“I can handle it, Sy. Whaddya got?”
He doesn’t answer right away and instead transfers the perfectly grilled chicken onto the cutting board before returning to the counter.
I stand next to him, but I know better than to rush him.
“It’s your naivete that scares your barber,” he finally says,still talking to the cutting board. “Also, you should wait a few more minutes before slicing these up.”
I need a second to make the connection from the start of our conversation to now. I stare at the side of Silas’s head as he pushes the cutting board toward me, then whistles for Cupcake as he angles toward the elevator.
“Wait! What am I most naïve about? What’s my biggest blind spot?”
Silas and Cup stop in front of the elevator doors. As if coming to a conclusion, he looks at me over his shoulder.
“Maybe you should start with your dads.”
9
TRUETT
You knowhow when something’s on your mind, you start seeing it everywhere? Like that time I was looking for my car, and suddenly, every other car on the road was a classic Mustang.
This is like that, only way less pleasant: Rami Bash is suddenly everywhere, and it’s getting ridiculous.
My shop isn’t that far from where he lives, and I’m sure we hang out in a lot of the same places, but until this week, I’d never run into him in the wild. Now I’ve seen him at the grocery store twice and had to slip out before he saw me.
I swear, it’s like he’s following me.
Mostly, though, every time I see him, guilt winds its way around my insides. It’s enough to make me want to run him down and apologize. Explain that I never treat lovers that way, or anyone, really.
Only, the more I’ve had time to think about it, the more I realize I was desperate to get him out of the shop because I didn’t want to do something stupid—like look into his gorgeous eyes for too long and wind up falling in love with the man.
That’s obviously ridiculous on its face, and no doubt theresult of the flood of hormones that got dumped into my body after coming so hard I nearly fucking passed out.
No way in hell I’ll be explaining any of that to him.
While I’d been able to avoid a face-to-face run-in at the grocery store, I’m not able to do so now. We’re both at the BBQ for Queer Kids annual cookout at Fiesta Gardens, and I’m competing in the amateur pit master contest being held under the big pavilion.
Guess who’s one of the judges? I doubt Rami knows how to operate a grill, much less judge a BBQ contest, but here we are.
I watch as he makes his way around to each contestant, keeping my hat pulled down low. They all recognize him from social media and are dazzled by his beauty, not to mention charmed by his genuine warmth. He takes his time with each table, asking the contestants about their techniques.
From my vantage point, I can tell which entries he likes and which he isn’t as keen on. By the time he arrives at the neighboring table, I’m going out of my skin, wishing I’d left early.
After eating my neighbor’s barbecue—oof, Rami doesnotlike this plate—he finally spots me and does a double-take. Even after he’s finished chatting, he hangs back. I adjust my brim and catch his eye, and he finally rocks forward and approaches my table.
“Oh hey, Truett,” Rami says, swallowing thickly. “I…I didn’t realize you were competing this year.”
“Yep.” I point to the compact smoker I brought with me. “Bought this for myself last summer and have been experimenting with flavor profiles ever since.”
I live in the tiny apartment attached to my shop—fine, it’s technically an office—and I’ve got two dedicated parking spaces, one of which I’ve turned into an unofficial sort of outdoor lounge area.
Is it legal? No, but thankfully, the people in my neighborhood know how to keep their mouths shut.
“Oh? What’s today’s flavor profile?” he asks, accepting the sample-size paper plate from me.
“Classic Texas with a hint of something special,” I answer, grateful for both the shade and the cross breeze that cools my heated face.
He takes a bite, then tilts his head as he chews.
