Hound Dog & Bean (5 page)

Bean bit the insides of his cheeks. It wouldn’t be a good thing to smile.
That
would be insulting and cruel and thoughtless because Sloan wouldn’t take it any other way. Wouldn’t understand that Bean was amused at the satirical circumstances and not that Sloan was being laughed at….

“But, if you’re willing… I could sure use a friend.”

And now the grin spread across Bean’s face. Now he could let it. “I think that sounds great, Sloan,” he said. “Really awesome, in fact.” And he pulled Sloan into a hug.

There was one minute of resistance, and then Sloan melted against him. He gave a little sob. Crying? Well, okay. That he could deal with, Bean thought, and hugged Sloan all the tighter.

W
HEN
B
EAN
got home, he was wired. He knew he should go to bed, but he also knew sleep would elude him tonight. He’d lie there in the dark and stare at the ceiling. He hated that.

So he decided to do laundry. A little weird, maybe, but he would get lost a bit in the monotony, the repetitiveness of it, especially ironing. He loved to iron. Taking something wrinkled and unattractive and making it look good. Ordered. When he used to travel, little things like ironing had not always been easy to do. Now that he had his own house, there were so many routines he could begin, healthy habits he could build into his life.

So down to the basement he went. The load in the dryer was done, and of course as crumpled as could be. Whites. Dress shirts and T-shirts and socks. So he took them out, switched the wet clothes over, and started a new load of darks. And he ironed. Even the socks.

He thought about his life and the coffee shop and his wonderfully surprising success. He thought about how lucky he was to have both his parents, how they loved and accepted him. And how, as far as he knew, they were both healthy. How as much as it annoyed him that his mother had been in on setting him up on another unexpected blind date, that was so much better than the people he knew who had been kicked out of their homes when their parents found out they were gay.

And finally, how he was very suddenly realizing lately he was lonely. He really was tired of sleeping alone at night. The couple of furtive encounters he’d had with strangers when that loneliness got to be overwhelming hadn’t helped. He was fooling himself when he said he didn’t want anyone.

He did.

But dammit. He couldn’t fall in love by looking for a man on Craigslist or E-MaleConnect. He wouldn’t.

And then, while he was taking the next load out of the dryer to iron, he saw something.

A dog bed.

It had belonged to his Corgi, Moses—long gone by a good ten years at least.

That made him think of how much he loved dogs. What good companions dogs had always been in his life.

Hadn’t he been thinking about dogs lately?

Why not get one?

And hell, wasn’t there a no-kill animal shelter right around the corner?

Maybe it was time.

The thought brought a smile to his face. One that felt good. Really good. One that made him look back at the laundry and wave good-bye.

Time for bed.

He fell asleep ten minutes after lying down, the smile still on his face.

H.D.
THOUGHT
about taking Sarah Jane to work that day. It made sense, and he thought her personality would charm anyone who came into Four-Footed Friends. Get her a forever home even. He was pretty sure she’d do fine, dashing about like the little fluffy, happy creation she was. H.D. didn’t think she’d dash out the front door, but then again, she was the most excitable dog he’d met in a long time, and very curious. She was sure to give a bark at any passer-by—not because she was a yappy dog, but because she seemed to believe it was her solemn duty to announce the comings and goings of everyone.

But then while taking Sarah Jane on her morning walk, H.D. had seen Mrs. Rosenberg—the plump old lady who lived on the first floor—and she had taken one look at his charge and begged for a chance to watch her for the day. He knew Sarah Jane was far too rambunctious an animal for the woman to take on full-time, but he thought a one-time thing would be good for both human and dog. Mrs. Rosenberg would have joyful company, and Sarah Jane would get lots of attention—something she loved.

It had turned out to be a stunningly beautiful day, and since Sarah was being cared for, H.D. decided to ride his bike to work. He would have had to walk had the little dog gone with him, for even though he had a big wicker basket strapped to the front of his bicycle, he didn’t know the tiny little lady well enough to know if she’d take it in her doggie-mind to jump out and chase some cat or squirrel.

The ride was very pleasant, the temperature just cool enough that Hound Dog took a notion to add an extra mile or so and circle around to include the Gorman Conservation Discovery Center in his journey. Many of the year’s early flowers were in bloom—lots of blues and purples, colors he loved. H.D. was happy to see a number of cardinals, singing their chorales to the spring air, and to his delight and surprise, he actually saw three red-winged blackbirds. He’d thought they were strictly country birds, eschewing city life. Could the little park of natural gardens and wetlands with its scant ten acres—lovely as they were—have lured the beautifully singing birds into the city to make a home? Apparently. Their ruby shoulders shone brightly against their ebony bodies in the morning sunlight, and H.D.’s spirits were lifted even higher.

This was going to be a good day, he thought. Maybe even a great
one.

When H.D.’s circuitous route to Four-Footed Friends took him past Elaine’s favorite coffee shop instead of behind it, he got the sudden idea to surprise her and buy this morning’s brew. He’d never really cared for coffee one way or the other—found Starbuck’s was outrageously overpriced and always tasted burnt—and then Elaine started bringing in the stuff from their around-the-corner neighbor, The Shepherd’s Bean.

It was coffee with surprising complexity and layers of flavor. He even drank his black, and he was a cream-and-sugar boy all the way. Maybe it was that year he’d spent in New Orleans, drinking it the Creole way. But with the Bean’s coffee, he forsook all additives. It was that good. Usually, Elaine bought it by the bag, ground for her by the baristas, and made it in the Mr. Coffee in the office of FFF. But lately she’d been going into the shop more and more often to buy it by the cup, explaining it was just better that way. The baristas really knew their stuff, especially a little woman who went by the unusual handle Poindexter. It was nothing but Poindexter-this, and Poindexter-that, lately, so this was his chance to see what all the foofaraw was about.

The front of the building was set back a bit from most of the other shops on the street. Whereas they were painted concrete, The Shepherd’s Bean was old-fashioned red brick, with a courtyard-like area in front complete with some lovely shade trees and tables. The inside was nice as well, lots more red brick and wood counters, as well as a series of pictures of a shepherd and dancing goats painted on the wall near the ceiling. From somewhere, hidden speakers allowed Bruce Springsteen to report that a fire can’t be started without a spark. Huge windows let in lots of light, despite the shade trees. That was probably due to the building’s age. The place must have been built when big windows were needed for just that purpose. A lot of places hadn’t had electricity until at least the turn of the century, and many had considered it a fad even then.

He walked up to the counter and, without preamble, asked the funny-looking little woman behind the register if Poindexter was in.

She smiled behind huge, round, black plastic glasses, and H.D. found himself reassessing her looks. She was adorable. “I’m Poindexter,” she replied happily.

“Oh!” he said, and for some reason found himself blushing. “I, ah…. Well, my boss…. Well, she’s not exactly my boss. She usually comes in to get our coffee. We’re at Four-Footed Friends, just around—”

“You mean Elaine?” she asked, smile growing.

He nodded. How nice she knew Elaine’s name. “I thought I’d surprise her today and buy.”

A look flashed for just an instant across the young woman’s face. Was that disappointment? Then the light dawned. This girl
liked
Elaine. And suddenly he was realizing that Elaine just might like her as well.

The young woman recovered quickly. “Well, isn’t that nice of you?”

How old was she? Elaine was around fifty. Could this young woman be older than thirty? Thirty-three at the most? Cradle robber! The teasing would begin. Hound Dog grinned mischievously.

“What would you like?” Poindexter asked.

H.D. shrugged, his dreads awave around his shoulders. “I don’t have a clue,” he answered. “I like the… Chimp-ey?”

“Tchempe,” she corrected. “From Ethiopia. Sadly we don’t have any of that right now. It will be a while before it’s in season.”

“Season?” he questioned.

She gave a little laugh and adjusted her glasses. They didn’t magnify her big brown eyes all that much, so her vision mustn’t be too bad. They were a style that made him think of pop-bottle lenses, but they weren’t.

“We go for some pretty small crops,” she replied. “If we bought in huge supplies, the beans wouldn’t be as good. We like to get the coffee in your cup as fast as we can.”

“Wow.” He nodded. “I never even thought about stuff like that.”

“Bean has met farmers that grow their crop in their backyard.”

H.D. raised his brows. “They must have some big backyards.”

“Nope,” she said. “Like one here in the city.”

H.D. whistled. “Wow.”

Poindexter smiled. “We got something on Saturday. It has a lovely wild cherry and sweet bell pepper flavor. Nice and full bodied with these wonderful aromatic woody tones and a nice tasty cola finish….”

Wild cherry and sweet bell pepper?
“All that? Really?”

Poindexter nodded. “I like it awfully. Bean roasted it yesterday—
”

“Bean?”

“—and I think Elaine will love it.”

“Bean?” he asked again.

“That’s what everyone calls the owner,” she remarked and turned away. “Two cups?”

“Yeah, sure,” he answered and dug in his pockets for money.

What he saw next surprised him. He expected her to pour from a carafe, but that wasn’t the case. He didn’t even see one. No big metal urns either. Instead, she opened a container and measured out a small amount of beans on a tiny, flat metal scale. Then she poured them into a grinder on the wall. She did this twice.

H.D. leaned on the counter and watched her. This was
fascinating.

Next she took what initially looked like a couple of ceramic cups and placed each one on top of a beaker. She’d turned back around by this point so he could really see what she was doing. It was then that he saw the insides of the “cups” were just like small versions of the part of Elaine’s Mr. Coffee where she placed the filter and grounds. In fact, that is what Poindexter did next. She took light-brown filters—H.D. was guessing these were unbleached paper—and placed them in the ceramic cups along with the beans she’d ground.

Then she took a teakettle with a long and very thin spout and slowly poured hot water, in a spiral pattern, over the beans. “These beans are from holder farms in Tana Toraja, a region of Sulawesi—”

“Sulu-who-ah?”
What the hell did she just say?

“An island in Indonesia,” she explained.

“Oh.” He was embarrassed to admit he didn’t even know for sure where Indonesia was. Asia? South America? Wherever it was, the aroma of her creation—even with the air already pregnant with the smell of coffee—was heavenly.

It took a while to make. While she was helping him, two people got in line. It wasn’t exactly the fastest way to make coffee, but he knew from experience it made for
great
coffee.

He shook his head. “Wow.”

Poindexter looked up. “You haven’t been in the shop before? Seen this done?”

“Nope,” he replied. “I’m glad I did, though. It’s cool. Really cool.”

Poindexter rang up his purchase and he paid, dropping a tip in the jar as she capped up his brown paper cups—which meant unbleached paper again. The Shepherd’s Bean really was green. Excellent!

He was reaching for them when a loud voice boomed out, “Well, fuck me! You!”

H.D. turned just in time to see the huge burly man who had caused the big fuss at yesterday’s adoption fair. And the asshole was barreling toward him like a train out of a tunnel.

W
HO
. I
S
.
That?
Bean wondered from the minute the young man with the dark-blond dreadlocks walked through the door. He stopped at the sight, arms full of a heavy box of coffee mugs.
He’s beautiful
.

“Excuse me,” said a familiar-looking customer, rising from a stool at one of the counters that jutted out into the room.

Bean started, then moved back a step. “Sorry,” he said to the young woman, probably a student from the look of the backpack slung over one shoulder and the copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
in her hand.

Bean put the box down on the counter’s end, then tried not to be obvious, unpacking the mugs while watching the dreadlocked young man.

Poindexter was helping him, and when he nodded, those dreads moved like a lion’s mane around his head. Bean had never been particularly attracted to the hairstyle—dreadlocks usually looked greasy and dry at the same time. But
these?
These looked clean and soft and they shone in the sunlight coming through the big windows. It was all Bean could do not to walk up and touch them, to see if they were as supple as they looked.

And that bottom. God. The new customer leaned against the counter, sticking out an amazingly round and high butt. His soft-looking jeans seemed molded to his cheeks so it appeared as if he wasn’t wearing any underwear.
Could be he’s got boxers on
, Bean thought. Then the customer leaned over even farther and the cleft of his upper buttocks was quite abruptly revealed, his loose white hippie shirt rising up as well, showing off the smooth skin of his lower back. Bean almost gasped. That was no plumber’s crack, for sure.