Pen Name - Doctor Chicken E-Book

KC Burn

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 317

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Sometimes Stratford Dale feels like Doctor Chicken consumes his life. It's his pen name for a series of wildly popular children's books. They were his brainchild; he meant for them to be a way to pay his many bills while he pursued his dream of publishing graphic novels. But the Doctor Chicken contract was a raw deal. Instead, he churns out book after book for a pittance, leaving him broke and no closer to his dreams. Stratford's dreams of love have fared no better, but he's still trying. After yet another disastrous date, he's intrigued by a man going into a cooking class—so he takes the class too. Vinnie Giani is a successful, self-made man who is charmed by Stratford's bow ties, sharp humor, and clumsiness—which leads to an opportunity to take Stratford in for stitches. Vinnie is, above all, responsible, having taken on the care of his mother and sisters from a young age. Perhaps it's natural when he begins to treat Stratford more as a child who needs a parent than as an equal partner. But when Vinnie tries to "fix" Stratford's career woes—including the Doctor Chicken problem—and ends up making the situation worse, their fledgling relationship may not withstand the the strain created by blame and lies.

Leseprobe

By KC BURN

NOVELS

Pen Name – Doctor Chicken

TORONTO TALES SERIES

Cop Out

Cover Up

Cast Off

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SWSuite 2, PMB# 279Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Pen Name - Doctor Chicken

© 2013 KC Burn.

Cover Art

© 2013

Cover Art by Anne Cain.

[email protected]

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-62798-384-6

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-383-9

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

November 2013

Acknowledgments

Thanks as always to my super support group, Alex, Dottie, and Chudney. Also, thanks to Dolorianne, Lynn, Kiernan, and Tracy, who listened to me bitch and whine about this one.

One

“SO, WHATare you into? Vanilla, bondage, fetish, gangbang? There’s a bunch of places we could go. If we hit up Deviations before we go, we can grab any toys you want and still have time to get some… aids before the clubs open.”

Stratford stuffed two jumbo shrimp in his mouth and tried not to choke because of Barry’s unexpected questions. At least chewing prevented any necessity to reply right away.

When he’d agreed to go out with the cute young accountant from the real estate brokers in the same building where his own company was headquartered, he’d been thrilled. They’d flirted lightly for weeks, but Stratford had kept him at a distance. After all, he’d met Barry after he’d started seeing Nik. Then his relationship with Nik had imploded after he had met someone better than Stratford. He must have been giving off “available” vibes, because yesterday was the first time he’d ended up alone in the elevator with Barry, and Barry had immediately asked him out. And given him a promising grope.

Stratford had been even more thrilled with the plan when Barry had suggested they meet at Neptune’s, one of the trendiest new seafood restaurants. Although he couldn’t assume Barry was picking up the tab, he’d been courteous, and Stratford had been the envy of every gay man and straight woman they’d seen. Sure, they’d talked mostly about Barry, his job and life and friends, but that was okay. The parts of Stratford’s life that weren’t unbearably dull were pathetic or embarrassing. But he had high hopes for Barry. Until now, when they’d started discussing what they’d do after dinner.

For a first date, at least, one that didn’t start in the bathroom stall at a club, Stratford had assumed they’d do something completely prosaic like a movie. Maybe a dance club. After all, he was getting to the point where he had to consider he had work the next morning and the fact that he needed to be mostly awake for it. What he hadn’t expected was a frank and totally bizarre discussion of where they were going to get their freak on tonight. Apparently after picking up toys and aids.

Stratford wasn’t a prude, but… okay, maybe he was a bit of prude. He’d slept with his fair share of guys, and he’d even had some heated hand jobs and blowjobs without sharing names either before, during, or after. But this was a date. He was getting a little old to plan an evening of debauchery with a man he didn’t really know at all. Especially on a Thursday night.

On the other hand, he was getting tired of being alone all the time. After his best friend, Abby, moved in with her boyfriend, and he had a chance to watch how she and Thad interacted with each other, he realized he wanted that. He wanted someone in his life who was his, who would be there for him and whom he could build a life with.

After the Nik debacle, Stratford had high hopes it would be Barry, because he was getting tired of the depressing search. Barry had so many good qualities. He had a job and wasn’t completely brain-dead. He didn’t seem to be looking for a daddy. He seemed utterly normal and perfectly perfect. Stratford bit his lip to stop the alliteration, even if it occurred in the confines of his brain. He got more than enough of that at work, and he wasn’t going to indulge on his own time.

After he’d chewed just about as long as he could without it appearing as though he had some sort of chewing disorder or had to chew each bite one hundred times, he swallowed. He had to say something.

“Er, well….”

“Hey, are you wearing a plug? If not, maybe we should get you one. Especially if we go to Q’s. You want to be ready. Some of those guys are fucking hung.”

An undignified and unmanly squeak escaped, and Stratford snuck a few sidelong glances at the other diners, wondering if they’d heard Barry. “Uh, no. I’m not. Wearing one, I mean.” And he wasn’t sure he wanted to go and buy one. Plugs were a little intimate, weren’t they? After all, he’d found out a fair amount about Barry’s life, but he hadn’t even found out if the man had brothers or sisters yet, and Barry knew next to nothing about him. Had they truly progressed to a frank discussion of butt plugs?

Stratford took a deep breath. Maybe he hadn’t found a man because he was a little too inhibited. At least when it came to dating. Certainly Nik had thought so. Maybe this was more normal than he’d expected. “So, are you… uh… wearing one?”

“Me? No, why would I? I don’t bottom.”

Stratford blinked. Somehow, in their abrupt conversational turn to sexual proclivities, Barry had assumed Stratford was some sort of power bottom, who, with the aid of his best friend, the always-present butt plug, would be willing to bottom not only for Barry but some random well-hung guys at an as-yet-undetermined club.

“What makes you think I do?”

Barry laughed, a sound Stratford might otherwise have likened to a burbling brook. Fuck. No more fucking alliteration! But the laugh just left him cold.

“Oh, Stratford. You’ve got a great sense of humor.”

So, just because he was slim and liked wearing bow ties to work, he was automatically a bottom? And a subby one at that. What the fuck? He sometimes liked to top too. And there was more to sex than anal, anyway. Lots of things that he liked. The whole submissive thing wasn’t him. Some of his decisions weren’t well thought out, and he’d been accused of jumping in with both feet before checking to make sure he wasn’t leaping off a cliff, especially when it came to men. But at least the decisions were all his own, good or bad. He also hated it when guys assumed bottom meant submissive, anyway. Not all sex, anal or otherwise, required submission.

Barry gave him a speculative glance, and even the bizarre discussion diminished his movie-star good looks.

“We can save the kinkier stuff for next week. There’s a great BDSM night at Joey’s next Saturday. But I’ve got a friend. He’ll be at Q’s tonight. You’d look awesome taking it from both ends. He’s really hot too. I think Q’s might be the best choice for tonight.”

This time, Stratford couldn’t avoid choking, and he grabbed at the nearly untouched glass of pinot grigio to clear the blockage in his throat. And yet, with Barry’s bulging muscles—which had been cruelly obscured by his normal work attire—tousled hair, and flashing blue eyes, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go of the dream.

“What if it was just you and me for today?” Had Stratford been caught up so long in his stupid-ass career that he’d missed the gay memo that two guys together, no props or kink, had become passé and boring?

“Oh. Sure, yeah, if that’s what you want.” Barry wrinkled his nose a tiny bit but didn’t seem too upset by Stratford’s request.

Stratford let out a sigh of relief. He should be flattered, right? After all, if Barry had asked for a quickie in one of the public bathrooms in their office building, Stratford would have probably said yes. Maybe.

But Barry had to be attracted and interested. Otherwise there would have been no need for him to issue a dinner invitation. Which meant maybe Barry could be just as nervous as he was and as invested in the night going well. It was a little flattering, as well. There was no mistaking Barry’s sexual interest. Stratford could work with that for now. As long as there wasn’t any more discussion of plugs. At least not over dinner.

A club wasn’t the best place to get to know someone, but a few hours dancing with Barry would set the stage for a second date after they both got off.

“ABBY, I swear, I’m never going to find my own Thad.”

Stratford should have waited until he’d gotten home to call Abby, because the wind was going to freeze his fingers into a permanent curl around his phone. Gloves, scarfs, and wind-resistant fabrics hadn’t suited his super-sexy Barry-bait outfit. Unfortunately, the Barry bait had been too enticing. Or the wrong kind of enticing. Sluts might wear shirts and pants as tight as his, but they didn’t wear bow ties, did they? At least he was able to grab a latte on the way home. Aside from being one of his few expensive indulgences, it was keeping his left hand warmish.

“Of course you will. Are you sure you’re not judging him too harshly? You sometimes have unrealistic expectations.”

He snorted. No one had to know he’d had a sneaking little thought that he’d so dazzle Barry with his erudition and joie de vivre that the man would immediately become smitten and fall in love. Besides, Abby already knew he was a hopeless romantic.

“There was a certain romantic touch to the butt plug discussion over shrimp devolving into a dessert discussion on whether silicone, rubber, or glass was preferable for dildos. A dead giveaway, if I’d been paying attention. I mean, anyone who has enough information to write a dissertation on dildo production materials is either way too oversexed for me or hasn’t had enough sex with other people… and probably for an excellent reason, as I discovered.”

An older man in a fedora, walking in the opposite direction, gave Stratford a raised-brow look, and Stratford simply rolled his eyes and shrugged.

“Ford, you slut. You didn’t! On a first date?” Abby’s light, teasing tone hadn’t the slightest hint of censure, but it could have. After all, Stratford had had his slutty moments, to be sure, but slutty wasn’t the best way to snag a boyfriend. He didn’t think. Or at least, not too slutty. What man didn’t like a hint of slut? Monogamous slut. If there was such a thing.

“Uh, hello, you still there?”

“What, oh, yes. Sorry.” Stratford had to stop drifting to his fantasies of a fairytale ending.

“You dog. You did it, didn’t you? And how was it?”

“No. Really, I didn’t. I mean, he blew me a little bit.”

This time it was Abby who snorted. “Blew you a little bit? Kind of like being a little bit preggers, you know.”

“It’s never a good sign when you have to say ‘watch the teeth,’ followed closely by ‘don’t bite that.’ Puts a damper on things.”

“You think?” Loud gales of laughter buffeted him across the wireless waves, and Stratford pursed his lips. Why was his dating life such a fucking joke? Stupidly, though, he’d suffered through it, figuring Barry just hadn’t had the right teacher, and Stratford found himself still auditioning for the role. Another gust of wind whipped past him, and he took a couple fortifying sips of his latte in the hopes of warding off the chill, but the cold air had leeched most of the heat from it.

Abby took a couple of gasping breaths before she spoke again. “Where exactly did you engage in the toothy oral sex? Surely not in the bathroom at Neptune?”

“Of course not. I have too much class for that.” Stratford resolutely ignored the fresh chuff of laughter. “No, we ended up at Q’s. We had a drink and, well….”

“That’s when you finally gave him the heave-ho?”

“No, I left when he told me he’d signed us up for the amateur sex show.”

This time he had to pull the phone away from his ear because Abby’s shrieks of laughter pierced his eardrums.

“It’s not that funny. Are you drunk?” But his questions didn’t penetrate her whoops interspersed with heaving inhalations, and he didn’t think telling her his dick still hurt would garner any sympathy whatsoever.

“I can’t fucking breathe, you fucker,” she wheezed at him. Served her fucking right for laughing at his misery. Barry could have been the one. If he hadn’t been a deviant. Or too presumptuous.

“Abby, it’s not funny. He didn’t even ask!”

“And what, that would have made a difference?”

Stratford sniffed. “What sort of slut do you take me for? Sex in public isn’t even a third-date activity.” Or ever, really. He might be out-there gay and a wee bit singed from all his flaming, but he was far too skinny to be baring his bits in front of an audience.

The laughing continued. “Oh my fucking God, Ford. I gotta go.”

“What?”

“Because I totally have to pee now.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Later.” He let the call lapse, not as irritated as he pretended. One day, this might be a funny story, but for now, all he could focus on was his disappointment that the promise of his dream Barry had fallen so far short of real-life Barry. And the cruel disappointment that a bad blowjob was actually worse than no blowjob at all. Until tonight, he’d never have believed that possible. Sad to say, but Barry should have come with a warning label. A complete nonstarter in the relationship department.

Stratford would soon be thirty, and to have Barry, still in his early twenties, demonstrate such interest, had been a much bigger victory at the beginning of the evening than it was now.

Phone tucked safely away, Stratford adjusted himself and grimaced, hoping he wasn’t going to have explain bite marks and a request for a rabies shot at the clinic. He was reasonably certain Barry hadn’t punctured the condom, but he and a hand mirror were going to finish out the evening together, just to be sure.

Shaking the much lighter cardboard cup, he wasn’t sure if it was worth drinking the last of it. Cold lattes didn’t do it for him, and the weather had sucked most of the heat from the liquid.

He rounded the corner, the wind howling and whipping down the street, stirring the desiccated autumn leaves into a swirling frenzy. With a sigh, he approached the bus stop, glowing in small patch of light from the flickering overhead streetlight.

Although it had gotten dark before he’d met Barry for dinner, it was still too damn early to be heading home. And yet, Stratford wanted nothing more than a cup of hot chocolate, a warm bath, and a sci-fi book where all the shitty dates got turned into mindless android servants or got zapped by lasers for being bitey assholes. Failing that, he’d take a romantic thriller with a happy ending. If he couldn’t have one of his own, he might as well enjoy a fictional one. He’d lost all energy and appetite for socializing and wasn’t even interested in hanging out at his favorite cafe. At least Barry had paid for dinner.

Stratford shivered and stepped out into the street, searching for the distinctive lights of a city bus, but there was none to be seen. And at this particular intersection, he could see a fucking long way. He wrapped his arms around himself and checked the timetable posted below the red and white bus stop sign. Dammit. He’d just missed it. He’d been hoping for a cab home from Barry’s place, not a damned bus after a disastrous date.

After a second’s deliberation, he decided to start walking. At least that way he might not freeze to death, even if the walk was longer than he’d like in shoes that weren’t much suited for hiking. With the windchill, he couldn’t feel his toes, anyway, so he might as well take advantage of that. Good thing he’d decided he needed to get some direction in his life, because this was a stellar start.

THEnext block, about halfway home, was fucking long, but an inviting yellow glow spilled out from the bank of windows at the community center. It almost looked warm, and Stratford edged closer to the building. Reflected light had to have some warmth, didn’t it?

As soon as he approached, he glanced inside. The community center offered a variety of classes on a dizzying array of topics, all depending on who was willing to donate their time to teach the classes. Stratford had considered, more than once, taking a class in something, but the ones that interested him weren’t the freebies. He already lived in a borderline illegal shithole apartment—no need to spend money for something where there wasn’t even the prospect of getting laid.

This time, though, it wasn’t a bunch of uncoordinated people wearing spandex or reciting simple sentences in other languages. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen this particular room in use when he’d walked past. It was a large kitchen area, and Stratford hadn’t even realized it was used for anything besides catering low-budget parties and receptions in the center’s “ballroom.”

A cooking class. Stratford stepped up close to the window, a hair’s breadth away from pressing his nose against the glass. He hadn’t had a proper home-cooked meal since his parents booted him out of their lives when he was nineteen. Abby had saved his life back then, but a cook she wasn’t, and none of the boyfriends he’d had in the meantime had ever cooked for him. Assuming any of them could. It was one reason why he’d kept making excuses for Barry’s behavior. Barry had taken him to a nice restaurant. Stratford spent so much time scrimping and saving that he appreciated the value of a good meal, and Neptune had more than lived up to its reputation for serving excellent meals.

Peering in, he tried to determine what they were cooking. It might have been Italian, but he wasn’t entirely sure he’d recognize the ingredients for anything.

A tall man in a deep-red dress shirt and black tailored slacks walked across the room. Stratford’s heart rate ramped up as everyone else in the room dimmed. Now, there was a dish he’d like to sample, and he did look Italian. The dress shirt fit an impressive chest and biceps as though it were also tailored. The elevated preparation tables obscured a view of the man’s package, but Stratford didn’t care. Thick, dark hair framed a face that was so damn regal it could convince anyone to sin. Olive skin, a clean-shaven square jaw just starting to reveal a shadow of where the facial hair would grow in, and presumably brown eyes. Stratford couldn’t see at this distance, but he assumed the guy’s eyes would be brown, and he really wanted to know what flavor. Dark like his hair or light like cognac? Stratford pressed himself against the glass, trying to get closer.

The man rounded one of the tables and smiled down at his petite female partner. The smile, even in profile, was devastating to the senses, and Stratford shivered. Was the woman his wife? Girlfriend? It was too much to hope for that he’d be gay, but then again, a guy like that was so far out of Stratford’s league he might as well be an alien.

Completely losing interest in what they were cooking, Stratford stayed and watched, unable to rip his gaze from the guy, even if all he saw was a well-formed back and the occasional glimpse of a profile models would pay money for. Every time his hand moved, Stratford tried to catch sight of his ring finger. Not that a lack of wedding band meant anything, but its presence would mean something.

After a few minutes’ observation, it was clear that his guy… the guy… wasn’t in a long-term relationship with the girl at his side. There were too many awkward moments, too many near hits when they moved around each other, but the girl’s adoring looks meant she was interested, even if this was only a date.

Growing more and more irritated by the blonde’s continual “accidental” touches to the guy’s arm, back, and hand, Stratford looked for any sign of interest from the hot, hot man.

For every touch Blondie made, Italian guy merely moved out of reach. He didn’t flinch away or look disgusted. In fact, Blondie usually got a sweet smile for her troubles, but he never touched her back and made sure any touch she initiated was fleeting. Didn’t mean the man was gay, and didn’t mean he wasn’t on a date with Blondie, but it was enough to give Stratford hope.

Then, for no apparent reason, Italian guy turned fully around, staring right at Stratford, and he frowned. Like he’d been caught red-handed with his pants down, Stratford leapt back from the window, heart pounding. He turned and sprinted a few steps.

His feet caught a rough patch of sidewalk, and, unable to catch himself, the coffee cup went flying as he went down, hands first and knees a jarring, painful second.

The pain was enough to bring him to his senses. How long had he been staring in that window? He was certain the Italian guy had seen him, and he’d been too close to the window to assume he’d been masked by darkness, but the Italian guy’s sudden attention had startled him.

He stood and brushed off his hands. Blood oozed sluggishly from a few scrapes, and his knees throbbed. Fuck. Flexing his fingers, he cursed how tight and numb they felt. Italian guy had been so entrancing, Stratford had almost given himself hypothermia.

Another gust of wind blasted down the street, and this time, the full-body shakes had nothing to do with sexy men. His teeth chattered and the scrapes on his palms burned. A familiar sound hit his ears. Groaning, he turned to see a bus approaching. Frantically, he twisted his head, searching for a bus stop, but he was firmly in between stops.

Fuck.

The bus lumbered past him, and Stratford considered sitting down on the pavement and sobbing. Instead, he took a few breaths and limped along his way. It was only another ten blocks home. He could make it. But he had to get out of this wind. He made a right turn onto a small residential street to follow a tree-lined and somewhat less freezing path toward his apartment.

“GOODNESS, you’re very skilled at stuffing those manicotti.”

Vinnie Giani blinked at the suggestive tone in those words and darted a glance over his shoulder at his cooking partner. Bethany smiled at him with all the innocence of an angel; he must have imagined it. The woman was certainly pretty, but he had no interest in stuffing her manicotti. At all.

“Uh, thanks. My mother taught me.” And he could make manicotti in his sleep.

“Did she?” Bethany smiled and patted his arm.

Despite the sweet innocence of Bethany’s demeanor, he swore that every word out of his mouth only made him more enticing, like an ice cream sundae with an ever-increasing variety of toppings. If only he could completely ignore her, but being unintentionally annoying was no reason for rudeness on his part.

“So, Vincent, if your mother taught you how to do this—and I think it’s awesome that you know how to cook—why are you taking this class?” Bethany tried to shove the ricotta cheese and spinach mixture into the slippery pasta tube and mangled it beyond recognition. Vinnie refrained from commenting on her technique.

“Because Italian is all I know how to cook.” He knew almost all of the recipes his mother did, based on years of helping her feed his younger siblings, but as much as he loved cooking his mother’s recipes, he also liked variety in his diet. The Cooking Around The World course seemed like a good place to start. He was only a little miffed they’d started the four-week, eight-class course with Italy. Or at least, started the actual cooking part with Italy. Tuesday’s class didn’t count because they hadn’t done much more than learn basic terminology and cooking implements, which he could have skipped.

Bethany giggled. “Obviously, I don’t know how to cook Italian, either. But I’ve always wanted to learn. Does your girlfriend cook?”

Vinnie tried to glance at his watch, but the bare skin on his wrist reminded him he’d taken it off prior to starting class. The classroom had a large clock hanging above the instructor’s workstation, and it told him there was still half a class left. Bethany could very well have been asking about his girlfriend as an innocent means to make conversation, but she’d already touched his arm and shoulder too often for it to be completely platonic. He sighed. He generally wasn’t a fan of telling people he’d just met that he was gay, mostly because he didn’t think it was their business, but he’d spent long enough pretending. As soon as he’d come out, he found he didn’t have the stomach to let a woman think for a minute there was a chance he’d ask her out.

“Nope, no girlfriend.” No boyfriend, either, but he had hopes. Now that his sister Marissa had finally gotten her MBA and taken on some of the heavy lifting at the company, for the first time since high school Vinnie had the time to find a boyfriend. Not that he hadn’t had his share of one-night stands or even the occasional rent boy, but dating took time, time he’d never had before while first trying to keep his mother and sisters fed, and then later, while trying to make a go of his business.

He had no fucking idea how to go about finding a boyfriend, and after hiring Marissa, he had far more time on his hands than he’d hoped. His mom had always told him cooking was going to help him find a nice girl… until he came out and she switched genders when giving him advice. So far, it hadn’t happened, but he looked forward to being able to cook for a boyfriend or husband one day.

“Wife?” Bethany’s expression turned predatory.

“No wife. We’d better get these in the oven if they’re going to be cooked in time.” Vinnie shoved the dish at Bethany. “Be back in a minute. I just have to make a phone call.”

He sped out into the hall, and to satisfy his conscience, he pulled out his phone and checked his e-mail. A couple of work e-mails he could put off until the morning and a spam e-mail for a dating site. A grimace curled his lips. Putting his information into a dating site seemed like a recipe for disaster. For all the success of his company, he wasn’t rich. Well-off, yes, but not rich. He’d already fended off a number of people—men and women—who had hopes of getting a free ride from him in return for a few blowjobs. He might be new to the world of dating, but he’d had to grow up damn fast during his teen years, and he wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t difficult to spot that sort of insincerity.

But he couldn’t stay out in the hallway forever, and while the manicotti cooked, they were supposed to be preparing an antipasto plate. No desserts, unfortunately. Desserts were reserved for the last two classes.

“I THOUGHTyou’d got lost out there.” Bethany touched his arm again and giggled. “Ready for the antipasto?”

Vinnie smiled and took a small step away. “Sure thing.”

Next week, he was going to try to team up with a different partner. A few people were taking the class as twosomes, but there were enough who weren’t that surely one of them would be happy to take Bethany off his hands.

The instructor began offering a few tips and related information, but Vinnie stopped listening.

Something was different. He glanced around the room. Then he spun around. A man stood at the window, staring inside, but he disappeared a split second later.

He nudged Bethany. “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“I thought I saw a guy at the window.”

She shrugged. “You might have. People probably look in here all the time. Especially vagrants.”

“I don’t think it was a vagrant.” The glimpse of the guy he’d seen had been quite thin, but Vinnie could have sworn he’d seen a dress shirt, a jacket, and a bow tie. Vagrants didn’t wear bow ties, did they? With the cold weather, they were usually puffy with layers of raggedy clothing. If this guy had been a vagrant, he was really new at the job. In fact, he thought the guy might have been young.

“Wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Looking in at all this food.”

Vinnie stared down at their table. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He grabbed the loaf of crusty bread and wrapped it in a paper towel. If there was a vagrant out there salivating over their bounty, he was going to at least offer him the loaf of bread.

“Where are you going?” Bethany’s voice had become shrill and whiny.

Vinnie didn’t bother to answer.

Out on the street, a vicious wind sliced through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. A terrible night to be homeless. He glanced up and down the street, but aside from the retreating lights of the city bus, there was no one outside.

Shrugging, he went back inside, determined to fend off the ham-handed advances of Miss Bethany.

STRATFORDneeded two hands to get his key in the lock of the back door of his building, and when he finally forced the key to turn with fingers he could barely feel, he stumbled inside. The stairway up to the second floor was dimly lit by a single bare bulb. He dreaded the day it burnt out because he’d probably kill himself if he tried to change it, and his landlord would undoubtedly not care.

Right now, though, the biggest hurdle was getting up those stairs. He groaned. So close and he could finally shut the door on this shitbag of a night.

He eyed the grubby floor. It was warm and out of the wind; he could maybe just curl up on the cracked linoleum and sleep. Better than most homeless people had it.

A muffled meow made him sigh. He’d been so flustered trying to find the perfect outfit he hadn’t fed Bob before he’d left on his date. Not that Bob didn’t have crunchies to eat, but he really liked the canned food. Guilt pushed him to lift his legs and clamber up the stairs like an old man with rheumatism.

At the top of the stairs, feeling returned to his feet and fingertips. With a stifled cry of anguish, he had to use two hands—again—to get his key in the lock of his apartment door.

Bob nearly tripped him as he lurched through the door.

“Bob. What the hell? It’s not like you’re starving.” In fact, the cat probably needed to go on a diet, but considering the way he’d inherited Bob, he didn’t have the heart to deny the fat tortoiseshell cat anything he wanted. Bob had been rejected every bit as much as Stratford had. Even if Bob’s black-and-orange fur managed to show up on whatever color clothing he wore. There was no color Stratford could wear that would camouflage the hair.

Insanely loud rumbles filled the tiny, half-assed kitchen as his mottled black-and-orange tub of lard twined around his legs as he scooped out a serving of food.

Grimacing, he flexed his fingers before putting the can in the fridge. A dull ache throbbed in his palms, matched by an equal flare of pain in his knees. He poured himself a glass of water before hobbling to the bathroom to run a bath.

He stared at his hands before he started to undress. His hands must have been number than he’d thought because they were a lot bloodier than he’d realized. Gingerly, he undressed, but at least he was wearing dark colors—the blood wouldn’t ruin his second-best outfit. It might still manage to bait someone better than Barry the Biter.

“Fuck.” No lint brush in the world was going to save the ripped knees of his pants. His knees were as scraped and bloodied as his hands and were going to bruise. Best date ever! Lip curling in disgust, he lowered his battered body into the warm, sudsy water.

Hissing as the water hit his scrapes, he remembered his hands and knees might not be the only skin broken. But the soap didn’t sting his dick, thank God. He might have cried if his dick was damaged. Leaning back against the chilly tub, he thought of the only thing that was any good at all about the evening: Italian guy. Blood pumped lazily into his groin as he pictured what a convenient height those prep-work cooking tables were for bending over and….

He curled his fingers, ready to take himself in hand and realized stroking off was going to hurt. This time he focused on trying to remember what Italian guy had been making in class. It didn’t take long to realize he hadn’t paid any attention to the food, too intent on the peach of an ass in black dress pants. For now, the lazy throb in his groin was undemanding, but if he didn’t stop his mind from stripping down that gorgeous hunk and trying to imagine what sort of equipment he was packing, he’d end up with blue balls.

What he needed to do was figure out how he was going to face Barry tomorrow at work.

Ah. Instant libido killer.

Two

STRATFORDshut his apartment door behind him and sighed. It had been a long fucking day, and all he wanted was to curl up in the fetal position.

He shrugged out of his winter jacket and stripped off his emerald bow tie, tossing them both over a hook on the wall. At least the office dress code only insisted on either tie or suit jacket, not both. He didn’t know how he’d be able to work if he had to wear a suit jacket all day. But then, he didn’t know how he’d gotten stuck in this crappy dead-end job for so long, either. The mysteries of the universe were inexplicable.

Friday afternoons at the office sucked. It never failed. His boss, Mr. Gonzalez, always seemed to start his weekend early whenever Stratford was swamped, but invariably hung around the office all afternoon when things were slow, thereby forcing Stratford to pretend he was busy until five fucking o’clock. Unexpectedly, his tumble yesterday had resulted in stiff, achy muscles that hurt even worse than they had last night, and he’d wanted nothing more than to go home and watch TV with a tumbler full of cheap booze. Maybe he’d even break out some porn.

Grimacing, he flexed his hands and decided they probably weren’t up to the job today, either. The day had been made immeasurably more stressful because he’d also had to be on the lookout for Barry. After ditching the guy last night, he wasn’t much up for any awkward elevator confrontation. He’d even started work an hour early and took the stairs—all sixteen flights—when he left, just to ensure he avoided the guy. Perhaps not the nicest route, but he truly didn’t know how to deal with Barry at the workplace. Not when he knew what he knew. Maybe he should thank the guy for showing his true self so early so there was never a chance for a relationship blowout like he’d had with Nik. Or even worse, the horrific ending to his relationship with Ian.

The strident tones of an old-fashioned telephone made him jump before he scrabbled to retrieve his phone from his jacket pocket.

“Hey there,” Abby crowed as soon as Stratford answered. “We decided to have a barbecue tomorrow, since the weather’s supposed to be good.”