29. God Bless Black Cars
29
GOD BLESS BLACK CARS
Jason
Sun streams through the window above the stove, brightening the entire kitchen. Hell, the whole house shimmers with light on this first Friday in November—including Beck.
I’m learning he looks good in the morning. He wears a snug, gray T-shirt, tight jeans, unkempt hair, and just the right amount of morning stubble. He’s like a dream come true. “I had a fantasy like this the other week,” I say as I set two places at the kitchen counter, and Beck lowers the heat on the stove.
The buff, muscular football player making me breakfast, turns to me, lifting a brow in a question. “You’re saying you want me to bend you over the kitchen counter when I’m done cooking?”
I shake my head, grinning selfishly at the meal coming my way. “Nope. My fantasy was eggs and potatoes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Walked right into that.”
“You sure did,” I say, then fold cloth napkins as I give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry I don’t have coffee. Or a coffee machine.”
“I’ll live. But while we’re at it, tell me more about your food fantasy,” he says as he serves the scrambled eggs onto red and yellow Fiestaware plates and then scoops breakfast potatoes next to them.
My stomach rumbles. This guy is such a good cook. I can’t wait to tuck in. He hands me a plate and then doles out his own food. “Last week, when I was leaving your house, I was thinking I wanted to take you to Lulu’s Diner,” I say, picking up a fork and diving into the meal.
Beck joins me at the counter, completing my morning-after fantasy of us in the kitchen after the sun is up, talking and eating. What can I say? I’m a simple man, and when I like a dude, I want him with me after we bone down.
“So, you fantasized about having a meal with me,” he says, inviting me to elaborate.
Feeling the warm glow of the morning after, I go for it. “I did. I wanted to grab some food and get to know you more,” I admit as my heart thumps a little harder.
He smiles like he can’t quite believe I told him that. “What did you want to ask about?”
“I had a bunch?—”
The doorbell rings, and he sits up straight, alert. “Someone’s here?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I know who’s at the door. I pat his thigh, then hop off the stool. “I got you something.”
“You did?” He sounds enchanted.
Feeling smug, I head to the door, swing it open, and thank the Ding and Dine driver for the coffee, adding a big tip.
“Thanks, man,” he says with a grateful smile. “Go Hawks!”
“Go Hawks,” I repeat as he bounds down the steps and out to his wheels. I shut the door and return to the kitchen, presenting the cup to Beck.
He takes it and regards it with surprise. “You got me a coffee?” he asks, despite the evidence in his hands.
“It’s from Doctor Insomnia’s. The way you like it,” I say, nerves tapping on my shoulder from his uncertain reaction.
Beck goes strangely quiet.
Shit. Did I go too far into the boyfriend zone? “Did I get your order wrong?” I ask, staying focused on the coffee.
“No. I just...” He sets the cup down on the counter and clears his throat.
My stomach sinks.
When he raises his face, his eyes are sparkling. “It’s great, Jason,” Beck says, voice thick with emotion. Then he cups my cheek and presses a tender kiss to my lips.
“It’s just coffee,” I murmur as we end the kiss, our lips still chasing each other.
“And these are just eggs,” he says gently.
There it is. We both have our simple fantasies. We both are living them. When I sit on the stool, Beck takes a sip of the drink and then taps his finger against it. “This is the good stuff.”
See? I’d be an excellent boyfriend, even if it has to be behind closed doors, with secrets and a distinct lack of things being easy . But I refuse to let reality get me down.
“How did you feel when you threw your first touchdown?” I ask as I spear a chunk of potato.
“Psyched. I was seven or eight. My dad taught me,” he answers.
“How long does it take you to play Wordle each day?”
A smile spreads nice and slow across his lips as if he enjoys my random queries. “A couple of minutes. Do you play?”
“Nope.”
“You were playing a word game that first night I came over. What game was it?”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Just some app. Like a word find. Nothing fancy like you play.”
“You think I’m a smarty-pants,” he says with a smirk, then takes another drink of his coffee, sighing contentedly.
“Kind of.”
“You like that?”
“You know I do,” I say, then take another bite of the eggs. “What do you listen to when you work out?”
“Beethoven, alt-rock, Bob Ross, or heavy metal,” he says.
This guy is so unpredictable, and I like it. “Those are the Beck Cafferty four basic food groups when it comes to music? Also, Bob Ross ? That’s so you.”
He lifts his chin defiantly. “And what do you listen to? Wait let me guess. ‘We Are the Champions’ by Queen? ‘Time of Your Life’ by Green Day?”
I scoff. “Thank you for mocking my musical taste. For that, you’re going to need to suck my dick to see my playlist.”
He wiggles a brow. “I’m in.”
I laugh, then toss one question his way. A question that has me on the edge of my seat, hoping we can pull it off, hoping he’ll want to try. “Do you want to go to Hazel’s book signing next week?” He tenses immediately, and I quickly finish the request. “We can go as friends.”
His shoulders relax. “Like a date. But not really.”
“It’s better than nothing.”
He smiles, his tension gone now. “It’s something,” he says, and he sure likes that something.
Me too.
When we’re done eating, he stands, moves behind me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and rubs. I might purr. It feels so good. “I need to tell you something, Jason,” he rumbles near my ear.
“That sounds intense,” I say, but I’m not worried. Not yet, at least. Not as he massages my neck.
“You know my BMW?”
“I do,” I say as he moves to kiss me, sliding his mouth over to my ear.
“I got it for this.”
“What do you mean?”
He’s cautious, taking his time as he answers. But hopeful too. “After the first time I was here, I wanted to come over again. I was hoping we’d do this. See each other again that is. I didn’t get a red Porsche for many reasons, but this was the main one. I got a generic black car with tinted windows, that looks like every other car, so I could come over, spend the night, and leave unseen. Maybe that’s presumptuous.”
My stomach flips in a good way.
I spin and curl my hands onto his hips. “No. I love that,” I say, ready to cozy up to him again when I glimpse the clock on the wall. I wish I could stop time, but my dream morning is over.
“Come over Sunday night when you return. You play Los Angeles in the afternoon.”
“You know my schedule,” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “And you got a car, so we can fuck.” I slide a hand into the waistband of his jeans.
“You got me coffee,” he retorts.
“And you got a car so we can fuck,” I repeat.
“You win.”
We both win when I get down on my knees and give him a taste of what I’ll be thinking about in bed the next few nights.