Hound Dog & Bean (15 page)

Bean had looked at the man in surprise. “How did you know?”

The salesman grinned. “It was written all over your face. You’re wanting to make an impression. And you wouldn’t mind if things got romantic with your lady.”

Bean laughed. “Well, you got part of it right. She’s a he.”

He didn’t even get a blink in response, and Bean gave him points for that. “Same thing.”

“I don’t know if I want things to get romantic.”

The man gave him a dubious look.

Bean felt his face turning red. “I don’t know. Not
yet
.”

“
That
I believe.” And they both laughed.

It wasn’t until Bean got home that he realized he forgot to ask if they should be served chilled or at room temperature. So he called his mother.

“Serve the pinot noir at room temperature, darling,” she replied. Then didn’t ask Bean about his date. “Serve it first. Have the viognier in the fridge, but take it out right before you eat. You want it slightly chilled. Wine cellar temp is best but you don’t have one….” She sighed, thankfully much more concerned about that than his date.

A thrill ran through him.
I’ve got a date! I’ve got a date!

Bean did a quick check of the ground floor, did a little dusting—not much—made sure there were no socks or underwear under a chair or couch. Bean never allowed himself to let the house get too messy. His dorm room in college had been a disaster, and men he took to his room always looked at him like he was a slob. Somewhere the shame kicked in and he broke the habit. He was the kind of person who, if he didn’t put it where it went right away, he didn’t get around to it, not with his hours. Then before he knew it: clutter, clutter, clutter.

That’s when Bean suddenly remembered that habit meant he should have put his wine purchase in the small wine rack by the refrigerator. The viognier was not in the fridge. He did that quickly and then, checking the clock, saw he was doing fine on time. He had over an hour.

So he went upstairs and headed to the closet to decide what he was going to wear. He didn’t want to dress up—that seemed presumptuous for some reason. He didn’t want to go too casual either. No T-shirt. No tie.

God. He sucked at this. It had been a long, long time since he’d had a date. He’d had sex. He was human and a man and a gay man besides, so it wasn’t like it was hard to get sex, especially at closing time in a bar. It wasn’t very satisfactory, but his brief romance in Guatemala—intense and wonderful as it had been—had turned disastrous. Had made him wary. Now he could only ask himself why he’d been avoiding it. He wasn’t in a third world country. He didn’t have to worry about secrecy or an angry father or a deeply homophobic culture. This was the United States, and he was an out and proud gay man. Maybe it was time. Hell, maybe if the sparks he was detecting continued to fly, he’d play hard to get. Make H.D. wait. Didn’t they say anticipation made the pleasure all the greater?

All things come to he who waits?

Even if it turned out that tonight was a bust, it didn’t change the fact that he was actually, truly thinking about dating. It had happened so fast. He’d only begun thinking about something more than sex recently. Just like the idea of getting a dog.

Bean grinned.

God he felt good!

Bean chose the tight jeans that Mara so approved of and a nice dress shirt with blue and silver stripes—no tie. White socks said casual. And underwear. Now there he would go sexy. The black James Tudor pair with the snap pouch.

Bean got a shock when he went into the bathroom. A man with black eyes looked back at him from the mirror. He was feeling so good he’d forgotten.

God. How awful.
What if this turns out to be our first date? He’ll remember me with black eyes?
Bean looked closer. It wasn’t too bad. The oil was working, or he was lucky. He could always cover it. There might be something in a drawer somewhere. Some kind of foundation from his dance-club-boy days.

He laughed. If there was any, the tube would be as dry as a fossil. It had been a long, long time since he’d done the clubs. Ten years? More?

No. H.D. knew about his eyes. It would look stupid if he covered them up with something. Besides, it was those black eyes that made him a hero. Maybe H.D. would take pity on him and give them a kiss or two. Make them all better.

Bean giggled. His eyes went wide.
I’m giggling! Oh, for God’s sake.
He shook his head in disbelief.

He sighed, then leaned into the mirror again. Saw the gray that was only recently beginning to highlight his beard. Should he dye it? He had a box of Just for Men he’d bought a month or so back.

He groaned. H.D. knew about the gray too. How would it look if he suddenly had a dark beard? How would he even know how long to leave the stuff on. He’d seen men who so obviously dyed their beards, and they’d looked ridiculous. No. No dye.

But he could certainly brush his teeth, and he could trim that beard, and he did. Made sure there were no pesky ear hairs either. He hated that. Then it was time to clean up, and he did so. Thoroughly. As the Boy Scouts said, always be prepared. And while he was so carefully soaping up every nook and cranny, he couldn’t help but laugh at himself once again.

Why was he being so thorough? Was he expecting H.D. to be examining all those nooks and crannies?

What happened to his plan to make H.D. wait?

And what made him think anything was going to happen?

Well, what about that kiss? H.D.
kissed
me.

It was nothing. Just a sweet, friendly little nothing.

Or was it?

Suddenly he really was giggling. Giggling like a girl, and wow, how long had it been? Who knew it took a punch to the face to feel so good?

A
FTER
WORK
Elaine insisted on driving H.D. home.

“I’ve got my bike,” he argued.

“I’ve got my van,” she countered. “
Duh
. You put your bike in the back.”

H.D. looked at her in surprise. Had Elaine just used the word “duh?” “Why for?” he asked.

“Because I’m going to take Sarah Jane home with me tonight. She can’t stay with Mrs. Rosenberg until you drag your ass home at whatever time that’s going to be, and she shouldn’t have to be alone.”

“It won’t be late,” he said. “Remember? Dinner. Fuck. Home.”

“Then let’s just say
I
want some time with the tiny woman. She’s going to get snatched up soon, I can feel it.”

H.D. shrugged indifferently. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“What if he wants more?” he blurted out when they were about halfway to the apartment.

“What if who wants more what?” Elaine asked.

He gave her his best can-the-bullshit look.

“What?” Elaine asked, and all he had to do was look at her to know she was bullshitting him.

“What if Bean wants
more
than a dinner and a fuck?”

She shrugged. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“You’re not helping,” he spat.

“Sorry. Do you think he wants more?”

H.D. sighed. “He…. He doesn’t seem like a just-a-fuck kind of guy.”

“Jesus, H.D. I thought we covered this already. Maybe you should just stick with dinner and go home and flog your log.”

He looked at her again. Was that anger? He tried to read her, but that was a no-go. She was saying a lot of things today he’d never heard her say before.
Flog his log? Really?

“Have you thought of
asking
him what he wants?”

“What?” Was she insane?

“You know,” Elaine said. “Sometimes all you have to do is ask.”

After that they were silent until they got to his building. Sarah Jane was asleep when they got to her caretaker’s apartment, curled up in a ball on one of Mrs. Rosenberg’s big fancy pillows. Small as she was, it was still remarkable that she could wind herself into an even tinier space. “Like a roly-poly bug,” H.D. had remarked.

Sarah opened one eye, gave H.D. an “Oh, so-it’s-
you
look,” and closed it again.

“Weeeellll, okay,” H.D. said to her. “I guess you don’t want to go for a little walk—”

The word was barely out of his mouth when she jumped up, dove off the couch, and began to shake in excitement, her tail wagging like a metronome in triple time, her face filled with utter and complete joy.

Mrs. Rosenberg said it was a shame the little dear would be leaving so soon, but H.D. could see in her eyes how tired she was. The woman may indeed have enjoyed the bubbly little dog’s company, but she was also done for the day. It was time for Sarah Jane to leave.

Elaine offered H.D. a ride, but he turned her down. He wanted to shower before he left—just in case the deal was done tonight. Some sweat could be sexy, but fresh man-sweat and not a day’s worth of accumulated funk. And it took a while for his dreads to dry. And he wanted to take the salmon out to thaw.
And
bag up the rest of dinner. And it wasn’t but five. Arriving early was one thing. But two hours early? No. Wasn’t happening.

He hadn’t gotten a dessert, so he threw in a box of Jell-O in the event Bean wanted something. There was always room for Jell-O after all.

H.D.
ARRIVED
right when he said he would. Almost exactly. He waited five extra minutes. Did it around the corner in case Bean was sitting on the front porch.

He was just about to ring the bell a third time—there was a moment of panic when he thought Bean might not be there—when the door opened, and there he was. Looking gorgeous and extremely kissable despite the raccoon mask.

“Sorry,” said his date (
oh my God! Date!
). “I was loading the grill on the deck out back. Have you been standing out here long?”

“No. Just got here,” H.D. lied and wondered why. All he had to say was a simple—
No problem, dude! I had to hit the bell a couple times, but I don’t care
—but for some reason he didn’t want Bean to feel bad, not even a little bit.

Bean raised a brow, but if he’d caught H.D. in his fib, he didn’t comment. He stepped aside instead and asked him in.

“I like that hat.”

It was the second time Bean had complimented him on a hat. This time it was a burgundy leather Outback with a half-dozen pheasant feathers sprayed out from the band—what H.D. liked to think of his Three Musketeers hat, even if it wasn’t exactly. He’d lied to himself when he’d told himself he hadn’t worn it for Bean. He lied again now when he wouldn’t admit it pleased him that Bean liked it.

“You don’t mind,” he said instead, “that I brought my bike up on the porch, do you?”
Stupid!
Why did he ask that?

“Of course not,” said Bean. “It’ll be safe. But if it would make you feel better, you can bring it in.”

“Not on your hardwood floors, I’m not,” H.D. replied, looking out over that elegant living room. The wood was deep and dark and as gorgeous as their caretaker. He’d feel awful if he scratched the beautiful sheen or got it dirty. It was no small chore to keep floors in such condition.

“I don’t mind, really,” Bean said and pointed. There, immediately inside the door and leaning against the wall was another bicycle. Surely Bean’s own.

Still. It felt too familiar, having the two bikes nestled against each other.

Why, you dumb puppy? It’s a couple of frigging bicycles. It’s not an offer of marriage.

Bean was looking at him, and he realized how silly he must look, so he gave a wave and told the man that all was okay. If Bean said the bike was safe on the porch, it was safe. “Mind if we head to the kitchen?” H.D. asked, as nonchalantly as he could. “I’m worried that I’m leaking.” He shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and pointed at it.

“Straight back,” Bean said and pointed back through the living room and beyond.

“Don’t you mean ‘right back?’”

Bean looked at him curiously.

“I could never go straight,” H.D. explained, and to his relief, Bean laughed.

“Of course!
Right
back this way.”

“I remember,” H.D. said. It was only yesterday that he’d used it to make the papaya mash.

“Oh!” Bean chuckled. “Of course. I was a little….”

“Out of it?” H.D. supplied.

“Out of it,” Bean agreed. He gave a wave and then led the way. H.D. followed and
damn
, but those jeans were tight. They looked soft too. They were clinging to an ass that was going to give him a hard-on if he didn’t stop staring at it. With reluctance, he focused instead on Bean’s back and only wound up seeing how wide his shoulders were. He could have been a football player or something. He wondered what it would look like without that shirt. And it was a nice shirt. It made H.D. self-conscious about his Jamaican multicolored top—like he was a time traveler from the sixties or something!

H.D. placed his pack on the small kitchen table—perfect for two but not anyone else—and opened it. Pulled out the plastic bag of groceries. There wasn’t a lot there; there didn’t need to be. The salmon, even though it was pretty big, didn’t take up much room. With a box of couscous, a lime, a small zucchini, a matching yellow squash, and a bunch of asparagus, along with a container of sticks of butter and a few spices, and he had dinner. Luckily, the salmon hadn’t leaked.

He froze for a tiny second, looking at the asparagus—what with what it did to the smell of certain bodily fluids—but then he quickly relaxed. He had no such worries. The vegetable wouldn’t have such an effect until at least the morning, and he didn’t plan on being around by then. He never spent the night with a date… trick.

“Wow,” Bean said. “Looks like a feast fit for kings.”

“Or at least a coffee man and a hound dog,” H.D. said.

“Hound dog?” Bean asked curiously.

“My nickname,” H.D. said.

“Oh! So that’s what H.D. stands for. I’ve been wondering.”

H.D. gave a single nod but didn’t correct him. He’d already revealed his nom de plume. Why give anything else away? Nicknames were just that. Names people you didn’t know very well used for you. “And I’ve been wondering what your name is. You want me to call you Bean?”