Hooch and Cake Page 3

  There wasn’t a local Spanish paper, but the general store manager brightened when Randy spoke to him in Spanish and happily sold him a roaster for his Thanksgiving turkey, and the Mexican grocery provided him with some much-appreciated culinary comforts. Nobody talked about politics, though there were a few flyers for immigration rights lawyers and rallies.

  Randy took note of the posters in the white stores too: most of them were school oriented, the rest from churches. He stopped by the two white bars on Main Street, where at the first one he had bad beer and deliberately lost three rounds of pool to a local retired vet missing his two front teeth and most of the buttons on his shirt. At the second pub, he pretended to give a shit about a talking-heads sports show and bought a round for the four third-shift meat-packing-plant workers decorating the stools. He eyeballed that establishment’s flyers on the way out the door—local bands, mostly country, a veterans benefit, a fireman’s pancake breakfast.

  Yes, Middleton, Iowa, was pretty much what Randy had expected it to be. There was one place, though, he hadn’t explored, and in many ways it was the most important recon yet. With several new friends and a significant lay of the land, Randy crossed the street to Biehl Drug, the store Sam’s aunt and uncle owned.

  It was small.

  Randy hadn’t expected the pharmacy to be a sprawling retail giant, and yet as he came through the door, the bell above his head tinkling to announce his arrival, all he could think of was that the place was tiny. Little, and so throwback it was almost creepy. A makeup counter—seriously, a makeup counter—stood to his right, and what had once been a soda fountain was on his left, now a display for electric razors, hairdryers, and curling irons. A glance at their stickers confirmed they were twice the price they would be at Walmart or any other store.

  “May I help you?”

  The woman who’d appeared at Randy’s elbow was decidedly not Sam’s famously sour-faced aunt Delia. The female next to him was young, bright-eyed, and smiling. Randy smiled back as he caught a glance at her name tag. “Emma. Yes, you most certainly can. I’m looking for some condoms.”

  She blinked, her smile not falling but growing more guarded. “Sure. I’ll be happy to show you, sir.”

  Emma led him to the back of the store, and Randy took inventory as they walked. The floor squeaked under their feet, thin planks of polished wood that had to have been laid over one hundred years ago. Above his head suspended fluorescent fixtures buzzed, casting the narrow aisles in a sick yellow glow. A pungent bouquet of staleness and detergent assailed him, like a nursing home without the bodies. Silence rang about his ears, crowding out the hum of the bulbs. Ahead of him he saw the pharmacy counter, a raised dais walled off with fiberglass except for a narrow delivery/counseling station, filled with towering, crowded shelves and bathed in an even harsher, brighter set of overhead lights.

  He tried to imagine Sam working here and shuddered.

  The condoms were in a locked cabinet on the shelf just beneath the counter, and Emma had to ask the balding, white-coated man at the computer terminal to pass her a key. This would be Sam’s uncle Norman, without question.

  Emma unlocked the cabinet and pushed open the glass door. “Go ahead and help yourself.”

  The selection was paltry, and after watching Emma perform the dance of the lock, Randy assumed the pharmacy didn’t sell condoms very often. How many people were brave enough to ask for prophylactics? Probably the only reason Biehl Drug carried them at all was because the single thing worse than having to sell condoms would be discovery as a less-than-full-service pharmacy.

  Finding a brand and size that were adequate and rolling his eyes inwardly at the price markup, Randy slipped three packages off the metal peg. “Rather sad display of lubricants, Emma.”

  It was kind of fun, though depressing, how his essentially basic request for sexual paraphernalia flustered her. Wasn’t Emma supposed to be Sam’s designated fruit fly?

  She glanced around the case as if seeing it for the first time. “Well, there’s that tube of KY. Oh no. It’s out of date. I’m sorry. I wonder if we have more in the back.”

  “That’s all right. I’m not looking for her pleasure anyway. And while I’m giving you a critique of your sexual supplies, they’re not always family planning aids.” He pointed to the peeling label on the cabinet’s rim.

  She wasn’t simply flustered now, she was awkward, clearly wishing Randy would go away and end her torment. “Um, sorry. I just work here.”

  This—this—was the woman who’d applauded Sam’s alley fuck? Though as Randy recalled Sam’s retelling of his journey from Middleton to Vegas, he remembered Emma was the friend who had tried, repeatedly, to call Sam home.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, trying to decide if he should explain who he was and give her a chance to defend herself. Except Randy started to wonder if Sam had even told Emma about him.

  She smiled, the stretch of her lips declaring her someone who seriously wanted this confrontation over. “Is there anything else you needed, or should I ring you up?”

  “Nope, pile of condoms ought to do it.”

  As she checked him out, Randy scanned her one more time, taking in the last few details that were her tell, and they made him sad. She wasn’t a prude, and she had the trappings to let go and have fun, but she was, in so many ways, a symbol of all that held Sam back. As she totaled his purchases, engagement ring glinting in the overhead light, Randy could feel the hint of wildness before him taming under the weight of bridal catalogs and the promise of a house in a nice development, possibly with a whirlpool tub.

  This, he reminded himself, was what Sam’s wedding juxtaposed. This was the version of himself Sam couldn’t have. Never mind Sam shouldn’t want it. Emma didn’t really want it either—but she wanted to belong. She wanted security and safety and solidity.

  So long as Sam wanted to take it up the ass with another dick in his mouth instead of politely pounding a pussy, he couldn’t belong. Not here. Not ever. Any wedding Sam planned in this environment wouldn’t just be an also-ran. It would be nothing short of a total disaster.

  “Emma, when you’re finished with the customer, I need to see you in my office.”

  Randy turned toward the back of the pharmacy and saw a thin, pinch-faced woman with severe hair and cold, dead eyes looking back at him. She raked her gaze over Randy, mouth flattening in a line of disapproval.

  Randy bit back a laugh. Sam’s aunt, in the flesh. Oh, Delia Biehl, it’s lovely to meet you.

  He winked at Emma and picked up the brown paper bag—seriously, a stapled brown paper bag—with a flourish. “Thanks, sugar. I’d say I’ll think of you when I use them, but you’re seriously not my type. Catch you around.”

  A ray of hope bloomed in him as Emma narrowed her eyes, dropping her reserve and studying him as if he were under a microscope. “Wait. Do I know you?”

  “No, but we share a friend. I’ll give Sam your love.” He waved at the back of the pharmacy. “Stay sexy, Deils.”

  Randy strode out of the pharmacy, smiling as Delia sputtered indignantly behind him. He ambled up the street to the apartment, letting a plan unfold in his mind.

  Sam and Mitch wanted to get married. Sam—hell, both of them—wanted to belong, but nobody could truly belong here. Middleton, Iowa, was a quiet anvil pressing slowly but effectively in the center of his best friends’ chests, crushing out their joy.

  But Sam had to get married in Iowa. Even if Nevada had marriage equality, Randy acknowledged that getting hitched in Sam’s home state was a symbol for Sam, a kind of stepping stone before he bloomed in a brighter future.

  It was going to take some research. It was going to take some time, and more than a little creativity. And it required one more minor yet crucial element.

  Randy backtracked to the Mexican general store and stuck his head in, waving as the owner greeted him with a smile. “Hello again, sir. What can I do for you?”

  Randy nodded at the bulletin board beside
the cash register. “Do you happen to know of anybody looking to sell a car?”

  Chapter Three

  MITCH HAD DONE Thanksgiving with Randy before, but he’d never had a Thanksgiving like this.

  The food was pretty much what he’d expected. Well, he didn’t know where, exactly, Randy had come up with half his ingredients and supplies, but it didn’t surprise Mitch when he came home on Wednesday and discovered Sam wearing a dishtowel as an apron as he helped Randy prepare the turkey and put the finishing touches on the pies.

  “Place smells amazing.” Mitch noticed Randy didn’t wear a dishtowel but had instead brought his own apron with him from Vegas, or had bought one somewhere on his excursions around town. This too didn’t seem out of character in the slightest. He stepped between the two of them, goosing each of them on the ass. “Do I get dinner, or did you guys already eat?”

  Sam flushed, looking guilty. “Oh, sorry, we made sandwiches earlier. I thought you’d eat on the road.”

  Normally Mitch would have, but he’d been too eager to get back to the boys. He winked at Sam. “Don’t mind that. I’ll find myself something.”

  Randy shook his head. “Settle down. I’ll fix you a plate, but you need to help me wrestle this damn bird first. Go wash your hands and roll up your sleeves.”

  Mitch did as instructed, keeping one eye on Randy and Sam as they flopped the turkey carcass on the counter, struggling to get it out of its plastic wrapping, extricating the giblets. When his hands were dry, Randy jerked his head in the direction of a five-gallon bucket near the stove.

  “Mitch, bring that over here and hold it just under the counter so we can wedge this inside.”

  Mitch obeyed, but he was a little bit mystified. “Why did you get such a big turkey? There’s only three of us.”

  “Because turkey is the shit when I make it, as you well know, and this will freeze like nothing else. You’ll eat like kings for months.” Randy hefted the turkey and grunted against the weight. “Okay, Sam—you make sure the wings stay against the body as it goes in, got it?”

  “Got it,” Sam said, and in the bird went.

  It fit neatly inside the blue plastic bucket, ass up and wings tucked to the sides. Once it was snug in that space and they’d all washed their hands, Randy had Sam pour in a bowl full of citrus, spices, and vegetables, and a huge amount of salt. Then they filled the thing with water almost to the top.

  “Ah, you’re brining it,” Mitch realized.

  Randy frowned. “Yes, but the dumb bitch is floating.”

  Sam held up a finger. “Hold on. I have an idea.” He disappeared into the bedroom for a moment, then came back out with two of Mitch’s five-pound weight discs, off the bar. “We could put these in a plastic gallon zip bag and set them on top. That ought to press the turkey down.”

  Randy ruffled his hair. “Thanks, Peaches. Now all we have to do is play fridge Tetris and fit this bucket inside somehow.”

  It required a lot of creativity to rearrange everything in the refrigerator to make room for the turkey, especially since to fit the bucket they had to remove two shelves. Normally Mitch and Sam didn’t have much in there, but Randy had chucked it full of things for his Thanksgiving prep and food in general.

  “How many people you planning to feed this week?” Mitch shook his head as he took in the incredible amount of stuff Randy had procured. “I don’t want to know what you spent.”

  “Not as much as you think. The Mexican grocery has great prices, and I cut a deal with the owner on a few things. Charm greases a lot of wheels.” He wedged a carton of butter and a tub of sour cream into the last hole beside the bucket and shut the door. “All right. Sam, go give your lover a welcome home while I whip him up something.”

  Cheeks stained with a blush, Sam led Mitch by the hand to the couch. Mitch sat in the center, facing the kitchen, and Sam straddled his lap, smiling at him and touching his face, the collar of his shirt.

  “How was your day?”

  “Long.” Mitch let out a breath as he drank in the sight of Sam, reading the signs of where they were headed, and his blood hummed. This was the fun of having Skeet around. For whatever reason, he saw to it Sam was always turned on, ready for sex at any second. He stroked the slender line of Sam’s neck, stealing his fingers under Sam’s shirt. “Couldn’t wait to see you.”

  Sam smiled at him, the smile that made Mitch ache, the one he carried in his heart, the lighthouse that drew him home every day, no matter what bullshit he got tangled in. “I’m glad you have a few days off. That we both do—and that Randy’s here too.”

  “Me too, Sunshine.” Mitch trailed his touch down the center of Sam’s chest, sliding over to find a nipple.

  Something deep inside him began to purr when Sam gasped. Mitch massaged the nub, tugging it through the fabric. “You like that, baby?”

  Sam nodded, working to keep his breathing even. “Yes, I do.”

  “Want me to keep going, mess with you more?” He brought his other hand to Sam’s opposite nipple and began to draw on him in stereo. “Tell me what feels good, Sam.”

  Sam was already going under. “I like it when you pull on my tits like that.” He whimpered and arched his back as Mitch tugged harder. “So good.”

  Mitch shot a glance at the kitchen to see if Randy was watching them as he made Mitch’s dinner. He was. Mitch returned his attention to Sam, releasing his nipples. Before Sam had a chance to protest, Mitch said, “Take off your shirt, Sam.”

  Sam obeyed quickly, tossing it onto the arm of the couch. Once free of the garment, he put his hands behind his head, keeping his gaze fixed on Mitch, begging with his eyes.

  Mitch didn’t deny him. He resumed his slow, determined torture, able to get a better grip on his lover now without the shirt in the way. Mitch pinched the tender buds, turning them, pulling them away from Sam’s body until he cried out in desperation.

  It was so much fun. He could do it all night. He had half a mind to do just that.

  Except Sam’s mewls were so exquisite, and his body quaked with such perfection, Mitch couldn’t stand it. He had to push him further.

  Letting go of Sam’s left nipple, Mitch anchored his grip on Sam’s hip and latched his mouth over the erect, aching nib.

  Now when Sam cried out, Mitch felt the sound reverberating through his lover’s body, buzzing against his lips as he sucked hard, making a seal around Sam’s skin, teasing the sensitized bud with his tongue, grazing it against his teeth as he increased the suction. Sam all but sobbed as Mitch switched sides, crying out a plaintive, “No, no, no,” as Mitch began to pinch the tortured, wet left nubbin.

  When Mitch switched sides again, Sam sank into despair, but he didn’t use his safe word, only turned into a stiff sheet in Mitch’s arms as he endured.

  A shadow fell over them. “Your dinner’s ready, Old Man.”

  Mitch lifted his head, wiping a trail of saliva from his chin. He had to hold a quavering Sam up with both hands now. “Thanks. You want to take over this business for me?”

  “No.” Sam covered his face.

  Randy grinned a terrible grin. “Be happy to.”

  Randy had fixed Mitch an omelet with leftover ham, some peppers, onions, and mushrooms. It was fantastic, but it was difficult to focus on it with the show that came with his meal. Whereas Mitch had kept Sam on his lap, Randy spread him out on the coffee table, which he quickly figured out had handy hidden straps for tying someone down. He immobilized Sam’s wrists, then went to town on him, licking a long, wicked line from his bellybutton to his chin, teasing fingers across his chest, touching everywhere but on Sam’s nipples. When he added featherlight touches at Sam’s groin as well, Sam came unglued.

  “Please, Randy.” He was nearly crying.

  Randy sat on his haunches, patient, stroking Sam as if he had all the time in the world. “What is it you want me to do, sugar?”

  “I want you to touch me.”

  “Baby, I’m doing nothing but touch you. Be more specif
ic.”

  Mitch grinned around his fork. He always forgot how mean Randy could be.

  Sam whimpered and fought against his restraints. “Get me off, Randy, please. I’ll do anything.”

  Mitch raised his eyebrows and sat back, meal forgotten. Oh, this was going to be good.

  “Anything, hmm?” Randy palmed Sam’s aching bulge. “How about…I’ll let you get off, but you let me cane you first.”

  It was a sign of how wound up Sam was that he agreed without hesitation. All week while Mitch had been on the road and they’d sent him pics or he’d talked to Sam on the phone, Randy had been teasing him with that cane, and Sam had been having none of it, not after that first night when he’d experienced how hard it hurt even through clothes. Mitch caught Randy’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.

  Randy shook his head. “It’ll be fine. We’ve been working up to it. I convinced him you’d enjoy it. He wanted it to be a surprise for you.”

  Okay, now Mitch was turned on. He pushed away the last of his omelet and settled in. “The surprise is appreciated. And I’m enjoying myself already.”

  Randy undid Sam’s wrists and helped him stand on his shaking legs, leading him to the bedroom, motioning for Mitch to follow. “Not out here. I have this all worked out. You’re going to sit at the head of the bed, and he’s going to drape over your lap. This way you get the best show possible. And our boy gets the softness of the bed and the security of you petting him while I go after his backside.”