guy has been evading us for months. It’s a fluke that our snitch found out
he would be here himself for the next transfer, and if I mess it up by
making kraut in the back, my captain would kill me.”
“It will be too messy to bring the cabbage up here to show you,”
Miles told him.
“Can we do it after closing?” Nic flushed. “I mean make the
sauerkraut,” he clarified, as if Miles had misunderstood.
“Sure, if you don’t mind sticking around longer.”
“I don’t have to check in until this evening,” Nic said.
Miles stared, amazed that this new friend was willing to not only
spend all day in the deli helping him, but stay late as well. “In that case,
you need to have something hearty to power you through the rest of the
day. What do you want for lunch?”
Nic looked excited. “What choices do I have?”
“Anything you’ve had a craving for?” Miles asked.
Nic tilted his head, thinking. “What’s that traditional potato thing
Jews have for Hanukkah?”
“Latkes,” Miles told him. “Potato pancakes.”
“I’ve never tried those,” Nic said.
Miles rubbed his hands together. “No? Well then prepare yourself,
my friend.” He hummed his way into the kitchen, smiling as he started
peeling potatoes. He realized all his anxiety over the morning was gone.
He was so happy doing this, cooking for someone, in his own kitchen, in
his world. Maybe it wasn’t enough for Itai, but it was right for him.
Miles didn’t dare bring the hot, fragrant latkes into the deli where
someone might order them, so he took over Nic’s position at the counter
and asked him to eat them in the kitchen.
Nic kept his eyes on the deli, however, unwilling to break free from
his actual duty of scanning the customers for criminal activity. Miles
took an order and turned around to catch Nic stuffing an entire sour-
cream-smothered latke into his mouth. He let out a low, visceral moan
and closed his eyes as he chewed.
In record time for a lunch break, Nic was back. He stealthily rubbed
Miles’s back from behind. The gesture was unexpected and shot through
Miles in a bolt of delicious relief. Such small things made him feel so
good, which was either pitiful or brilliant, depending on how one chose
to look at it.
“I’m converting,” Nic declared. He washed his hands of grease.
“That beats a Christmas ham any day of the week.”
“It’s better with a brisket,” Miles admitted, “but I’ll have to cook
that for you upstairs, out of the kosher kitchen, one of these days.”
“Count me in.” Nic smiled at the next customer and took their order,
and Miles slipped back into his kitchen. From time to time he glanced
out to see how Nic fared, but he needn’t have worried. Nic was clearly a
fast learner and seemed to enjoy interacting with the customers. In fact,
he asked them a lot of questions and was almost a little too probing. It
might have been related to his case, but that didn’t matter to Miles, as
long as he didn’t get any complaints.
Which he did, this time in letter format, from one of the more senile
older clients that had been shopping there for years. Mrs. Maguire had
purchased a jar of spicy Piekus sandwich relish every week for the last
twelve years. When Miles saw her enter the deli, he came out front to
personally ring her up, but along with her cash, Mrs. Maguire handed
him an envelope, scowled, and walked away.
Nic frowned. “What’s that?”
Miles shrugged. More customers came in, so he left Nic to handle it
while he read the scathing, racist remarks in the letter and the complaints
against his cooking.
It was so shocking he called his mother.
“Hey, Mom,” he said.
“Hi, honey! What happened?”
Miles rolled his eyes. “Why does something have to happen for me
to call you?”
“It’s what…eleven thirty over there? So you are working, so
something must have happened for you to walk into the kitchen and call.”
Miles glanced around for secret cameras. “How do you know I’m in
the kitchen?”
His mother scoffed. “I cooked in there for twenty years, honey. I
know the rumble of that old standing fridge anywhere.”
Miles had grown so accustomed to the sound he didn’t even hear it
anymore.
“So?” his mother prompted.
Miles unfolded Mrs. Maguire’s vitriolic verbal lashing and started
to read it. Before he’d gotten three sentences in, his mother stopped him.
“Hold on. Is this from Mrs. Maguire?” she asked.
Miles immediately felt better. “Yes.”
“Don’t worry, honey. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But she says I oversalted—”
“She writes nasty letters about twice a year, whenever her
medication stops working.”
Miles stared at the letter. “Oh. Really?”
His mother laughed. “Yes. Did she call you a dirty Jew?”
“No,” Miles sniffed. “But she did call me a Christ killer.”
“Well, that happens, dear.” His mother sounded upbeat. “How’s
your holiday going?”
Miles felt an unwanted wave of emotion roll up from the depths of
his heart. “All right,” he said a little shakily.
He could hear his mother’s silent concern over the phone.
Nic appeared. “Hey, I think we’re out of pickled cherries.”
“I gotta go back to work,” Miles told his mom.
“Call me later,” she ordered.
“Thanks, Mom.” Miles hung up and went back to the storage room
to see if he had any jars of cherries left.
The deli was relatively quiet for the rest of the afternoon, and once
Miles shut the doors and tallied the books and inventory, he invited Nic
back into the kitchen.
He dumped the shredded cabbage into a bus bin.
“Do you have to go shopping?” Nic asked. He yawned and stretched
dramatically.
“I can shop tomorrow,” Miles said. “We’re closed so I have time.”
He added Nic’s carrots, cranberries, and coriander seeds to the cabbage.
“So the hardest part to good sauerkraut is making sure you salt it
properly.”
“How do you know how much to put in?” Nic asked.
“You just know.”
“That’s very helpful.”
Miles laughed, sprinkling salt over the mixture. “You probably
would get it since you have a lot of cooking experience in any case.”
Nic sighed. “Yeah, I do love it.”
“So why’d you become a cop?” Miles started massaging the
cabbage to mix everything together.
Nic glanced at him. “What do you mean?”
Miles shrugged. “It’s obvious you love cooking, and you have the
industry in your blood. What made you decide to become a police officer
instead?”
Nic stared at the bus bin. “It’s complicated.”
“You thought being a chef was gay?” Miles joked.
Nic smirked at that. “No.”
“You like guns?” Miles prompted.
“I respect guns. That’s different from liking them,” Nic said.
“So what?”
Nic shrugged again. “My two older brothers are officers. So it
seemed like the thing to do.”
Miles tried to imagine his younger brother following in his
footsteps, and the idea made him nauseated, visualizing his brother in a
roomful of sharp knives and hot objects.
“It was the path of least resistance, I guess,” Nic continued. He
frowned. “I never gave it much thought at the time. Marco enrolled in the
academy, and two years later Anthony, and then two years later it was
my turn. It felt…inevitable.”
He looked a little sad, so Miles stepped back. “Here, you give it a
go. The goal is to thoroughly mix everything together without crushing
the cabbage. That’s why I like using my fingers.”
Nic unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his gun and holster. Standing
close, Miles smelled a faint whiff of pine soap but also Nic’s musky
body. It was strange to smell a man not doused in colognes and hair gels.
It surprised him how excited the odor made him.
“Did your parents push you into the police force?” Miles asked as
Nic stirred.
“No. They’d have loved it if I’d taken over the deli like you did.
But they’d sold it by the time I left high school. It seemed like the police
academy is what everyone expected.”
“Sounds like you miss it though,” Miles prompted.
“Yeah.” Nic sighed. “I didn’t realize how much until this week. I
love this. It’s nice being on the good side of people, helping them,
instead of…well. You don’t really get to see the best of humanity as a
police officer.”
“No, I imagine not.” Miles laughed. “Although you also haven’t
seen the letter I got this morning, have you?” Miles fetched the folded
letter from Mrs. Maguire. “It’s not all roses serving people food either.”
He held it out for Nic to read without having to remove his hands
from the bin. Nic started laughing halfway through. “This is fantastic.
You should frame it.”
“Ah…no.”
“‘Purveyor of subpar vinegars’ is my favorite part, I think.”
Miles smiled and turned the letter over. “I like the bit about me
being a Christ killer.”
Nic shook his head. “Haven’t they invented new derogatory terms
by now?”
“Oh sure. The other day I heard someone call Jews ‘Bible
shorteners,’ which I thought was pretty slick.”
Nic laughed. “Yeah, but I still think us Italians have you beat.”
“Probably.”
“Think how rough it is for Italian Jews,” Nic remarked.
“Are there any?" Miles asked.
“I assume so.” Nic frowned. “Although now that you mention it, any
Italian-American I know is Catholic, across the board.” He stopped
mixing. “How’s it look?”
“Good. Let’s cover it with cheesecloth and leave it out at room
temperature. For the next few days we’ll need to poke the mixture to let
the gases that will build up escape. Then we’ll stick it in the fridge for a
few weeks.”
Nic shook the excess mixture off his hands and walked over to the
sink. Miles turned on the water for him.
“Thanks,” Nic said.
“What about you?” Miles asked. “Were you raised Catholic?”
Nic nodded. “I may be an atheist, but you know what they say. They
can take the boy out of the Catholic Church, but they can never take the
Catholic Church out of the boy.”
Miles laughed. “Are your parents religious?”
“My mother is.” Nic soaped up his hands. “My father hates all
religion and anything to do with Catholicism, and yet he still confesses
every weekend and carries a rosary, so I don’t really believe him.”
“As a Jew I hold on to my guilt. No sense giving it away where it
can’t be useful.”
Nic turned off the water and shook his hands. “You know what we
should work on? An Italian-Jewish sandwich amalgam!”
“More like a chimera, I think you mean.”
“No, really, it could be good!” Nic said excitedly. He yanked back
on his button-down shirt. “We could make some sort of veggie meatball.
Some spicy tomato sauce, add some kraut to it, some rye… Who
knows?”
Miles shrugged, but he was thinking about it already. What aspects
of his deli’s flavor profile—or Israeli food profile, since that was his
inspiration—would go well with the rich and creamy flavors of Italian
cuisine?
“Miles!”
Miles heard the upstairs door slam. Itai emerged, dressed to kill and
looking pissed.
“When are you coming upstairs to dress? We gotta go in like thirty
minutes!”
“Okay, okay.”
“You’re still here?” Itai said, frowning at Nic.
Miles remembered Nic’s gun and spun around, but breathed out in
relief when he realized Nic had already covered it.
“He wanted help,” Nic told Itai. He grabbed his backpack. “I’ll take
off though. See you on Monday?”
“Right.” Miles smiled. “Thanks again for all your help.”
“No problem. For another one of those latkes I’ll do anything you
want.”
Miles smiled at the innuendo and glanced over to see if Itai noticed,
but Itai had already returned upstairs. He sighed.
He finished wrapping the cabbage. He had just enough time to take a
quick shower, shave, and get dressed. As he pulled on the expensive
new sweater Itai had bought him, he felt inexplicably nervous. He
realized he hadn’t been out in public, at an actual event that didn’t
involve him cooking something, for nearly four months. He didn’t even
remember how to act around people when not feeding them.
“You’re going to leave your hair like that?” Itai scowled. He
knotted his tie and slid it loosely so it hung casually, creating the image
of
someone
both
professional
and
also
above
traditional
professionalism. So much of Itai was a carefully crafted persona of who
he wanted to project.
“For fuck’s sake. You want to do my hair for me?” Miles
complained, pulling on the roots to make it stick up more.
“No, no, it’s…it’s fine. Leave it. Don’t make it worse.” Itai grabbed
his blazer and phone and turned. “You ready?”
Miles took a big breath. The knot in his stomach didn’t dissipate.
“I’m not sure.”
“Don’t be nervous. It will be a chance for you to relax,” Itai said
with false enthusiasm.
“Yeah. Nothing like standing in a roomful of people I don’t know to
make me relax.”
“You know me and Travis and a few other people from the
development meeting. Suzanne will be there and James. You liked
them.”
“I hardly know them.” Still, Miles followed Itai out the door and
down the stairs to their car. During the drive to the venue, both of them
were silent.
The launch was at a swanky bar near Seattle Center, in the
location’s spacious and partially finished underground basement. It was
a huge expanse of space with cement floors and brick walls, dimly lit but
with mood lighting perfect for raves or other dance events.
Tonight the entrance was decorated with life-size standing banners
of Itai and Travis, smiling and holding a graphic image in their hands of
the Fantastic App Engine logo. A table at the entrance was manned by
one of the PR staff, who checked off the list of attendees and provided
name badge lanyards and press kits to those interested. On the opposite
end of the vast space was the podium and a raised stage with an LED
projector streaming screenshots of the product. Against the right brick
wall the bar was set up, as well as a long table Miles assumed was for
the buffet. On the left wall, between the bathrooms and the stairs up to
the main entrance of the bar, a DJ spun dance music that blared through
the cavernous space, making Miles feel like he should be holding a glow
stick.
The room was a stockyard of elegantly dressed twenty- to
fiftysomethings standing around holding drinks like cutouts of a party.
Miles shrank inside his new sweater. He felt small, and he hated feeling
small. He drew closer to Itai.
Itai started his pass through the room with his arm close enough to
rub against Miles, but by the time they hit the bar, Itai had stepped away
to greet one of his corporate financers and Miles was on his own.
He beelined for the food because food was his security blanket. He
spoke with the catering staff a bit, asking the woman offering bacon-
wrapped chestnuts how many workers were on duty, what kind of
numbers of individual canapés were made, whether the chestnuts had
been hand roasted. She clearly found his line of questioning probing and
awkward and broke free the moment Miles shut up for a second.
The second waitstaff member he tried to hound for conversation
was equally professional, nodding politely and not outright running away
but, like a cornered squirrel, showing a strong urge to bolt out of sight.
Miles eventually took a proffered stuffed fig and left the beleaguered
staff alone. He made his way to the bar to order a sidecar. He finished it
before he left the wall, so he had to order another one just to have
something to hold in his hands.
Everyone talked to everybody like this was natural to them. There
were no outsiders, no random people left to fend for themselves. So
what was he supposed to do? Barge in and become an unwanted
threesome in a conversation about social media he knew nothing about?
Luckily, someone spotted him. “Miles, right?”
It was James someone, a man Miles met during one of the very first
meetings Itai had with a team of venture capitalists over dinner. It had
been one of the few times Miles had tagged along. It was early enough in
their second round of dating that he and Itai still spent every chance they
could together. And besides, Miles had always wanted to go to Canlis
but could never afford the tasting menu on his own.
“James!” Miles said, shaking the man’s hand gratefully. James
looked like a nice, quiet, nerdy fellow, the kind of guy who made a lot of
money very young like so many software developers in Seattle in the
nineties. “It’s good to see you. How are you?”
“Fine,” James said. “I’m fine. Hey, is Itai here?”
“Yeah, he’s around somewhere. I think he’s over…” Miles
surveyed the crowd for Itai’s tall frame. He spotted him up near the
podium, arm intimately wrapped around Travis’s waist.
Miles stomach clenched into a hard knot, and he felt his face flush in
embarrassment. “…there.” He pointed, swallowing to keep his bile
down.
Itai laughed at something Travis said, and the two separated. He
looks so happy, Miles thought, taking in the glow of Itai’s expression, the
light that lit his eyes when he stared at Travis.
They look good together, he thought. He hated himself for thinking
that.
“Nice to see you again,” James said, already moving across the
room to Itai.
Itai glanced around the room and made eye contact with Miles. He
smiled and waved him over. Relief flooded Miles, and he politely
maneuvered his way through the crowd toward the front.
“Having fun?” Itai asked as he approached. He clinked his drink
against Miles’s.
“Yeah, a blast,” Miles said sarcastically.
“Good!” Itai turned away and started speaking to someone else.
Miles stood beside him, wishing he could go home and finish that
sauerkraut.
His only relief came when the food appeared. He rushed toward it
but was already behind a dozen starving guests who formed an
immediate line for the buffet. At least standing in line, Miles didn’t look
conspicuous not talking to anyone. He heaped his plate with every dish
on offer.
There were only a few picnic tables at the far end of the cavernous
space, so Miles ended up having to stand and eat like a lot of the other
guests. The courses were good, a bit undersalted, and he thought he
could have done a better job.
Somewhere in the midst of his second helping Travis approached
the podium and turned on the mic. He too was dressed stylishly,
something he and Itai had in common. His curly hair was perfectly
coiffed, and he wore a shiny metallic button-down that Miles thought
made him look sleazy, but then again he might have only thought that
because Travis was a two-timing cocksucker.
“Thank you all so much for coming tonight,” Travis said. He nodded
to someone in the front row. “Itai and I have been programmers for ten
years, partners for five years, and Fantastic app devotees for three years.
Fantastic is all about ease of use, ease of interface, ease of consumer
platforms. It’s about developing a tool kit robust enough for tomorrow’s
developers and flexible enough to respond in an agile fashion to the
demands of designers with specific finished products in mind.”
Travis started to click through a presentation, and Miles’s gaze
blurred with boredom. Blah blah something about wireframe interfaces.
Something about GUI. Something else about security protocols. The men
and women in the room seemed interested, which was good for Itai, but
Miles, honestly, couldn’t have been more bored if he’d had to sing
lullabies for eight hours straight.
Halfway through the presentation Itai joined Travis onstage, and the
two stood shoulder to shoulder as Itai spoke. They looked at each other
often, and there was no doubt in Miles’s mind: there was chemistry
there. And something else. Sexual energy? Maybe it was a thrilling
moment where they realized they were about to make a lot of money, but
something sparked between those two, and he decided he didn’t want to
stick around and watch it unfold before his eyes.
He ordered another drink, left the room, and found a quiet space at a
table in the upstairs venue where he could get drunk and play Jewel Star
on his phone. After a while all the colors and dots merged, but he was
surrounded by regular people getting drunk and laid, and not at an event
where he got to see his lover virtually mack on someone else.
Miles finished his drink, and another, before returning downstairs to
see if his presence had been missed. In his fantasy, Itai would be
searching high and low for him, looking for some opportunity to pull
Miles into a photo op and declare to everyone that Miles had supported
Itai’s dream for the last year.
Instead, he came downstairs and it was exactly how he left it, only
Itai and Travis were off the stage and back in the crowd, standing so
close they were hip to hip. Miles made his way toward them as they
answered questions from a reporter.
“So, Itai, are you an American citizen?”
“No, I immigrated six years ago from Tel Aviv for graduate school.
I got my green card the first year I worked for Apple and am going
through the process of becoming a citizen.”
“And where did you meet your boyfriend, Travis?”
“We met while we both worked at Apple.” Itai cleared his throat.
“But we are now only business partners,” he added, too late for Miles’s
comfort.
That’s it. I’m going home.
He waited, though, standing on the periphery, for some look, some
sign from Itai that he mattered, but there was none. So he counted the rest
of his cash to see if he could get a taxi.
There wasn’t enough.
He interrupted Itai as soon as the reporter was done, and before
someone else launched into her place.
“Hey,” he said loudly to be heard over the crowd.
Itai scooted closer to him, smiling. He squeezed Miles’s bicep.
“You okay?”
“I’m going home.”
Itai frowned. “Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to be here anymore.” Miles hated the petulance
in his voice but couldn’t help it. He was too drunk to act anymore.
“Whatever you want, baby,” Itai told him.
“Can I have some cash? I don’t have enough for a taxi.”
Itai reached into his back pocket. “You can use a credit card, you
know.”
“Great. Thanks.” Miles turned away and headed toward the door.
“Miles, wait!” Itai rushed to catch up. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m
saying you could if you wanted. Here.” He opened his wallet and handed
Miles forty dollars. “That should cover it.”
“I’m not going out of state. Going home.”
“I know, but there may be traffic. Just to be safe.” Itai shoved the
money into Miles’s hand and kissed him on the temple. “See you later.”
“Bye,” Miles grumbled, turning back. He glanced around, but no
one seemed to notice the kiss or the money or him at all. He felt
invisible, like the night before when he’d served dinner, but this time it
wasn’t a good feeling. It was just…empty.
Chapter Six
Pickled Nasturtium Capers
Itai didn’t make it home until the following morning.
He looked disheveled as he crawled into bed, hair standing on end,
reeking of alcohol. Miles asked if he had driven home in that state, but he
didn’t get an answer; Itai was snoring the second his head hit the pillow.
On his day off, Miles typically preferred not to go downstairs. He
needed one day a week where he didn’t smell like vinegar, one day to do
all the other aspects of the business and life, things like laundry or
running errands. It was his day to get little jobs done or spend time at
home watching football on the couch or go somewhere with Itai.
But the idea of staying in the house right now with so much anger
inside him toward Itai seemed dangerous. He was likely to say
something he meant but didn’t want to speak out loud without further
thought.
So he decided to make himself a coffee and make some soup for
tomorrow’s lunch. Soup prep, like pickling, was something he enjoyed
doing when he was trying not to think. It was repetitive motion, all
muscle memory, and it left his mind blank.
He had a lot of creamer left over from the Hanukkah dinner, so he
decided to make a sweet-potato cream soup. He stared out the back
window as it simmered and reduced, wondering how awful the next
week was going to feel.
He wasn’t sure what was worse—breaking up with someone or
thinking about it incessantly.
Miles’s phone rang. He checked the screen but didn’t recognize the
number.
“Hello?”
Someone cleared his throat. “Hi, Miles.”
It was Nic. A flood of warmth filled Miles. “Hey, Nic!”
“Sorry to call.”
“No, it’s okay! I was actually thinking about you.” Miles winced.
“Er…thinking about how I don’t have your number.”
“Well, now you do,” Nic said. It sounded like he was chewing on
something. “How’s the kraut?”
“Starting to smell.”
“Is that…a good thing?”
“Yes.” Miles walked away from the soup and lifted the cheesecloth
on the sauerkraut. “Smells like horse farts.”
“Being unfamiliar with horses or their farts, I’ll take your word for
it,” Nic said. “So I’m calling for two reasons. One, I have to testify on a
former case tomorrow at ten in the morning, so I’m going to come in late.
But I will have my guys there undercover watching out for the place.
They have been instructed to give you the signal if they think anything’s
going to happen, and you’re to follow their lead. All right?”
“Sure.” Miles turned over his wooden spoon and poked at the
sauerkraut. Pungent pockets of gas bubbled to the surface. “That’s a big
deal, isn’t it? To have to testify?”
“I’ve done it once before. I’m not worried about it, but I do hate the
fact that I have to wear a suit.”
Miles laughed. “I don’t know if I even own a suit anymore. But
wait, you wore one the other day.”
“Yeah, and I hated it then too. I only wore it to impress you.”
“Really?” Miles smiled, leaning against the counter. “You should
have worn tight shorts and no shirt. That would probably impress me
more.” He winced, thinking he went too far, but Nic chuckled on the end
of the line.
“I’ll keep that in mind. How tight?”
“For the shorts?” Miles cleared his throat. “I’m a gay man with a
lack of imagination. You figure it out.”
Nic laughed at that.
“So what was the second reason?” Miles asked.
“Huh?”
“You said you had two reasons to call me.”
“Oh!” Nic started chewing something again. “Yeah. Want to go out
for drinks tonight?”
Miles felt warm and excited. “Yes! But…” But he couldn’t. He
wasn’t single, was he? “But I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Sure it is, and let me tell you why,” Nic said confidently. “I want
to take you to this crazy Korean bar because they serve about fifty
different types of kimchi and make these lunatic pancakes that are bigger
than a large pizza and cut with scissors.”
“Well…” Miles hesitated.
“It’s for research,” Nic reasoned. “I noticed you only make one kind
of kimchi, and this will give you a chance to broaden your horizons.”
“Count me in.” It sounded like fun. More fun than he’d had out in a
long time, in any case, and the sad part was, he truly doubted Itai would
even notice he was gone, let alone care.
“Great!” Nic was eating something else now. It was a good thing he
did work out, since the amount of calories he consumed every day was
probably staggering. “You want to meet me there or should I swing by
your place? It’s close enough to walk, and parking’s a bitch.”
“Yeah, come here. We’ll walk.”
“Okay. See you around eight.”
“Bye.” Miles hung up and realized he was grinning from ear to ear,
flattered and amazed that someone like Nic would want to spend time
with him.
Miles smelled something burning. “Shit, my soup!”
He rushed over to the stove and pushed the pot off the burner. The
soup was salvageable, but there was nothing that beat burned milk stuck
to the bottom of a pan in terms of lengthy cleanup.
He transferred the soup to a different container to cool, soaked the
damaged pot in water and soap, and moved to prepping his pickles. He
put on the radio and dashed around the kitchen, feeling more inspired
than he had in ages.
He didn’t even realize hours had passed until he heard the upstairs
door open. He glanced at the clock over the sink, where he was
scrubbing the burned pan. It was already two in the afternoon.
Itai wandered in wearing his designer sweats and a tightly knit
merino wool sweater that had a small hole in the cuff and therefore was
deemed no better than sleepwear. His hair was slicked back, but he
hadn’t shaved, and dark stubble covered his chin as if he’d spent a good
week harvesting a beard.
“Yanix Inc. is interested,” Itai declared proudly, yawning. He
reached on the bread rack for one of the loaves that remained from the
day before and had yet to be converted into croutons.
“Yeah?”
Itai nodded. He tore the roll and started eating. “They’re
formulating an offer for us this week. It would be huge if they bought us.
They’ve become the hottest thing in online message boards and secure
document sharing, so it could really take Fantastic far.”
“Isn’t that great.” Miles scrubbed his pot.
Itai’s smiled vanished. “What’s your problem now?”
“Now?”
“You’ve been acting like a pouty bitch all weekend.”
The words were like a sucker punch. “I don’t know, Itai. Maybe it’s
the fact that you are cheating on me again?”
Miles waited to see the reaction, because that would reveal
everything.
Itai flinched and looked guilty for a second before he cleared his
face of all expression. It was that second that revealed everything to
Miles. “I wish you’d stop—”
“I’ll stop,” Miles interrupted. He sighed. He hung his head and
dropped his sponge, feeling so angry he’d grown numb. “I’ve stopped.”
Itai stood there silently, hands in pockets. “Look…”
There was a long silence between them, while Miles tried to
swallow back the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him,
and while Itai clearly searched for the right thing to say.
“Miles…I’m sorry about last night,” Itai said at last. “I know I
wasn’t there for you.”
“Or the night before,” Miles reminded him.
Itai’s eyebrows came together. “The night before?”
“My dinner? My Festival of Lights event? You didn’t ask how it
went.”
“Yes I did.”
Miles stared at him.
Itai looked away. “Maybe I didn’t. It’s been a busy time for me.
You have to understand what I’m going through.”
Miles continued to stare. Like a dry branch breaking free, Miles
realized their relationship was over. He didn’t love Itai. Their love had
withered months ago, dried up without the nourishment it needed to
survive.
Miles turned back to his pot and continued to scrub. Itai left. And
less than half an hour after that, he saw Itai through the kitchen windows
that looked into the alley, coming down the stairs. He got into his car and
drove away.
Miles breathed out in relief because he didn’t want to have that
conversation now. He would have to, soon, but not right now.
* * * *
Miles nearly wore the brown sweater Itai had given him that night
as a form of revenge, especially since the sweater had obviously been
less for Miles than it had been a gift for Itai himself, a way to dress up
his guests at the launch like the faceless accoutrement Miles had been.
But he didn’t like the sweater, so he went to his old staple, a dark
blue button-down that had a cut that complemented his frame and made
him look stronger than he was. He wore clean jeans and his dark suede
boots and decided he looked acceptable enough for kimchi, at least.
Because it wasn’t a date, he reminded himself.
Around eight he realized he’d forgotten to instruct Nic to come up
the alley and knock on the second-story entrance, so he gathered his
wallet, phone, and keys and waited for Nic outside the front of the store.
It was dark and windy, and even though there wasn’t any rain, the
air had a sharp, damp chill to it. He wished he’d brought his gloves.
He only had to wait a few minutes before Nic’s green truck roared
up the road. It was a big thing, not very practical for urban life, but
looked useful for fishing or being a man in the outdoors.
He parked up the road from the deli and walked toward Miles, the
beige scarf around his neck blowing wildly in the wind. His dark hair
rushed around his face in the breeze, wild and free. Miles wanted to run
his hands through it. Run his hands through another man’s hair, he
realized, and not feel gel and hair spray.
“Hey.” Nic stopped close by, smelling sweet, like cloves or wine.
There was a flush to his cheeks despite the cold. He looked beautiful,
Miles decided.
“Hi.” He smiled. “Have you had some wine already?”
Nic looked embarrassed. “Yeah. Just a glass. Calm my nerves a
bit.”
“Nerves? Why are you nervous?” Miles asked. Nic started walking
the opposite direction from his truck, and Miles walked alongside him.
“No reason.” Nic was behaving a little shyly, but then again, so was
Miles. It had been a long time since he’d done this.
“Where’s Itai tonight?” Nic asked.
Miles shrugged. “No idea. We had a fight, and he left.”
“Sorry.” Nic didn’t sound it, though. If anything, it seemed to perk
him up. He asked a few questions about the kimchi Miles had made, and
that launched them into a long conversation about various ethnic foods
and which were their favorites.
As they walked, the wind battered them around, and more than once
Miles found himself leaning against Nic, the two close enough to hug. At
one point Nic threw his arm around Miles as if to keep him warm.
“If you keep doing that, people are going to think you’re gay,” Miles
warned him.
“I am gay.”
Miles stopped and turned. Nic didn’t look like he was being
sarcastic. He raised his eyebrows. “What? You think a police officer
can’t be gay or something?”
“No! I just…” Can’t believe my luck? Miles shook his head. “I’m
surprised, is all. I can’t believe my gaydar is so rusty.”
Nic continued walking. After a second Miles followed along. “I
don’t flaunt it, if that’s what you mean,” Nic said. He shoved his hands
into his pockets. “I’m not going to wear a sign around my neck. It’s a
hard enough job without adding to the insults the public and my fellow
officers would throw. But I don’t lie about it either.”
“So your coworkers don’t know?” Miles asked.
“The ones in my department do.”
“And they’re okay with it?”
“Most are.” He wrapped his scarf around his neck again. “There’s
the occasional snide remark or asshole who comes through the
department and thinks it‘s acceptable to say something inappropriate, but
we have a pretty tolerant district. And I’ve got a mean right hook if I
need it.” Nic smiled then, just for a second.
“Wow. And here I was thinking all your pickle innuendos were
merely hilariously innocent comments.”
Nic laughed. “Oh no. I slip a dick joke in every chance I get.”
They reached the bar, which to Miles’s dismay, looked like a
complete dump. It had a neon sign with half its letters burned out, and a
drunk on the sidewalk searched the damp debris at his feet for cigarette
butts. Two other men smoking outside watched Nic and Miles approach
with matching looks of distaste.
But Nic sauntered in without a care. He was a cop, Miles reminded
himself. Nic knew how to take care of himself.
And inside, it was different than he expected. The front of the bar
was full of the typical accoutrements: an old, stained industrial carpet,
furniture stinking of cigarettes despite the state having a no-smoking law
in place for a decade, and old arcade games littering the front and around
the bar, where half a dozen men sat watching small screens and drinking
alone. But in the back of the bar the lighting changed and there were
small tables beside red velvet wallpaper. The tables were sticky, the
lighting low and poor, but almost all of them were full of couples or
groups of four, their tables shrouded by dozens of small bowls of food.
Luckily a couple was getting up as Miles and Nic arrived, so they
were able to score a table. Nic offered to get the first round. He went to
the bar and returned with two beers and a bowl of nuts. He carried them
like a man who’d spent a lot of time waiting tables. It was a skill set
Miles appreciated.
“So what do your parents think of the changes you’ve made to their
store?” Nic asked.
“They’re happy. I think my dad was a little shocked at the idea of
expanding and having to hire additional staff, which was unnecessary
when it was only a pickle store. But my Mom and I talked over the idea
for years. They just didn’t have the money at the time.”
Nic quirked an eyebrow. “So you used your money?”
“Yeah.” Miles took a deep pull of his beer. It was lighter than he
usually drank, but he liked it. “I worked doing accounts for a local
manufacturer for the last ten years, and I saved every penny because I
knew I wanted to come back to Ballard and rebuild the store.” He shook
his head. “It took everything I had, but I’m sure it will pay off in the long
run.”
Nic scoffed. “Long run? It’ll be turning profit in no time. It’s a great
location, it has tradition and an ambience you can’t buy, and besides, it’s
very trendy at the moment. Everyone’s looking for some artisan food
niche these days, from bitters to bread, but you’ve got the pickle world
cornered.”
Miles smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”
“I know so. When’s that food critic coming by?”
“Farrah Chapman? Wednesday.” Miles’s stomach churned a bit
saying her name.
“Once she writes that review, you’ll be swamped. You’ll have to
hire a team of assistants to keep up.”
“All I need is one person as good as you and I’d be home free.”
Nic smiled.
An old man wheeled a cart by their table and started unloading
small dishes, more than a dozen of them. Miles’s eyes widened when he
realized how many there were.
“How are we going to eat”—the man put down a giant flat,
yellowish pancake that had to be at least two and a half feet in diameter
—“all of this?”
Nic rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Oh, don’t worry. I
have an appetite.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Nic took a pair of scissors from the old man and happily started
cutting weird shapes out of the pancake.
“Are they supposed to be sliced?” Miles asked as Nic made some
curves, then picked up his creation with the flat of the scissors to transfer
it onto a plate. He handed it to Miles.
“They traditionally cut the pancake into strips, but it’s much more
fun to make Pajeon animals.”
Miles studied the shape on his plate. “This is an animal?”
“It’s an elephant.”
“Really?” Miles squinted and turned the plate. “I only see a penis.”
“We all see what we want to see, don’t we.”
The pancake was served with a spicy soy sauce that Miles
immediately wanted the recipe for. It went very well with the potatoes,
eggs, and fresh vegetables in the pancake, as well as the amazing variety
of pickled and spiced vegetables. Miles realized he could make some
sort of version of the cake that would be kosher to serve at his restaurant.
Miles ordered a second round of beer, and they spoke more about
the police department and attitudes toward Nic’s orientation. Nic
seemed to find it interesting that Miles’s parents, while traditional Jews,
didn’t have a problem with their son’s homosexuality.
“What did they say?” he asked.
“When I came out?” Miles asked for clarification.
“Yeah.”
Miles snorted. “My dad told me once he knew I was gay the moment
I was born. He likes to say, ‘There’s somethin’ funny about that boy, and
I was right!’ and my mother nods her head.”
Nic grinned. “So I take it they’re okay with it.”
“They’d prefer I get married and have lots of children. But they’ve
learned to accept what I am. Besides, compared to my brother, I’m a
saint, so they gotta take the good with the bad, I suppose.”
“What’s wrong with your brother?”
“He’s struggled with drug addiction off and on since high school.
He’s either standoffish or strung out, so we don’t see much of him.”
Nic frowned. He didn’t say anything. Instead he got up from the
table and returned with an entire bottle of cognac.
Miles shook his head. “You don’t mess around, do you?”
Nic smiled. “I rarely go out and drink, and this stuff is expensive
and delicious. It’s best when shared.”
“Who says I want to do a shot?” Miles asked as Nic placed down
two shot glasses.
“Your eyes are saying it. They are saying, ‘Get me drunk, Nic,’ and
I’m complying.”
Miles laughed. “So what about your folks?”
“My family is very traditional.” Nic poured them both a shot. “And
when I say that, I mean devoutly Catholic. That plus the fact that they
expect me and my brothers to fully live the American dream they
sacrificed so much for, makes some things awkward between us.”
“Like your dating habits,” Miles filled in.
“Yeah.”
Miles was beginning to understand more about Nic’s strange
choices. “And that encourages you to make up for it in other ways…like
following a respected career.”
Nic sighed. “I think I was reacting to realizing my orientation more
than anything else. I didn’t want to rock the boat. And I saw how much
my parents admired my older brothers for their decision to join the
police force.”
He shook his head. “I worshipped my older brothers. I did
everything they did. They fought like mortal enemies but were also the
best of friends, but they both saw me as the baby brother and let me get
away with following in their footsteps. I wanted them to be proud of
me.”
“So they must be,” Miles concluded.
“Yeah, but…” Nic shook his head.
“What?”
He spun the full shot glass slowly. “I don’t know. I don’t love it.”
He shrugged and threw the shot back. “I’m on my eighth year on the
force, and I feel just like I did the first year—out of my depths and
underwhelmed by it all. It doesn’t suit who I am.”
Miles followed with a shot of his own. The cognac was sharp and
bitter, but with a slightly oily, smooth aftertaste that didn’t burn as much
as he’d feared it would.
“Okay, now try this one.” Nic shoved one of the small plates closer.
Miles tried a bite of the pickles with the pancake. The taste, after
having such a bitter drink in his mouth, burst open, fiery and powerful.
“Wow,” he said, closing his eyes. “That’s crazy good.”
“Crazy good,” Nic agreed, helping himself to the same combination.
“Damn, I love this place.” He scooped generous helpings of the other
pickle dishes onto his plate. “What about you? Do you have a regular bar
or restaurant you go out to?” He poured them both another shot.
Miles shook his head. “Back when Itai and I first dated, we had a
few Thai places we loved, and this one Chinese restaurant near his
original office that we’d go to at least once a week.” He sighed. “But of
course we don’t do anything like that anymore.”
Nic looked at Miles hard. He threw back his shot and immediately
refilled his glass.
“Whoa. Slow down. Give me a chance to catch up,” Miles said.
Nic stared at him. “Itai’s cheating on you.”
Miles froze, waiting for the pain of the words to sink in. But this
time, they didn’t. He felt cold rather than hurt.
“How can you not see this?” Nic demanded, suddenly angry. “It’s
obvious. I could tell the first day I worked at the deli, overhearing the
conversation he had on the phone. You’re a fool if you really think he’s
out working when—”
“I know.” Miles picked at the label on his beer. It was damp from
the bottle’s sweating, and it peeled easily.
Nic paused. Quieter, he asked, “You know?”
Miles shrugged. “Well, I have my suspicions. It isn’t the first time.
We’ve been through this before.”
Nic scowled. “Then what the hell are you doing with him?”
“Itai believes in open relationships. He thinks monogamy is a death
sentence for any healthy gay couple. He insists it has nothing to do with
how he feels about me. It’s just fucking.”
Nic shook his head in disapproval. “And you agreed to his
bullshit?”
“No.” The label peeled off the beer in one pull. Miles laid it on the
table. “Two years ago we broke up over it. When we got back together, I
made it a condition of our reconciliation. I don’t tolerate sleeping
around.” Miles felt embarrassed admitting as much and then angry at his
own embarrassment. Why should he apologize for his own morality? He
straightened his back and made eye contact. “Honesty and fidelity are
what kept my parents married for fifty years. I’m sticking to that model.”
Nic’s scowl softened. “Then you picked poorly.”
“I know.”
“Why the hell do you put up with it?”
“Because I love him… I thought I loved him.” Miles cleared his
throat. He had never said this aloud, and it felt strange. “I thought it was
worth another go. I’d invested so much in our relationship in the past.”
“But that’s like throwing good money after bad.” Nic sipped his
beer. “You deserve better than that.” He glanced down at the food,
looking a little lost.
“I do.” Miles sighed and did his own shot. The alcohol stung on the
way down, but he knew the kick that came after would be worth it.
“That’s why I’m going to end it.”
Nic stared at him with a look Miles couldn’t read. Excitement?
Pity? He had no idea.
Nic tried to refill his shot glass, but Miles put his hand over the top.
“No, I shouldn’t have more. I’m already three sheets to the wind; any
more and I’ll lose it completely.”
Nic scoffed. “So?”
Miles smiled. “I talk about inappropriate things when I’m wasted.”
“Like?”
“Like how much I think you’re attractive.” Miles winced. “Damn,
see? I’m already drunk.”
“Tell me other inappropriate things you want to say.” Nic grinned
wickedly.
“Should I tell you how I like to be fucked? That kind of thing?”
Nic’s eyes widened in surprise. “Move your hand.”
Miles laughed. “I shouldn’t.”
“Oh, no, you should.” Nic grabbed his glass. “I’m very interested in
learning more about how you like to be fucked.”
“Too bad. I don’t think I should tell you.” Miles felt like resting his
head on his arms. Shit, when did he get so drunk?
He glanced down and realized they’d eaten the entire pancake.
“When did we eat that pancake?” he asked.
“Why, you want more?” Nic asked, mumbling around a giant bite of
food. He looked a little guilty. “I thought you were done.”
“I’m a slow eater,” Miles said.
“Uh-oh. I eat like the restaurant’s on fire.”
“Does that mean a relationship between us is doomed?” Miles said.
He rested his head on his arm and picked up the cabbage leaf-wrapped
bundle of kimchi on his plate. It was seaweed, fruit, and cabbage,
fermented lightly. “This is so good. I mean it. So fucking good.”
“I know.” Nic smiled at him. “I took my friend Wyatt here a few
months ago, and he thought it was distasteful.”
Miles made a face. “How? He’s a moron.”
Nic laughed. “He isn’t very adventurous with food, and some of this
stuff can be spicy. Anyway, I really wanted to share it with someone
who would appreciate it.”
“I’ll come here and watch you stuff an entire two-foot-diameter
pancake in your mouth anytime.” Miles crookedly held up his empty beer
bottle. Nic clinked his against it.
By the time they left, Miles was drunker than he’d been in recent
memory and could barely stand. Nausea swelled and receded through his
body at each step, and the world spun in a sickening circle around the
unnecessarily bright streetlights. At some point he clung to Nic’s side
and admired how strong and steady he was. He smelled like booze,
sweat, and leather, and as they walked, Nic scanned the area around
them almost unwittingly. He’d clearly been a police officer so long he
couldn’t help but keep an eye out for trouble.
“Stay upright, Miles. I might be tough, but I still can’t carry you.”
“Want to try?” Miles slurred.
“Sexy.” Nic laughed. He threaded his arm through Miles’s and led
him back toward the store. “I didn’t realize you were the kinky sort.”
“I’m not kinky,” Miles defended himself.
“No?”
“No, I just like being fucked hard, and I like it described to me. Is
that kinky?”
Nic’s eyes fluttered closed. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“I’m getting a hard-on, and it’s like twenty below.”
Miles laughed and swerved, nearly toppling over. Nic wrapped an
arm around Miles’s shoulders and pulled him closer, supporting him.
“Are we on a date?” Miles asked wistfully. “I’d like to be on a date
with you.”
“Then yes.” Nic nodded. “Yes, we’re on a date.”
“You sure?” Miles mumbled. “I think I’m in a relationship.”
“Not a good one,” Nic growled. He steered Miles around the
corner. “Come on. Let’s go back to the shop and get you some coffee to
sober up.”
“You’re the one who wanted me drunk.”
“Yeah, but now that I actually do want to fuck you, I need you sober.
I’m not that kind of guy.”
“No,” Miles confirmed. “You’re a police detective.”
Nic’s eyebrow rose. “Well, that doesn’t exclude dickish behavior,
but it does in my case. Come on.”
Once they reached the store, Miles couldn’t get his key anywhere
near the hole, so Nic took over. It was almost as if he were sober, but
there was a sheen to Nic’s eyes that showed he wasn’t quite as put
together as he played.
“Hey,” Miles said. “You can’t drive home.”
“Nope.” Nic opened the shop door, and the bell chimed. Miles
flinched at how loud it seemed. Was Itai around? Did Miles care if he
was?
Clearly Nic was thinking the same thing. “Is that asshole around?”
he asked.
Miles stumbled his way through the dark deli into the kitchen and
looked out the back window. Itai’s car was still gone. Where once that
would have filled him with anguish and a sense of betrayal, now he felt
nothing but relief.
“Nope.”
“Good.” Nic grabbed hold of Miles’s shoulders and steered him
into the deli. “Sit down.” He pressed on Miles’s back and made him sit
at one of his tables.
Miles smiled, blinking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen my store from
this angle before,” he said.
“Yeah?” Nic took off his coat and made his way behind the counter.
“Where are the lights?”
“By the staircase.” Miles rested his head again to try to get the room
to stop spinning. He watched blurrily as Nic made himself at home in his
store. He turned on the espresso machine, washed a mug, and ground a
portafilter full of fresh beans.
“You like cappuccinos, right?” Nic asked.
“How did you know?”
Nic shrugged. “I’ve paid very close attention to you, Miles.” He
went to the fridge for some milk.
Miles remembered watching Itai make Travis a coffee the other day,
and how the fact that he’d known the other man’s drink seemed intimate.
Now he felt flush with the knowledge that in only two days of working
together, Nic knew Miles’s tastes better than Itai did after living with
him for a year.
The sputtering of the milk frother sounded homey, like his childhood
all wrapped up with the smell of warm milk, and he closed his eyes.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Nic warned, but Miles wasn’t going to.
He was only going to rest his eyes.
Chapter Seven
Banana Tamarind Mint Chutney
Miles’s neck hurt.
Scratch that. It killed. He tried to lift his head, but it was heavier
than his neck could support. He blurrily opened his eyes and found out
why his neck was so stiff. He’d fallen asleep sitting upright in one of the
deli chairs.
In a panic, he checked his phone to see if he had to open. Nothing
like throwing open the doors with a drunk owner passed out on the floor
in the deli.
Actually, at the table. The person passed out on the floor was Nic,
who snored quietly as he lay curled around one of the table legs, head
resting on his leather coat.
Miles moved slowly, feeling the pain of last night’s poor drinking
choices. His head pounded, and he needed to find a chiropractor, stat.
But according to his phone, he had a mere hour to somehow clean
himself up and get business started for the day.
He felt worse for Nic, who had an appointment in an hour with a
courtroom. And Miles had no idea how far away home was for him. If it
were across town, there was a good likelihood he’d be late.
“Wake up, sunshine,” Miles croaked, throat dry. He shook Nic’s
shoulder gently. Nic didn’t wake up. Instead, he curled tighter around the
table leg.
Miles continued to rub Nic’s shoulder. He was warm and soft and
earthy smelling, and Miles had a strong urge to curl up against Nic’s
back and spoon with him until they screwed or fell asleep, both options
sounding equally appealing at the moment.
Finally, Nic stirred. He blinked, rubbing the stubble on his face.
“Oh, fuck no.”
“Yes,” Miles said hoarsely.
“We didn’t fall asleep on the floor of the deli, did we?”
“You fell asleep on the floor of the deli,” Miles corrected. “I slept
unsoundly in a chair.”
Nic rose slowly, wincing. “Is that why your neck is at that angle?”
Miles self-consciously tried to hold his neck straight, but it hurt too
much. “I have to open in an hour. And you—”
“Fuck.” Nic scrambled to his feet. “I gotta go home.”
“Do you live far?” Miles asked.
Nic shook his head. “No, I’m up on Phinney Ridge. Should take me
ten minutes.” He felt around for keys. “Where’s my phone? Oh.” He felt
himself up again, looking miserable.
“Sorry you have to go put on a suit.” Miles started up the espresso
machine.
“Yeah.”
“Can I make you a coffee and bagel to go?”
Miles watched a fascinating process of indecision rack Nic, who
clearly wanted those things more than anything on earth but was also
desperately late.
“I can’t. Rain check?”
“Of course.” Miles smiled.
Nic wrapped his scarf around his neck, despite the fact that outside
it looked clear and warmer than last night. He hesitated at the door. He
turned back and walked to Miles.
“I enjoyed last night.”
Miles smiled. “Me too.”
“I want a repeat.” Nic’s eye clenched shut. “Well, maybe less
cognac.”
Miles nodded, not trusting his voice with his gut fluttering about in a
mixture of excitement and severe nausea.
“I’ll see you later.” Nic moved forward, stepped back, then moved
in again and gave Miles an awkward hug. He rushed out, cursing as the
door caught on his finger, and disappeared to start a day that was bound
to be worse than Miles’s.
* * * *
A rare moment of decency on the part of fate made the deli slower
than usual that Monday. A few of his regular clients commented on
Miles’s disheveled appearance.
During the first lag of the morning he prepared a list of the more
exotic pickles he wanted on hand for Farrah Chapman’s review. Many of
the ones he loved took weeks to prepare, so if he didn’t have them
stocked, he was out of luck. But a few of his favorites could be prepared
in under forty-eight hours and would make a statement.
He started with his vodka-soaked cherry peppers. They sold out
whenever he stocked them; however, the smell of the vodka nearly made
him vomit after last night’s excesses. His banana tamarind mint chutney
only needed to be prepared the day before, but he started on it right away
because it was messy, and he wasn’t sure how much time he’d have later
in the week.
Miles was engrossed in making sandwiches, so he didn’t hear the
door from the alley into the kitchen open. But seconds later Itai
appeared, wearing the same clothes he’d left in the day before.
“Hi there.” Miles tried decency while there were witnesses.
Itai frowned. “You look rough.”
Miles shrugged. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”
Itai hesitated. He glanced at the staircase door but decided against
his original plan and made himself a coffee instead.
A few minutes later Miles was able to break free and join Itai back
in the kitchen.
Itai wouldn’t look at him.
“You okay?” Miles asked. Itai looked surly, withdrawn, but also
sad. Miles may no longer have loved him, but he wished him no ill.
The question seemed to take Itai aback. He narrowed his eyes.
“Yes, why?”
Miles shrugged. “Just checking.”
“You going to be down here all day?”
Miles nodded.
“Where’s your philanthropic helper?” Itai asked.
“At work. He may stop in later to help out.” Miles reached into the
bowl where he was soaking his cherries and pulled two out, offering one
to Itai. “Want one?”
Itai ate it and made a face. “Vodka.”
“Yup.”
Itai hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll be home much today. Yanix’s offer
came in. Travis and I are going to review it with our lawyers this
morning, and then afterward—”
“That’s fine.” Miles washed the booze from his hands as he heard
the front door open again.
As he headed out, Itai grabbed his arm, stopping him. “What do you
mean it’s fine?”
“I don’t mind. Have a good time.”
“Why aren’t you pissed off?”
Miles wondered if not being upset pissed Itai off more than when he
was angry. “I told you yesterday. I’ve stopped caring anymore. I’m not
going to change you, Itai, and I’m not going to complain about who you
are. ”
A spark of hope lit Itai’s eyes. “So…you are okay with me spending
the night elsewhere but coming home to you?” The corner of his mouth
curled. “Because you are the one I love, even if—”
“No.”
“Hello?” someone called from the deli.
Miles sighed. “I have to help this person. I’ll be back.”
“I’m going upstairs to change,” Itai said.
“Don’t leave. I’ll be up there, and we’ll talk.” Miles helped the
person at the counter, and the next, and the following one. By the time he
could rush upstairs and check on Itai, he’d gone.
* * * *
Store closed, deposits made, groceries purchased, and orders
placed, Miles had an evening to himself with nothing looming over him.
At first he had grand ideas of starting another complex pickle recipe
downstairs. What he really needed more than anything else, however,
was a nap.
So Miles went to bed. It was a luxury to take it over at the early
hour of six, and rather than find himself upset at being alone in the house,
for the first time in ages, it solaced him.
He promptly fell asleep. He dreamed of Nic cutting dirty shapes out
of a big pillowcase and then eating it. This promptly dissolved into a
series of scenes where Nic was swallowing all sorts of things, and when
Miles woke up, he was only vaguely ashamed of his erotic dream.
When he awoke, he felt clearer-headed and more refreshed than he
had in a long time. He made himself spaghetti, and got out the menorah
and candles and the present he had planned on giving Itai. He was going
to enjoy it himself instead.
As he cooked, he got a call from his mother and they chatted about
their respective holidays apart, but he didn’t disclose the impending
doom of his and Itai’s relationship. He left things vague, his goal to
impart how much he missed her but that he was going to be fine on his
own.
He made way too much spaghetti, the problem of being in a
relationship for so long. He’d forgotten how to cook for one. He was
going to have to pack up half to refrigerate.
There was a knock on the door.
The sound startled him. He rarely had visitors on the second-floor
stoop of the house. He went to the door and looked through the peephole.
Nic stood outside, looking anxious but less peaked than this
morning.
Miles opened the door. “Nic!”
Nic glanced around. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“I’m about to have dinner. Are you hungry?”
Nic smiled. Ah, what a foolish question. Miles smiled back. “Sit
down. Open the bottle of wine.”
“What are we eating?” Nic unzipped his hoodie, still glancing
around as if unsure they were really alone.
“Spaghetti and mushroom garlic marinara.”
Nic’s eyebrows rose. “Did you know I was coming over?”
Miles laughed. “No. I happen to cook other things than Jewish food,
you know.”
“It’s just that spaghetti is one of my favorite things in the whole
world.”
“With a name like Delbene? Who would have known?”
Nic smirked. He moved to the dining table and noticed the candles
lying on the table. “Is this for Hanukkah?”
Miles nodded. He served up two heaping plates of spaghetti. Now
that he had a guest, he found himself automatically throwing two rolls
from this morning into the oven with some butter, and whipping up a
quick green salad.
One-entrée meals were for loners.
“How was your court appearance?” Miles asked.
Nic groaned as he sat. “Lengthy, dreary, and ultimately not that
valuable. The defendant has a rock-star attorney and the DA is going to
lose this one.” He opened the bottle of wine on the table. “Can you light
the candles and everything? I want to see the holiday in action.”
Miles smiled at the idea of Hanukkah being in action, wishing he
had pyrotechnics to light off. Instead he had to make do with impressing
Nic’s gastric system instead. He placed Nic’s plate before him, and he
felt giddy with joy at Nic’s openmouthed expression of delight.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Nic declared. “Where’s Itai?”
“Out.” Miles sat across from him. “I don’t know or care where.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Nic said again. “He’s an idiot to give you
up.” He poured them both wine and held up his glass. “Happy Hanukkah,
Miles.”
“And to you too.” Miles clinked his glass and took a sip. He then
gathered up six of the candles and placed them in the menorah, right to
left. He lit the Shamash candle and lit the rest from left to right, saying,
“Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech HaOlam, asher kidshanu
b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah. Baruch Atah Adonai
Eloheinu Melech HaOlam, she’asah nisim l’avoteinu, b’yamim haheim
bazman hazeh.”
He placed the Shamash candle in its place at the center of the
menorah.
He then reached into the candle box and pulled out the cheap plastic
dreidel his mother had saved from his childhood. “We could play
dreidel now,” Miles informed Nic, “or we can forget that part and just
eat.”
“Oh, eat. Definitely eat.” Nic paused. “Unless there are prayers?”
“I just said them.”
“What did you say? I hope it was a prayer for a nice piece of Italian
ass.”
Miles nearly choked on his wine. “Ah, maybe in spirit, but the
words are the same all the time.”
“Interesting.” Nic lifted up his fork. “So…we can just dig in?”
“Dig in.”
Nic shoved his fork into the spaghetti and spun, using his spoon in
expert noodle-gathering style to get the maximum amount of food and
sauce on his fork. He shoved the entire ball deep into his mouth. He
closed his eyes as he chewed.
“Amazing?” Miles asked, waiting hesitantly.
Nic winked at him as he chewed. When he finally swallowed, he
said, “Delicious, but mine are better. When can I come over and cook for
you?”
Miles felt a momentary shock of disappointment but then laughed. “I
guess I should take that as a compliment. It means you are honest when
you like things, as well as when you don’t.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Nic corrected. “I’m just saying I do a
better job. And I want to show you how.”
“I look forward to it.”
Over dinner they talked about the Hanukkahs while Miles grew up,
and Nic’s own family. Nic cleaned up, and Miles cracked open the box
of expensive ginger chocolate treats he’d bought for Itai.
Nic glanced at his watch.
“You have to go?” Miles asked, surprised how much he didn’t want
the night to end.
Nic looked at him sheepishly. “No, I just wanted to see if the game
had started. Seahawks are playing.”
Miles blinked. “Shit! Football!” He rushed over to the television
and switched it on. He was thrilled when Nic happily joined him on the
couch, yelling curses at the New Orleans Saints as the game continued.
They talked between plays and during the perpetual commercial
breaks. Nic turned out to know a ton of football stats, rattling off each
player’s record and injuries and former teams without pause.
And here Miles thought he was a Seahawks fan.
It felt natural talking to Nic, sitting with him on the couch, and when
Nic asked permission to use Miles’s kitchen, he fried up some potato
wedges and made a sour cream dip during the halftime break. Miles
didn’t think he had room for another bite after his dinner, but he ate more
than half, the salt and grease tantalizingly addictive.
The Seahawks made a touchdown. Miles roared, hands in the air.
An unreadable glint lit Nic’s eye, and before Miles could ask what he
was thinking, Nic kissed him.
This was not a gentle kiss like Itai’s. Nic kissed so hard Miles fell
back against the couch. Nic didn’t stop. Nic pressed harder, grinding
Miles down beneath him, pushing his tongue deep into Miles’s mouth,
and all at once a need in Miles thundered to life.
Yes. Yes, yes. This is what I want. This is what I’ve been needing.
Nic writhed against Miles with careless need. His cock was hard
and heavy through his trousers, and it rubbed against the sensitive top of
Miles’s cock with maddening sensation.
Miles’s entire body caught flame with the hungry, frenetic energy of
Nic’s squirming body. This wasn’t the slow, delicate lovemaking that
had stifled Miles for a year. This was wanton, senseless, graphic
intercourse, all teeth and fingers and bone, and at once Miles had two
thoughts in equal measure.
I need him to fuck me and this is wrong.
“Stop. I can’t do this.” Miles broke the kiss, panting. His dick
strained against the waistband of his jeans, face flushed hot. “I’m not a
cheater.”
Nic breathed heavily, his eyes glazed over with arousal, his lips red
and swollen from their kisses. He looked so delicious Miles wanted to
do nothing more than kiss him again.
“I…I’m not a cheater,” Miles repeated, mostly to remind himself.
“Until I officially break up with him, I can’t do this.” But God, he
wanted to. Because it would be so easy to just follow Nic into the
bedroom. It would be so wonderful this once to have someone demand
his love, seek his touch, take what they wanted.
“You’re right.” Nic sat back. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I liked it just as much as you did.”
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Nic continued. He shook his head. “I
just… You’re so goddamned beautiful.” He looked wistfully at Miles for
a moment, then turned away. “It won’t happen again.”
Crushing disappointment filled Miles’s chest at those words, but he
didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to tell Nic that things were
nearly over with Itai, that he wanted Nic more than anything he’d wanted
in a long time, that he’d loved the roughness of his embrace. Even now,
looking at Nic crouched there, large dick clearly outlined against the
tight press of denim, rough face warm with desire, his body smelling of
sweat and soap, Miles couldn’t believe what he was doing.
What would Itai do in this situation? He’d fuck Nic, Miles realized,
and deal with his partner’s rage afterward. It’s what Itai always did.
Why couldn’t Miles do the same, just this once?
Because he wasn’t Itai. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
Nic touched his shoulder briefly. “You want me to go?”
“No. Let’s watch the rest of the game.”
Nic nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The
gesture was unexpectedly erotic, and Miles had to look away before his
boner stopped its recession.
They sat next to each other uncomfortably for the last three minutes
of game play, which of course stretched into a good fifteen minutes of
television time.
When the game ended, Miles was glad. He felt extremely
uncomfortable. “I really enjoyed tonight.”
“Yeah.” Nic eyed him carefully. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early!” Miles tried to defuse the tension with a cheerful
tone, but it fell flat. They both saw it for what it was.
They stood there, staring at each other, for another long, awkward
moment at the door, before Nic broke the tension and squeezed Miles’s
bicep. “Take care.” It was not the right thing to say either.
But what did one say in a situation like this?
Chapter Eight
Indian Hot Lemon Pickle
Itai joined Miles in bed at some point in the night.
He’d obviously tried not to wake Miles, but Miles had tossed all
night long, debating what to say. It was one thing to determine you were
in a doomed relationship, but another thing to take the next step and end
it.
Miles realized he was terrified.
The right thing would have been to end it right then, when Itai
undressed and climbed under the covers to lie beside Miles. Having
Itai’s hot skin against Miles didn’t arouse him now. It left him feeling
dirty. Those thighs had likely just been entwined with Travis’s. And now
they were touching him.
And of course, there was no guarantee it was just Travis Itai had
spent his nights with. When they’d broken up before, Itai had been
fucking behind both Miles’s and Travis’s backs, meeting with strangers
and hooking up in nightclubs. It was his hobby, he once told Miles, but
now that he’d broken his promise of fidelity with one partner, what was
to say he wasn’t breaking it with the other?
Miles did get a little sleep, but when he woke at his usual early
hour, he couldn’t wait to get out of bed.
He considered putting off the inevitable longer. He had to prep the
kitchen. But he doubted he’d have another uninterrupted stretch of time,
so he dressed, shaved, then returned to the bedroom. He sat on the edge
of the bed, beside Itai’s head.
He watched Itai sleep in his bed for the last time. He felt sad about
it, less to do with a faltering love than with the fact that they’d started
with such great hopes. The hardest part of a breakup was the death of all
those expectations and dreams, and now he took a moment to mourn the
vision Itai and he had built of their life together, all those months ago.
“Itai, wake up. We have to talk.”
Itai stirred. He sat up and blinked. “What?”
Miles wanted to look at the bedspread. He forced himself to make
eye contact. “I’m happy things are working out for you and Travis.” He
sounded confident, and he believed in what he was saying, but his throat
started to go dry in anticipation of the next sentence. “But you do need to
move out.”
Itai looked scared for a moment. “What?”
“I’m breaking up with you.”
Itai was fully awake now. He folded his legs into his chest. It would
be the last time Miles would see Itai’s cock, draped darkly over his
testicles. “Are you kidding? One or two nights of staying out and you
suddenly decide it’s all over?”
“Suddenly?” Miles lifted his eyebrow. “Itai, there’s nothing sudden
about this. Our relationship has been slowly dying for months. It’s time
to put it out of its misery.”
Itai swallowed. “You said you loved me only the other day.”
“And you promised to never cheat on me.” Miles’s stomach
churned.
Itai clenched his eyes shut. “Miles, it has nothing to do with you. It’s
only sex. You need to learn that I don’t mean anything—”
“No.” Miles stood. “I don’t need to learn anything. I set rules when
I took you back, and you broke them. I can’t trust you.”
“Don’t do this.” Itai swung his legs over the side of the bed. He
looked shaky. “Not right now, when I’ve so much going on.”
“You want to break up in two weeks, when it’s more convenient for
you? A month from now? Because it’s inevitable.” Miles took a deep
breath. “You have to go.”
Itai dressed. He looked stony, so it was hard to tell if he was pissed
or sad.
“Does this have to do with that new assistant? The Italian?” he
asked.
Miles considered lying, but lying was what had started all their
problems. “Yes.”
Itai seemed shocked by this. He froze, expression crumpling and
then turning furious. “Are you fucking him?”
Miles would have commented on the hypocrisy if his heart wasn’t
trembling in his chest. “No, but I want to. I’m giving you the honesty you
never gave me.”
“Fuck you.” Itai spat the words. He grabbed his wallet and phone
and his jacket. “You’re a selfish prick, Miles.”
Miles stood there, holding his ground.
“I’m coming by later to get my shit. See you.”
Itai stormed out of the house. Miles stared at the crumpled
bedspread, congratulated himself on getting it over with, and then went
into the bathroom and puked.
* * * *
Nic showed up just before opening. Miles let him in with a weak
smile but didn’t say much. He wasn’t ready.
Unlike Itai, Nic seemed to have an ability to read Miles. Nic gave
Miles distance, working at the register and not engaging in small talk.
Miles made drinks and bagel orders and packaged the to-go pickles,
chutneys, and tapenades he’d made.
Nic exchanged jokes with Miles’s customers as he rang them up.
Sometimes he would say one and look askance at Miles, clearly hoping
for a reaction. After several attempts Miles couldn’t help himself, and he
finally laughed, his dark mood lifting. Nic clowned his way around the
back of the counter, made some rude gestures to Miles with the larger
pickles when customers weren’t looking, and arranged lox on a plate in
the shape of a penis, which he presented to Miles.
“Breakfast is served,” he said, grinning.
Miles rolled his eyes but stuffed the lox in his mouth anyway. Now
that his stomach wasn’t clenched, he realized he was starving.
Mr. Nedlich finally appeared around noon, proving he wasn’t dead
after all. He was joined by his two nephews, who’d accompanied their
uncle on occasion over the last ten years.
“Hello, Mr. Nedlich,” Miles said with a smile. He immediately
started compiling the man’s regular order. “Are you all having lunch
with us today as well?”
Mr. Nedlich nodded. He looked like he’d been sick recently, his
face gaunt and eyes pinched with exhaustion. “May I get your soup and
pickles on bread?”
“Of course.”
“Jake?” Mr. Nedlich asked, turning to the older of his nephews.
“I’ll have the Reuben,” Jake said.
“Me too.” Saul claimed the table next to the counter.
Miles nodded to Nic. “Ring him up also for a dozen full-sours and a
jar of bread-and-butter.”
“Don’t forget the duck eggs,” Mr. Nedlich chimed in.
“I give those to you on the house for being a regular customer,”
Miles said.
Mr. Nedlich wasn’t much of a smiler, but he seemed to grimace a
form of gratitude at Miles. “Thank you.” He shuffled to the table,
carefully stashing his purchases in his shopping bag. When Miles served
his soup and bread, Mr. Nedlich nodded at him. “You’ve done well
here, Miles. Your parents must be proud.”
“Thank you.” Miles grinned, already imagining the conversation that
night with his mother, bragging he’d won over another old-timer.
More customers came in, so Miles hurried back to the counter since
Nic had started in on the sandwich orders. The young, good-looking man
scanned the deli, but instead of ordering, he seated himself at Mr.
Nedlich’s table. Another nephew? Miles wondered.
Miles was in the middle of restocking his habanera pineapple relish
when the bell chimed and Travis entered the store. A flare of jealous
rage burned within Miles but was quickly tamped down. Travis didn’t
matter anymore.
Travis beelined for the counter and glared at Miles. “Hey, asshole,”
he said loudly. Everyone in the shop stared at Miles.
Miles narrowed his eyes. “Keep it down.” He moved to the side of
the deli, near Nedlich’s family but hopefully far enough away that
whatever Travis said could be kept out of earshot. “What’s the matter
with you?” Miles whispered.
“You’re kicking Itai out? After everything he’s done for you and this
shitty little hole-in-the-wall?”
Yes, since he can’t keep his dick out of your ass. Miles took a deep
breath but didn’t respond out loud.
“Itai came over this morning more upset than I’ve ever seen him,”
Travis said. “I ought to hit you for hurting him this way.”
“Everything all right, Miles?” Nic called out. He eyed Travis.
“Who are you, his bodyguard?” Travis snapped, looking Nic over.
Nic visibly tensed. Miles gestured for them both to lower their
voices.
“Take it easy, guys,” he said quietly. He nodded to Nic. “I’m fine.
We’re only talking.”
Nic hesitated but seemed to take the hint and left Miles and Travis
alone.
“So let me understand this,” Miles said, keeping his voice low.
“You were pissed because Itai moved back in with me, and now you are
pissed because I kicked him out?” He snorted. “Wow, you two really
are made for each other.”
The upstairs door opened, and Itai appeared behind the counter.
Miles focused on his breathing. This was turning into a clusterfuck.
Travis looked relieved, however. “You done packing?”
Itai nodded. “I loaded what I could in my car and put the rest in
yours.” Itai glowered at Nic.
The chances of this coming off without a scene were quickly
dissipating. Luckily the woman and man chatting at the table across the
way seemed too engrossed in each other’s company to notice, and the
old woman at the table near the window appeared captivated by her
novel. Mr. Nedlich, his nephews, and their guest were starting in on an
argument of their own, their voices rising.
Itai turned to Nic. “What’s your name again? Nic?”
Nic kept making sandwiches and didn’t answer. The muscle in his
jaw tensed.
“Don’t ignore me!” Itai shouted.
“Wait, this is the guy you are ditching Itai for?” Travis declared,
waving his hand at Nic.
“Lower your goddamn voice!” Miles shouted, realizing he was
talking nearly as loud now. But all he could see was red.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” Travis yelled. At the same time
Mr. Nedlich shouted, “You son of a bitch!”
“Calm down!” Miles yelled.
Nic straightened behind Itai, going very alert. “Miles. Clear out.”
Alarm zinged through Miles, but Itai’s expression darkened.
“You’ve been here a week, you steal my lover, and now you’re ordering
him around?”
Miles noticed the couple across from Mr. Nedlich both look to Nic
and stand.
I would never have guessed them, Miles thought. Then he realized
what it meant that both Nic and the undercover officers stared at
Nedlich’s table.
“Let’s get out of here.” He grabbed Travis by the cuff. “Go into the
kitchen.”
“Don’t touch me!” Travis shoved Miles into the wall.
Mr. Nedlich’s nephew, Jake, stood and pulled out a pistol. He
aimed it at Miles.
“Everybody just shut the fuck up!” he shouted.
Everything seemed to happen at once.
Itai took one look at the gun, turned on his heel, and fled upstairs,
locking the door behind him.
Travis froze with his hands up.
And Nic vaulted over the counter. He slid over the cold case and
tackled Jake. The gun went off twice, and someone screamed. The two
other officers went for Nedlich’s younger nephew and the guest, but
Nedlich wore an expression of sheer rage and looked like he would rip
out Nic’s throat. He reached into his jacket, and Miles glimpsed the butt
of a gun.
Fury and terror flooded Miles. He reached for the first thing he
could lay his hands on and sent it flying at Mr. Nedlich. Hot habanero
relish soared through the air. The plastic container popped apart upon
impact, spattering red oil and peppers across the old man’s face and into
his eyes.
Nedlich shrieked, falling back, clawing at his face. Another gunshot
split the air, and then Nic pinned Jake to the floor and was yanking the
man’s arms back to handcuff them. The female officer came around with
her gun raised.
“Hands against the wall, now!” she yelled at Nedlich. He stumbled
blindly for the wall and put his hands up, fingers dripping with spicy
pepper spread.
Miles’s heart raced. Travis and he stared at each other in shock.
Nic stood, wincing. “You got them, Clarkson?” he asked.
The female officer nodded. “Yup. Calling backup.” She and the
other officer directed Nedlich, his family, and his client into the corner.
Miles finally let out the breath he’d been holding. He noticed his
hands trembled with adrenaline.
And then he realized what the shattering noise had been. His
espresso machine smoked, leaking water on the floor.
“Shit!” He nearly ran to it when he also spotted blood on the tiles.
He turned around.
Nic leaned against the counter, clasping his left arm tight to his
chest.
“Are you shot?” Miles rushed to his side.
Nic was pale. “Bullet ricocheted off the cold case.”
“God!” Miles grabbed a clean rag from behind the counter and
returned to Nic’s side, stanching the wound. He grabbed his phone to
call for an ambulance.
“One’s on the way already, Miles,” Nic assured him. He closed his
eyes.
“God. What can I do?”
Nic’s mouth curved into a weak smile. “Don’t worry. It just grazed
me; I’ll live. But the same can’t be said for your cold case.”
Miles looked at the case. The glass had shattered from one of the
bullets, and the light was out.
“Damn it!” He could afford to repair either the cold case or the
espresso machine, but not both.
Travis approached shakily. “For fuck’s sake…” he mumbled, still
pale.
Miles nodded toward the upstairs doorway. “Go on, find your
cowardly lover and get the hell out of here.”
Travis narrowed his eyes but nevertheless waited for Miles to fish
out his keys, unlock the door, and let him through. Miles slammed it
behind Travis.
And started laughing.
Nic frowned. “What’s so funny?”
“This day.” He wiped his eyes. “I break up with my boyfriend, get a
gun to the face, blind a client of twenty years with habaneros, have my
shop shot to hell, and end up watching the man I’ve fallen in love with
get hit with a bullet.”
Nic snorted. He reached out with his good hand and gripped
Miles’s. His palm was bloody, and the blood transferred to Miles, who
didn’t care.
“You were brave, and you probably saved my life with those
peppers,” Nic said.
“You can make it up to me by getting out of the hospital fast.”
Nic winked. “Oh, I will. And then I can think of half a dozen ways
I’m going to make it up to you after that.”
Chapter Nine
Beet-Pickled Duck Eggs
Nic wasn’t released from the hospital until later that evening.
Afterward he was detained at the police station for hours, cleaning
up the aftermath of his investigation. Miles killed time by cleaning up the
mess Itai had left upstairs when he’d taken all his things, then cleaning
the restaurant once the crime scene investigators were done trashing the
place. There was broken glass, chalk marks, fingerprint dust,
bloodstains, and habanero drippings everywhere.
When he returned upstairs at the end of the day, he took a shower
and tried to find a way to contact Farrah Chapman and see if she’d be
willing to reschedule the tasting. The state of his deli, without espresso
or a cold case, meant he wasn’t going to reopen anytime soon.
Miles caught news coverage of the shoot-out on the evening news,
and after deciding it was only a matter of time before his parents heard,
even all the way off in Arizona, he made that terrible call to inform them
of what had happened.
By the time he got off the phone, he had no energy to do anything, let
alone cook. He picked up his phone to order pizza delivery, but the
phone rang him instead.
It was Nic.
“Hey.” He sounded as tired as Miles felt.
“You okay?” Miles asked.
“It’s been a bitch of a day. A lot of reports and explanation needed
when gunshots are fired in public places.”
“Go figure.”
Nic snorted at that. “Anyway, I’m beat. But I thought I’d check on
you.”
Miles grinned. “I’m starving, and I don’t feel like cooking. I was
going to order a pizza. Want to join me?”
“How about I make you some spaghetti?”
Miles smiled. “You sure you want to cook after everything that
happened today?”
“Cooking relaxes me. Besides, it’s the seventh day of Hanukkah,
isn’t it? I want to make you a holiday dinner that will make up for such a
shitty rest of the week.”
“You’re on.”
“I’ll stop at the store and be there in half an hour.” He hung up, his
excitement obvious. Miles lay back against his bed and smiled.
* * * *
The problem with having other people cook in his kitchen, Miles
realized afterward, was that they cooked like it wasn’t their kitchen.
Somehow Nic had managed to use every spoon, strainer, pot, and most
of the plates by the time he was done preparing his feast. And the meal
was fantastic, too good to begrudge him, but as Miles scanned the
disaster zone of his kitchen, he knew he would be doing a great deal of
scrubbing tomorrow.
As it was, he left the dishes in the sink and sat with Nic at the table
after the meal. They both stared at the guttering candles of the menorah.
Tomorrow, the holiday would be over, and while he wasn’t going to
miss the passing of this one in particular, it was definitely a week he
would remember forever.
“I can’t believe it was Mr. Nedlich you were looking for. He’s one
of my mother’s favorite customers.”
Nic shook his head. “Don’t let someone’s age or frailty fool you.
He’s been in the narcotics business for well over twenty years. We’ve
just never been able to have a snitch close enough to rat him out.”
“And his nephews? They’re involved?”
“Yes. They’re clearly taking over the business from their uncle. Or
they were until we stopped them. How well we’re going to be able to
stick charges on them all has yet to be seen, but it’s a start at least.”
Nic fished around in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I got
you a Hanukkah gift,” he said.
Miles opened it. Inside was a business card of someone he didn’t
know.
“This is Tony’s card. He’s a family friend, a skilled repairman, and
he’s going to fix your cold case on me.”
Miles’s eyes widened. “That’s way too much—”
“No.” Nic reached across the table, placing his palm against
Miles’s cheek. “It’s not nearly enough.”
Miles walked over to where Nic sat, leaned down, and kissed him.
Nic’s mouth opened, tentative at first, but within seconds Nic gripped
him by the back of the neck and pulled him tight. Miles made sure to
avoid touching Nic’s injured bicep, letting Nic set the pace, take control.
“I have a present for you too,” Miles gasped, breaking for air. He
reached into his back pocket and pulled out the two small packets.
“Lube, condom, and free access to my ass. Happy Hanukkah.”
Nic laughed. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”
Miles led Nic into the bedroom. But before they made it that far,
Nic kissed him again, pushing him against the wall and pinning him in
place, grinding his hips against Miles, tongue thrust deep. Miles’s
erection pushed against the band of his jeans.
The kiss almost hurt in its intensity, and Miles groaned into it. For
too long he’d been treated with kid gloves. As Nic ground himself
against Miles’s crotch, nearly lifting Miles off the floor in his effort to
get to his ass, Miles reveled in being treated like this—like someone Nic
couldn’t get inside fast enough.
“Let me fuck you; please, let me fuck you,” Nic whispered hoarsely.
“Yeah,” Miles said.
“I’ve wanted to do this all week.” Nic ran his tongue around the
inside of Miles’s mouth. Miles’s eyes fluttered with sensation. Nic’s
fingers deftly unbuckled Miles’s belt and pulled open his fly. He pushed
down Miles’s jeans and underwear and dropped to his knees.
Miles breathed heavily. Nic stared intently, as if memorizing the
sight before him, before opening his capacious mouth and taking all of
Miles’s cock deep down his throat.
The sensation was like dipping himself in silky fire. Miles’s head
slammed against the wall, eyes fluttering closed. The feeling
overwhelmed him. His legs began to tremble as Nic’s lips tightened at
the base of Miles’s cock, slid back and forth, taking all of Miles in so
deeply that Miles feared he would choke Nic with such long thrusts.
Thoughts melted and became liquid. He couldn’t hold them, and
they slipped through his grasp as he tried to concentrate. The sight of Nic
crouched, staring with adoration at Miles as he sucked his cock, nearly
brought Miles to completion then and there. But Nic stopped right before
Miles came, standing shakily and moving into the bedroom with flushed
cheeks and dilated eyes.
Nic ripped at Miles’s clothing. When he yanked Miles’s T-shirt
clear, he threw it across the room, a gesture so simple and yet so
pleasing Miles couldn’t help but smile in relief. All of Itai’s clothes
folding, hand washing, endless cleaning—and here Nic was, ripping off
his clothing carelessly, tossing it wide and far in his desperation to get
naked and fuck. That was what Miles had wanted all this time.
Nic’s body was so different from Itai’s. Instead of smooth, gym-
toned muscles and a carefully waxed chest, Nic was muscled only where
he used his muscles. He had powerful thighs and strong arms, but his gut
was thin. He had hair over his chest, forming a line to the dark thatch
surrounding his erection.
With shock, Miles noticed Nic lacked a circumcision scar. He
reached down and brushed Nic’s thick cock. Nic’s entire body trembled
with even that light contact. He smelled musky and dark. Miles never
knew how erotic a man’s natural scent was until he’d missed it for so
long.
“Lie back on the bed, Miles,” Nic said shakily.
Miles lay on the edge of the tall bed, spreading his legs so Nic
could stand and fuck him. Nic seemed to understand the position
immediately, jaw going slack as he held Miles’s legs open.
“Fuck. What a view.” Nic brushed his fingers from Miles’s crack
up around his testicles, and gave his saliva-slicked cock a stroke. “Look
at how big your balls are,” Nic said huskily, reaching down to fondle
them. “Damn, I can’t wait to see what they look like smashed against my
rod.”
Miles nearly groaned with the words alone. Itai had been such a
quiet lover, and Miles loved hearing what a man was doing to him.
“Your ass looks so tight and hot,” Nic said huskily. He rolled on a
condom and slicked his cock with lube.
“I don’t need a lot of prep,” Miles started.
“Good.” Without hesitating Nic lined up his cock with Miles’s ass
and shoved inside.
Miles held his breath, amazed at the sudden onslaught, the size of
Nic inside of him. He had no idea he had that much space to offer up. He
felt incapable of breath, as if every molecule in his body had been taken
over by this delicious invasion.
“Oh fuck, yeah,” Nic whispered. “Oh, fuck, you should see what
you look like right now, see what it looks like to have my dick inside you
balls-deep.”
“I…don’t need to see… I can feel it.” Miles gasped, and Nic smiled
down at him.
“You okay?” He kissed Miles, and the effort of bending over
contracted Miles and shoved him harder against Nic’s swollen erection.
“Yeah,” Miles croaked, although he wasn’t 100 percent sure he was
okay. There was a lot of cock inside of him, and the idea of it pumping
deeper sort of scared him. “Go.”
Nic went slow. Not for long, but clearly he was paying attention to
Miles’s initial discomfort. “I’m shoving in all the way,” Nic said, voice
rough and husky. “Your ass is puckering around me like it doesn’t want
to let me go. It’s beautiful, red and swollen, ahh… God, I can feel the
inside of you…”
The narration, while something Miles had always wanted, had the
unfortunate effect of making him ready to come within seconds of
starting. Miles didn’t give in to his aching need to touch himself,
watching his own dick bob, neglected, a string of precum connecting the
head of his prick to his stomach.
“Can you feel the slap of my balls against your ass?” Nic asked,
breathless.
“Yeah. Go harder.”
Nic grinned, gripped the leg closer to him, and started pounding into
Miles fast and hard. Miles felt the shock of every penetration like an
explosion within his body, the sensation of Nic inside his ass firing
sensation all the way to his fingers, and the buzz of Miles’s orgasm
hummed beneath his skin, ready to explode.
Nic’s hot, lube-slicked palm pumped Miles’s cock only once, and
Miles came loudly, shouting as his cum shot profusely over his chest, all
the way to his neck. He clenched around Nic’s cock, and Nic came as
well, nearly doubling over in his ecstasy.
Miles closed his eyes, panting and shivering. Nic’s heavy weight
lay over him. After a few moments Nic stood, slowly pulling out of
Miles’s ass.
“Jesus,” Nic said, voice rough. He carefully removed his condom,
wincing as it slipped clear of his cock’s swollen cap. He disappeared
into the bathroom and returned a moment later with a damp towel. He
used this to clean Miles’s chest and ass, planting a brief kiss on Miles’s
opening before collapsing back on the bed and curling around Miles.
Miles lay there, feeling sated and stunned. The muscles in his lower
back shook with exhaustion. He hadn’t fucked that hard in a long time,
and he was going to feel it the next day for sure.
“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” Nic whispered, breathing
hard.
“Why?” Miles did it anyway. Something soft touched his lips. Skin?
No, it was rough, and spongy…
He opened his eyes to a sandwich.
“What the…”
“Nothing more kick-ass than fucking and eating a sandwich right
after!” Nic declared, stuffing an entire half of a turkey and cheese roll in
his mouth.
Miles laughed quietly, and then he couldn’t help himself. He burst
out laughing. It was simultaneously the most ridiculous and, oddly, most
romantic thing that had ever happened to him, having someone stuff food
in his mouth seconds after coming.
“You sure you aren’t a Jewish mother?” Miles took a bite. It had
been a long time since he’d eaten a good old-fashioned, nonkosher
sandwich of meat and cheese, and damn, it was tasty.
“Italian mothers are worse when it comes to food,” Nic told him.
He stretched out languidly alongside Miles. His body was beautiful, and
Miles couldn’t help but reach out and run his free hand along Nic’s flank
as he ate.
“Food and screwing at the same time. I must be in heaven,” Miles
said.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“We’re going to have to start working out one of these days though,
if we keep eating like this,” Miles commented.
Nic nodded. “Especially since I won’t have access to the police
gym.”
Miles frowned. “Why not?”
“I gave my month’s notice.” Nic finished his sandwich.
“You’re kidding me.”
Nic shook his head. “This morning was too close for comfort. It’s
time I face facts. I don’t like being a cop.”
“Yeah?” Miles rolled over and curled against Nic’s body. “In that
case, I have a job opening if you’re interested.”
Epilogue
Sweet and Tangy Pickled Pears
“Guess what review just got picked up by the Arizona Sentinel?”
Miles realized dressing and holding a mobile phone at the same
time didn’t work well when he ended up with his phone stuffed in his
shirtsleeve. He took off the shirt, put his mother on speaker, and tried
again.
“Uh, a review of the latest vampire movie?” he replied.
“Don’t be an ass. It’s Farrah’s Foodie Finds, syndicated! And guess
what food item she’s focused on this week.” When Miles didn’t answer,
because the question was clearly rhetorical, she shouted, “Piekus
Pickles! She calls them the most exciting culinary side she’s found in the
last twenty years!”
“I know, Mom. I read the article too.”
“But it’s all the way here, in Arizona! You must be getting
swamped for orders.”
“The Web site is,” Miles admitted. “Luckily I’m sticking to my
story that each order requires two to three weeks for delivery; otherwise
I’d be overwhelmed.”
“How did Friday’s event go?” his father asked, getting on the phone
as well.
“It went well,” Miles said. “At least I think it went well. Let me
know if Roger says anything different to you.” Last night’s catering event
had been for his father’s old fraternity buddy, who was such a nice old
man he’d never tell Miles even if he’d chucked up every bite.
“I gotta go, guys. Nic’s waiting downstairs. We’re opening in a
minute.”
“Okay, sweetie. We love you.” His mother made a kiss noise over
the phone.
“We wish we could be there,” his father added.
“Love you too. Thank you.” Miles finished the call, dumped the
phone on the bed, and dashed downstairs.
The grand reopening of Piekus & Delbene was supposed to be a
small, casual affair, but word got out and it became something of a
happening for Ballard locals looking for something to do on a cold, rainy
post-New Year’s Saturday. A line formed along the sidewalk, and
curious faces stared through the windows for their first glimpse of the
remodeled deli.
“You ready?” Nic asked. He was dressed up as well. They both
looked clean, excited, and tired. He rubbed Miles’s shoulder.
Miles nodded. Nic opened the doors and greeted everyone as the
queued customers poured in.
When Nic retired from the force, he’d used part of his retirement
fund to help Miles expand the store. It soon became clear they could do
more than just fix the broken espresso machine and cold case. They took
out one of the storage rooms and expanded the seating area, created a
separate nook for the pickle barrels, and upgraded the menus and
ordering system.
They added an iPad instead of a register.
And with new partnerships came new menu items. Miles and Nic
spent weeks experimenting on kosher Italian dishes that could be served,
and by the time they’d agreed on offerings, it was as much Nic’s baby as
it had been Miles’s. That’s why Miles insisted on the name change.
Nic had protested. The store had been Piekus Pickles since the
eighties. It remained Piekus Pickles even after Miles had taken over and
served far more than pickles.
But Miles liked the ring of Piekus & Delbene. It sounded exotic, and
it was the joint effort he’d always dreamed of having with someone. And
it had been fun expanding the deli, incorporating the Italian items that
still fit within strict kosher regimen, and experimenting with lasagnas,
sauces, and other canned items customers could enjoy.
Nic looked nervous as he watched customers enter and peruse the
shelves and cold cases packed with to-go containers. Miles wrapped his
arm around Nic’s waist.
Nic threw his arm over Miles’s shoulder. “Are you as anxious as I
am?” he whispered.
“I doubt it,” Miles said. “You forget I’ve done this before.”
“What if no one buys my pasta sauce?” Nic worried quietly. “What
if this is a huge mistake?”
“Then we’ll have plenty to eat in our search for other jobs,” Miles
assured him.
Nic laughed. He turned and kissed Miles. “Thank you.” Miles could
tell by the way Nic’s eyes were a little glassy, he was thanking Miles for
more than just the joke.
As luck would have it, the first person Miles charged at the shiny
new counter purchased a jar of Nic’s pasta sauce. The next person in
line put down a plastic bag of self-picked half-sours. When Miles
glanced up, his eyes widened. It was none other than Itai.
He looked a little chubbier, Miles thought. But he also looked less
stressed and more relaxed. “Hi, Miles,” Itai said.
Miles came around the counter and hugged Itai. Itai rubbed his back
affectionately. The two of them hadn’t seen each other since the shootout,
but they’d spoken on the phone a few times to resolve mail forwarding
and ownership of a few shared items. And for all of Itai’s cowardice the
moment it had mattered, he had also checked up on Miles the following
day, for which Miles was grateful.
“How are you?” Itai asked.
“Good, thanks.”
“How’s Nic?”
Miles smiled. “Stressed but good. Thank you for asking. Did
Yanix’s deal go through?”
Itai grinned. “Yeah. They bought it full price.”
“Congratulations. So what’s next?”
“Travis and I are starting a new project. There was a subroutine we
had problems with when developing Fantastic and… Never mind.
Boring. But we’ve got a new idea, and I’m excited to start on it.”
“I’m really happy for you.” Miles meant it. It was the benefit of
months of reflection, to make him fully appreciate a piece of advice his
mother once gave him: sometimes you can love a person and still have to
let them go.
They were a terrible couple but good people. So he hugged Itai
again, handed him the bag of pickles on the house, and wished him well.
As Itai left, he spotted Nic talking to a couple, laughing and telling
some wild story. He paused, then went over and patted Nic on the back.
Nic turned around, his surprise obvious by the look on his face.
Itai left, and Nic finished up his conversation. He joined Miles back
around the counter. “What was that about?” he asked.
Miles shrugged. “I think Itai was making a tasteful exit, as compared
to the last one.”
“Well yeah, that one ranks at the worst.” They stood looking out at
the bustling store, and Miles could feel Nic’s pride as strong as his own.
“Hey?” Nic asked quietly.
“Hm?”
“Remember when we talked about kink?”
Miles flushed, looking over the crowd to make sure no one heard.
“Uh…yes. Why bring it up now?”
“Because I think we should act on one of mine.”
Miles quirked an eyebrow, turning slowly to look Nic in the eye.
Nic looked devilishly pleased.
“And that would be…?”
“Screwing in a restaurant.”
Miles coughed. “Wow.”
“Up for it?”
“I assume you mean after closing.”
Nic laughed, loud and genuine. “Of course.” He leaned down to
whisper in Miles’s ear. “It so happens that the smell of vinegar is
becoming a turn-on.”
“In that case, I could be convinced of its merits.” He gave Nic a
smile and handed him a pickle.
Loose Id Titles by Astrid Amara
A Policy of Lies
Demolished
Holiday Outing
Intimate Traitors
Love Ahead: Expect Delays
Sweet and Sour
The Valde: Water
* * * *
The HOLIDAYS WITH THE BELLSKIS Series
Carol of the Bellskis
Miracles of the Bellskis
* * * *
“Next of Kin”
Part of the anthology Hell Cop
With Nicole Kimberling and Ginn Hale
* * * *
“Trust Me”
Part of the anthology Hell Cop 2
With Nicole Kimberling and Ginn Hale
Astrid Amara
Astrid Amara lives in Bellingham, Washington. She spends her days
working as a civil servant, her nights sleeping, and the time in between
either writing, riding horses, hiking around with her dogs, or staring at
the wall. She has no unusual facial features.
For more information about Astrid and her books, please visit her
Web site at
Document Outline
- Table of Contents
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Epilogue
- Loose Id Titles by Astrid Amara
- Astrid Amara
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