The Scoop Around the Corner (The Gayborhood #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

FINN

Today would be another lovely day at The Scoop, the little ice cream shop that I opened last year, if only the new biker shop across the street weren’t here to ruin it.

The sun is shining through the wide front windows and across the pink and turquoise floor tiles, but instead of appreciating the refreshing summer breeze that dances in the air, I’m wincing at every screech of clanging metal.

We’ve been gifted the ideal conditions for a stroll through the gay neighborhood and a waffle cone, the kind of afternoon you can’t help but whistle through. Ice cream weather.

It’s a glorious, whistle-worthy day, and the bikers have decided to roar their motors through it.

As if summoned by the noise, Kenneth, my front-of-shop employee, emerges from the back with a fresh tub of double cherry and hitches up his jeans, messy hair in his eyes. When a triple-bang sounds from across the street, he stretches his mouth down in a grimace. “Yikes.”

“Yikes,” Miranda agrees as she steps out behind him. The second of my two employees, she wears an apron with berry smears from the batch she was just mixing up, the same blues and purples as her hair. “I can even hear that in the kitchen.”

“Yes, it’s quite loud today,” I acknowledge, raising my voice as a rumbling truck backs up to the garage, beep-beeping. “But I’m sure they’ll be done with these renovations soon!”

Miranda and Kenneth share a glance.

“I suppose motorcycle repairs could be less noisy than garage renovations,” Miranda offers, searching.

“And there won’t be heavy machinery on the street,” Kenneth adds. “Hopefully.”

I take the tub that Kenneth brought out, remove the top, and drop it into the display case.

“The neighborhood ordinances about noise are bound to kick in,” I point out.

“The fact that we’ve lost most of our foot traffic this week, I’ve decided to take that as an unexpected opportunity.

It’s our first real breather since the busy season started this spring, which means a chance to work on the new flavors before the customers return. ”

Kenneth walks over to the window. “The problem is I’m not sure they will. Thanks to our new neighbors, all the pedestrians head the back way around the block. They go from the park to the main drag without passing the ice cream shop.”

“Everyone used to like to sit at the patio out front and people-watch,” Miranda adds. “Can’t enjoy that with a ruckus.”

“That’s why we need something new to delight our customers when they inevitably, absolutely will return next week.” I drag my eyes away from the empty patio seats. “Butter fudge ice cream with mini sugar cookies? We might need to hire another person just to handle the rush.”

I’m excited to debut the butter fudge ice cream, a recipe I’ve been refining for weeks, although there’s still something not quite perfect about it.

There’s a bowl of the new flavor behind the counter, and Kenneth uses a sample spoon to taste it. “It’s tasty enough, but kind of lacking rizz,” he says. “Ever since fruit flavors stopped trending, we’ve been primed for a new star.” He licks the spoon again. “I’m just not sure this is it.”

Another screech of metal sounds out from the street, and all three of us flinch as an argument erupts outside the shop. I glance out the window and see two burly men yelling at a truck that’s blocking half the road.

“Whatever may come, you can’t fight it,” Miranda says.

“You have to adjust. My friend Vinny used to make little dolls of men in fancy clothes.” She holds her index finger and thumb wide apart to demonstrate the size.

“Built up an inventory of hundreds of those tiny fellows, and then his wholesale supplier went under. Thought he was doomed until gay marriage was legalized. But now? He’s a famous cake-topper-er. ”

I smile. “Well, that’s great!”

“I once saw an athleisure store open up across from another athleisure store,” Kenneth says. “Then the first store went gorpcore to survive, but they still went bankrupt.”

I blink. “Okay. I honestly have no idea what gorpcore is.”

Miranda shrugs. “You have to make the best out of the luck you get, but there’s never a guarantee for another day. Neighborhoods change. Technologies become obsolete. Entire industries collapse, like the infamous Beanie Baby bubble.”

“I was a little young for that, but I don’t think Beanie Babies count as a collapsing industry,” I point out.

“You’ve built as secure of a business as one can hope to build,” Miranda continues sagely. “Ice cream is timeless. But small businesses are not invincible.”

“At least the gayborhood isn’t going anywhere,” Kenneth adds before mumbling, “even if you do have to move to a new location down the street, possibly.”

“Exactly,” I agree, ignoring that last part.

“People love ice cream.” The rumble picks up outside, loud enough that I have to raise my voice.

“They love popping in for a sweet treat, and getting something cool and refreshing when the street festivals are on, and they love the cute little patio furniture with the striped umbrellas, and the sparkling clean display case, and the free sample sticks that are shaped like—”

“What?” Miranda yells over the noise. “What did you say?”

“That are shaped like hearts!” I proclaim from my diaphragm. “They love all of that more than they dislike noisy bikers! Believe me.”

It’s true. We’re already turning a profit after only one year, and the entire gayborhood buzzes when I release a new flavor sensation. My customers tell me that it’s impossible to imagine Allentown without us.

Although as the day stretches on, there’s never more than a trickle of customers. Our slowest day since winter.

I manage to use the time productively. I organize the entire shop and prepare all of tomorrow’s special orders, but I’m supposed to be busy selling ice cream, not mopping behind the freezers on a sunny summer day. I even arrange the Star Trek action figures on the display case into new poses.

The only bright spot comes when I see a new email from my anonymous pen pal and creative collaborator. Glad for something to look forward to, I resist the urge to read the message in the back of the shop, saving it for later instead.

When I step onto the street at the end of the day, it sounds as though there’s a jackhammer competition in the garage. Like everyone else, I end up veering the long way around.

I return to my one-bedroom apartment off the park, sink into the red recliner, and kick back with a cup of tea.

The stressful day calls for me to get lost in some fun escapism, so I quickly pull up the new message from NotAnOgre.

In addition to our regular friendly emails, this message includes the next chapter in our ongoing creative collaboration.

An excited smile fills my face as I wiggle down in the chair with my laptop to read.

I have a confession: I wrote this chapter in a gas station bathroom.

Don’t get any ideas. Nothing inappropriate (not in the bathroom at least, just in the story).

But inspiration struck when I was washing my hands, and I stood right there to draft out the plot points on my phone before the idea slipped away.

I know you appreciate random acts of creative inspiration. Or maybe I’ve just been on the road too long this week. You’d think a person would never get sick of gas station hot dogs. You’d be wrong.

Anyway, hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s about to get steamy.

I grin as I pull open the story, an erotic fantasy featuring Lark, a fae prince trying to make his way in New York City, and Relix, a half-vampire motorcycle outlaw.

We tend to update the ongoing saga every week or so, and last time, after Relix tried to ambush Lark, the powerful fae was able to bind the half-vampire instead.

Now together on a Manhattan rooftop, they’re finally having it out, and I read with delight when Lark reveals the prophecy behind his birth, spilling the beans that he’s destined to hunt the vampires and destroy their empire.

Relix only laughs, however, and announces that he also carries a prophecy: he’s going to fuck a fae prince, and it will tear the dimensional divide asunder.

“Ohhhhhh!” I hum to myself in the recliner, excited. “Double prophecy!”

Immediately, I go back to the beginning, reading over the latest addition to our ongoing story, savoring every detail. The problems from the gayborhood finally leave my mind, far away from the fantasy.

It’s been almost three years since NotAnOgre and I met on a discussion board for a moderately popular fantasy television series.

What had been an enjoyable run came apart in the final episode with a glaring plot inconsistency, ruining the entire thing after I’d been invested for months.

When I went online to see if anyone else on the discussion board noticed, there was only one comment about it.

NotAnOgre: If the Maximus Curse can destroy the Dragon Queen, why did they journey to the Forbidden Bog in the first place?

Me: Precisely!

That’s all I said. Precisely! The only comment I made after months of lurking.

Then NotAnOgre liked my comment. And I looked at his back posts, sophisticated and entertaining takes on plot and my favorite characters. I liked a couple of his comments, and the next morning, a message appeared in my account.

NotAnOgre: Glad someone else has the common sense to mock the Snake-Fingered Wizard.

Me: What is up with those snake hands? They’re creepy and useless.

NotAnOgre: More than useless. They’re a vulnerability. How many times did they make that poor guy drop his spell book?

Our conversation about the show sprawled out into other media, long discussions about what we loved and what we hated, with plenty of agreement but plenty of disagreement, too.

We shared some basic facts about our lives, like that we’re both gay, and that we live in the United States and are working people, busy with our careers.

He called himself a “big white guy in my early thirties,” and I told him that I’m a Black geek of about the same age.

Somewhere in there, we also acknowledged that we’re both fans of erotic sci-fi and fantasy, epic paranormal romance series, and indulgent fan fiction.

Although how we got from there to writing our own stories, I’m still not sure, except that we had already decided months earlier that together, we could come up with something spectacular.

After a pleased sip of tea, I settle in to write my response, starting with the friendly note that always precedes the creative contribution.

Please don’t tell me how many gas station hot dogs you’ve eaten this week. You’ve exhibited questionable taste before (I’m still reeling from your full-throated Sharknado defense), but you deserve better than those weenies on the treadmill.

Love the new chapter. I had a day that I’ve decided to call productive, and this is exactly what I need to relax at the end of it. I’ll write back with my next contribution soon (maybe even tonight—I’m feeling inspired, too).

I read over the story again, then start typing away with a smile on my face. These emails might be no more than geeky smut with an anonymous stranger, but they’re special to me, and they’re totally detached from all the biker garage drama, too.

And with Relix bound and Lark shirtless, we’re getting into the good stuff.