Hound Dog & Bean (18 page)

He was sure of the sexual tension in the air. He was about 95 percent sure all he had to do was invite H.D. and they’d be having sex. Bean doubted the man would even ask if they could finish dinner first. H.D. fairly vibrated sexual energy. H.D. was no gay Sandra Dee. On the other hand, another truth was that Bean was realizing he wanted more than sex. For the first time in a long time (three years), he was looking for more

He wondered about it. What was happening? What made him ready for both a dog and… well? A Hound Dog?

Bean smiled.

“What?” H.D. asked.

“I don’t know. Just feeling good.”

“Me too.”

Nice.

“My mother is going to call me at some ridiculous time in the morning to find out how this all went.”

“Your mother?” H.D.’s eyes grew curious. “You told your mom I was coming over?”

Bean shrugged and took a bite of the best asparagus he could remember having in ages. The perfect balance of crisp and tender with just enough butter to bring out the flavor of the vegetable and not make it taste like movie theater popcorn. “We’re close.”

“What did you tell her?” There was a strange quality to H.D.’s voice. He wasn’t pissed, was he?

“Nothing really. How we met. How you were nice enough to offer to make me dinner. That’s pretty much it. I didn’t tell her that we’re getting married yet.”

“Married?” H.D. cried.

“Just kidding,” Bean said with a chuckle. “
Relax
.”

“I was relaxed before you brought your mother up….” His voice trailed off and he took another swallow of wine, emptying the glass in one fell swoop.

“Let me get the other bottle,” Bean said and rose and left the table before H.D. could accept or refuse.
Shit. What was that about? Am I being pushy? He doesn’t think I really meant marriage, does he?

Then Bean remembered a first date where a man had let him know, before the guy had even pulled his car out of the driveway, that
he
was looking for a husband and didn’t want to waste time on dating that wasn’t going to go anywhere. There Bean had been, not able to remember the guy’s last name (and today he couldn’t remember his first) and the guy was practically proposing. Was that how he’d come across? Things had been going well, and he didn’t want to ruin them.

He got the bottle of viognier and brought it out to the deck. He smiled reassuringly, opened it, and poured H.D.’s glass half-full, then sat down to pour his own. “Sorry about the marriage crack. I was just trying to be funny. My mom is pretty nosey. And she sets me up on blind dates—so blind I don’t even know they’re dates. The other night she set me up with this guy I hadn’t seen in years. Drives me crazy. But as Mara says, I should be grateful my parents don’t care that I’m gay.”

H.D. gave a curt nod.

“Are you not close with your family?”

H.D. stiffened for a minute.

Shit. What did I do?

“I never knew my dad,” H.D said. Then dropping his voice: “My mom died when I was ten.”

“Crap. I’m sorry.”
Crap-crap-crap….

“How the hell were you supposed to know?” H.D.’s comment was a bit curt. Then H.D. took another swift gulp from his glass and sat back in his chair. “Sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to be an ass.”

“You weren’t,” Bean was quick to say. “I just….”
I just what?

“Look. You didn’t know. Forget about it. This wine is different.”

H.D. was obviously changing the subject, and Bean let him. “It’s called viognier. I never heard of it before. The guy at the liquor store said it was a good wine to have with salmon. He said something about it having an aroma of white peaches or apricots or something like that….” Bean took a sip. “Well… yes… I can see that.”

“Really?” H.D. said. He shrugged and Bean found himself once more captivated by those dreadlocks. He wondered if that was what Samson had. They really were very masculine, especially on such a slim man. “It tastes like… wine to me.”

Bean smiled. “Close your eyes,” he replied.

“Huh?”

“Go ahead. Take another sip, but close your eyes first.”

H.D. shrugged again (and once more those dreads made the most fascinating shifting motion) and raised his glass.

“No, wait.”

H.D.’s hand paused halfway to his mouth.

Bean got up and pulled his chair over to where he was sitting behind and slightly to H.D.’s side. He leaned in. “Keep your eyes closed,” he said quietly, so as not to surprise his guest.

H.D. gave the slightest jump anyway. Looked at him. Closed them when Bean gave him a nod.

“Okay. Deep breath…”

H.D. did as bid.

“… and let it out slowly.”

Once more, H.D. followed Bean’s request.

“Now, take a small bit of wine into your mouth. More than a sip… less than a swallow. But
don’t
swallow! Let it stay in your mouth. Sit there. Then very slowly slip down your throat.”

H.D. nodded. Bean observed the glass touch H.D.’s lips, watched it move as the glass tipped slightly—enough to let some of the liquid enter his mouth. As the glass was pulled away, those lips (God they were kissable, weren’t they?) closed. Pressed. A few seconds later he saw H.D.’s throat move as he began to swallow.

“Reflect on the flavors. What does it all do to your taste buds? Slowly. See if you can detect—”

“Whoa!” said H.D. suddenly. “I—I got it! I don’t know what white peaches are, but for a second there… I got both. First the nectarines and then peaches.” He opened his eyes and grinned at Bean. “How’d you know how to do that?”

“I learned it with coffee.”

“So that’s what Poindexter meant the other day when she was giving me all that sales talk on the stuff I bought.”

Bean raised an eyebrow.

“Something about cherries and pepper,” H.D. said.

“Sweet bell peppers,” Bean said. “You got the Sulawesi Tana Toraja.”

“What you said.” H.D. winked. “I’m not sure about all those flavors because that’s when the shit hit the fan, and when I drank it, it was already cold, and then I microwaved it—”

Bean grimaced. “I wish you would have just let me replace it.”

“You had other things on your mind, dude.”

They both paused and Bean saw how close their faces were. How easy it would be to kiss H.D. He wanted to. He really did. But then he saw the food and thought—
Okay. Let’s finish while it’s hot. Salmon isn’t cheap.

He got up and moved his chair back—and was that disappointment on H.D.’s face? God, he hoped so. Bean sat back down and began to eat his salmon. He complimented the chef. “It really is amazing.”

“Thanks,” said H.D. “It’s the lime. Most people would use lemon, but a lime is better.”

“You a chef?”

H.D. shook his head. “No. I just have worked a lot of different jobs. A cook a time or two was one of them. I was on the East Coast for a while and worked at a place that specialized in seafood, and the chef taught me a few tricks.” He paused. Raised his eyebrows suggestively. “I know lots of tricks,” he said.

Bean gulped.

“How did you get into coffee?” H.D. asked. “I mean… you’re
into
it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I am.” Bean took the last bite of his salmon and leaned back in his chair, draping an arm over the backrest. “It started when I went to U of M.”

“U of M?”

“University of Michigan. My parents should have known there was going to be trouble right away. Dad wanted me to go into law, which I did
not
want to do, and Mom wanted me to go into banking.”

H.D. made a face.

“Exactly. I had
no
clue what I wanted to do, so I chose a business program, and of course they had me go to one of the best in the country. Anyway, my freshman year there was this guy….”

H.D. snickered. “Isn’t it
always
a guy?”

Bean nodded. “You’re telling me. Men have gotten me into so much trouble….”

“I find that hard to believe,” H.D. remarked.

“Are you forgetting how we met?”

“Ah.” H.D. nodded knowingly. “You got me there.”

“
Any
way. There was this guy. The first time I saw him I was, well, practically obsessed. He was in one of my classes. I don’t even remember which one. Real slim with these incredible blue eyes and long hair. God. Exactly what my parents would not have approved of. I couldn’t build up the courage to talk to him. I was getting this gay vibe, but… I don’t know. I was young and dumb—”

“And full of cum?” H.D. offered.

Bean laughed. “Yes. That too. I hadn’t been laid in a few months. My high school boyfriend didn’t want to date me anymore since I was going to be so far away. Sucked. I was walking around with this cloud over me until I saw this guy. I
wanted
him, H.D. I wanted him in the worst way. Forgot about Chuck just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “So one day I followed him when he left class. He seemed to be in a rush and out of nowhere I just decided to see where he was going. It was a coffee shop. I went in—after waiting forever, trying to build up the nerve, you know?”

H.D. told him he did indeed know.

“Well I went in and he was behind the counter. He gave me this knowing leer and I knew I’m caught and I was about to run out when he called me over. I was, like, nervous as hell. I was afraid I was going to throw up.”

“Wouldn’t that have impressed him?”

“Just not the way I wanted to impress him.” Bean took a drink of his wine. Set it down. “He asked me what I wanted. I didn’t have a clue. I mean I wanted him but was way too afraid to say so. Then he told me his name was Killian and that he was going to make me an espresso. And then he started to work… magic.”

Bean closed his eyes for a moment. Went away. Remembered it all clearly. He told H.D. about it. Or tried to. How Killian had poured milk in a stainless steel pitcher. Then he’d ground the coffee beans and made the espresso. While the dark-brown liquid dripped into the tiny cup, Killian started working with the milk. He used a steam wand to turn the milk into a lovely foam. He then poured the frothy milk mixture into the coffee, which had this pretty reddish-brown foam on top. “It was like I was watching a magic trick. All these hand movements and swirls and wiggles, and by the time he was done, he had formed this….” Bean stopped for a second and chuckled. “He had made this design on the top. It’s called a rosetta. And it looked like a penis. I was so embarrassed but so damned horny at the same time! Killian told me to taste it and I did, trying to be all worldly and sexy and… oh God, H.D! It was…. It was
heaven
! The milk was like cream, but it wasn’t. And it was sweet, but there was no sugar! It was
luxurious
! I went into that shop with a crush on a boy, and I fell head over heels in love with coffee. I couldn’t believe it. Sure, I’d had coffee. Drinking pots of it with friends to stay up all night studying. But that! That was… Nirvana.”

Bean sighed, then looked at H.D. who was staring at him goggle-eyed. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? My parents do.”

“No,” said H.D., relaxing into his own chair. “I think it’s cool.”

“Well, after that I had to know how it was done. I wanted to learn. I started hanging out there all the time and trying all that they had. It turns out this was part of a movement called the Third Wave. Young men—although they seemed older to me at the time. Guys in their thirties mostly. Guys with Mohawks and tattoos and purple hair.” He laughed quietly. “I was dazzled. Some guys go to college and do drugs. I did coffee. Overnight I was a Third Waver.”

“What’s that?”

Bean looked up. He thought he saw interest on H.D.’s face. “You really want to know or are you just being polite? When I get to talking about coffee, I get a little—”

“Passionate,” H.D. supplied. “I like it.”

“You do?” Bean was hoping it was true. He could drive people away at a party faster than anything when he got on a roll about his obsession.

“I do. Go on. Tell me.” H.D. smiled encouragingly…

… and Bean plunged on.

H.D.
WIGGLED
down in his chair, wine in hand, and got comfortable. Watching Bean was amusing. But in a cool way, not silly. Who even knew about the stuff Bean was talking about? H.D. sure didn’t, and for some reason, he found he was interested.

“The First Wave people spread coffee around the world,” Bean said. “They were the men who wound up making it commonplace and took away any nuance there was to coffee. I won’t even go into the dreaded freeze-dried crap. Oh, yes I will. The inventor of instant coffee should be flogged.”

“Unless he liked it,” H.D. added.

“Exactly!” Bean sighed, shrugged, and went on. “Then the Second Wave started the spread of
better
coffee. They began the whole specialty coffee movement. Coffee grown in different places in the world has unique flavors, just like wine. I try and tell my mother about that. She is insane for wine. If only she knew. There are so many subtleties and layers to coffee. And there’s the whole thing about original Arabica beans versus the poorer quality Robusta beans….”

“The difference being?” H.D. had no clue what Bean was talking about. Coffee had always been what woke him up in the morning, or if need be, kept him awake when he needed to stay up late. Not to forget sobering him up after drinking too many cocktails. He didn’t even particularly like the stuff—thus why he’d always added so much cream and sugar. At least until Elaine had started buying the stuff from Bean’s store. Who knew the dark brew could be so good? He found himself genuinely interested in what the sexy man across the table was telling him.

Bean looked at him again. “You are sure you want to hear this?”
the look said.

“Keep going.”

Bean nodded. “Okay,” he continued. “Arabica beans are the
real
coffee. The beans discovered over a thousand years ago in Ethiopia. Then Robusta was discovered and…. Well, it was a sad day as far as I’m concerned. Robusta trees yield a greater crop and have a lot more caffeine. Bugs don’t like it, which helps with the yield. But it isn’t very good and…. Okay. I’ll stop on that subject. It’s Third Wave you were asking me about. See what you started?”