Straight Up Read online

  Dread had filtered through Malcolm. No one had ever asked him such a thing straight out. Malcolm had never considered it, either. And now that he was…well. Malcolm wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be feeling around the women he dated. And that didn’t seem right.

  Now and then, something passed over Malcolm when he looked at another person. A frisson of energy that made his skin heat and his heart pound a little faster. That energy felt good. Those moments were rare, though, and Malcolm knew from the way other people spoke that such feelings should be his norm and not his exception. Even odder, the feelings only happened around people he knew well.

  He’d known that energy sometimes around Bethany, a high school girlfriend, and regularly around Liz, a young woman he’d dated during college. Malcolm had cared about Liz and she’d cared for him, too. He’d seen it clearly in her eyes and felt it in her touch. Liz had also loved having intercourse and they’d had sex often. While Malcolm had enjoyed getting off very much, making Liz happy had far outweighed any real urge of his own.

  He’d been drawn to Liz, almost pulled, like iron to a magnet. Unfortunately, Malcolm felt a similar pull around Carter, which only added to his confusion. Because that meant Malcolm could be bisexual, right? Except he didn’t think that fit either. Malcolm had kissed a guy once during college. The guy was handsome, all dark eyes and a wicked smile, and they’d been out dancing. They’d both been loose on a lot of drinks when the guy had leaned in and laid one on Malcolm. Malcolm had kissed him back, but there’d been nothing deep about it. Just the mechanics of mouths sliding together. There’d been nothing deep with Tessa, either, only a weird, blank disinterest that unsettled Malcolm enough to make him want to stop.

  ‘Mal?’ Carter had prompted, his voice gentle.

  ‘I’m not attracted to Tessa. Or anyone, really.’ Malcolm had pursed his lips, his lunch turning leaden in his belly. That might not have been entirely true, but he couldn’t tell his friend that. ‘That’s weird, right?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Or not in the way I believe you mean, at least.’ Carter had folded up the wax paper that had been wrapped around the hotdog and tossed it in a trash can as they passed. ‘Have you ever considered that you could be ace?’

  Something in Malcolm had clicked in that moment, like a key sliding home in a lock. He’d started researching asexuality and talking with Carter about the things he’d learned, and the more Malcolm had talked, the more things he’d recognized about himself.

  He rarely checked people out. Flirting was a language he neither spoke nor understood. Outside of his family and friends, he’d never been much into being touched, Liz being a notable exception. While being with Liz had been satisfying for Malcolm, he suspected the flashes of energy—the pull—he sometimes experienced around Carter meant something, too.

  Malcolm wasn’t interested in changing anything about himself—he didn’t see why he should. And that set him apart from the people around him. They didn’t just like having sex—they actively wanted it, while Malcolm thought about it very seldom if at all. Understanding as much through the lens of asexuality soothed him in ways he hadn’t known he’d needed. And while he was still learning where he fell on the ace spectrum, he did belong there, somewhere.

  Unfortunately, Malcolm had yet to figure out how to talk to anyone except Carter about his journey.

  Kim beamed at him now. “If you fold up that bike of yours and put it in my trunk, I’ll give you a ride to the ferry terminal.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Mom.”

  “I want to. Plus, we can make a stop at the café on Bay Street.”

  “The café that sells used books?”

  “That’s the one!” Kim gave Malcolm’s arm a squeeze. “I’ve been dying to find a new book series to start. The café also makes the best smoothies and I swear I’ve had the worst craving all week.”

  More money you can’t afford to spend.

  Malcolm didn’t give voice to the thought. He couldn’t bear the idea of hurting his mom, no matter how frustrating these visits became.

  * * * *

  Between the ferry ride and a stop at home to leave his bike and change clothes, Malcolm didn’t board a train uptown until close to seven and he spent most of the ride messaging with Jackson about their mom and how not ready she was to file her taxes.

  She’ll blow me off next weekend, Jackson wrote, words that made Malcolm sigh.

  So we try again the weekend after, he replied, and the weekend after that.

  Until she files an extension. Like last year and the year before that. Wtf knows.

  Malcolm could imagine his brother’s snort perfectly. Jackson’s next message made the weight in his chest press even harder.

  Should we get Dad involved?

  Malcolm’s thumbs flew over the phone’s screen.

  We can’t do that. Let’s just get Mom to 4/15 and go from there.

  As the train’s intercom system announced its approach to Morningside Heights, happiness surged inside Malcolm for the first time that day. He signed off with Jackson and the tension knotting his insides melted as he exited the train.

  Minutes later, he was inside Lock & Key, a homey, ordinary pub staffed by bartenders and servers who knew Malcolm by name. He exchanged greetings on his way past the bar, then walked through a plain door and into a hallway with an old-fashioned wall phone beside a blank door at its end.

  A smile crossed Malcolm’s face as he ran his fingers along the right side of the blank door and pressed a catch release that revealed a secret staircase. Under had been in business for over six months when Malcolm had first descended those steps, and his friends had already built a loyal client base. He’d felt immediately at home inside the speakeasy’s confines and Under had gained a special place in his heart. The friendships Malcolm had formed with the men who gathered behind its door had made him love it even more.

  Under’s door swung open at Malcolm’s knock, and the rattle of ice in a shaker and the murmur of voices filled the air. Jim Taylor, who headed security for the speakeasy, gestured Malcolm inside.

  “Hey, man. What took you so long?”

  Malcolm shook Jim’s hand. “Eh, ferries and trains—you know how it is.”

  “You know I do.” Jim closed the door behind them with a smile. “I was back up in Boston to see my family earlier this week and the transit system there is even worse.”

  They chatted as they walked toward the long bar that ran the length of the room, and though Malcolm had been inside Under dozens of times, he admired his surroundings regardless.

  Under’s low-key luxury imparted both comfort and sophistication. House music throbbed through the speaker system, running like a heartbeat beneath the customers’ conversations, and sleek leather seating areas dotted the wide, open space. Shelves lined the wall behind the bar, backlit with an amber glow that highlighted bottles of high-end liquors, as well as the bartenders who mixed the craft cocktails that put the speakeasy on every Top Ten Bars To Visit list in the city.

  A cluster of familiar figures in the center of the bar turned and the bright expressions that greeted Malcolm sent a flush of pleasure through him.

  “You made it!”

  Co-owner Kyle McKee smiled at Malcolm from behind the bar. He extended a hand over its top, his touch sending a pleasant jolt along Malcolm’s arm, while the others around them patted his shoulders. Those small contacts deepened the warmth growing in Malcolm’s chest.

  “About time.” Kyle’s business partner, Jesse Murtagh, eyed Malcolm with a grin. Jesse sat beside his ginger-haired partner, Cam Lewis, and both swiveled their seats Malcolm’s way. “I was starting to think we’d need to send out a search party.”

  Cam’s lips curved in a smirk. “He’d have done it, too. You know how much Jes likes to make a scene.”

  Jesse poked Cam in the ribs and made him squirm. “You’re one to talk.”

  “He’s got you there, Cam.” That from Will Martin, who sat on Cam’s right. “Y
ou’re the one who DJs under a spotlight three times a week.”

  “Says the professor who’s shacked up with a senator,” Malcolm teased. Will’s boyfriend, Senator David Mori, was the most progressive member of the GOP in New York’s State Senate. As a gay republican, he drew considerable media attention and he and Will appeared regularly in the society section of the city’s papers.

  Malcolm’s words drew a fist bump from Kyle’s boyfriend, Luka Clarke, who leaned against the bar beside Will. Luka and Kyle had just spent a week in Nicaragua on vacation, and while Kyle’s sunburn had already faded, Luka’s golden dark skin was still beautifully browned and made his eyes appear extra blue. Even the tight coils of his hair seemed tipped in gold.

  “Kyle mixed up something special for you.” Luka picked up a rocks glass Kyle set down and handed it off to Malcolm. “It’s a Tequila Mockingbird and so delicious.”

  Malcolm laugh-groaned at the terrible pun. “What’s in it?” he asked.

  “Don Julio Silver tequila, Aperol, basil and grapefruit,” Kyle said. He tapped the silvery scar on the right side of his chin with his index finger. “Nothing too complex that you lose track of the tequila flavor.”

  “Sounds great.” Malcolm spotted Senator Mori walking toward them from the back of the room and smiled.

  “I’m sure everyone’s already given you crap about running late, so I’ll skip it.” David shook his hand with an answering grin. “Carter and Ri are on their way out—they ordered food from the kitchen upstairs and wanted to make sure it got down now that you’re here.”

  Heck yes. Malcolm’s last meal had been a jar of overnight oats with his morning coffee and his stomach rumbled so hard he wondered that no one heard it over the music. The idea that he’d kept his friends waiting pricked at his conscience, though.

  “I didn’t realize seven o’clock was a set time, guys. I would have left Staten Island earlier if I’d known.”

  “No big thing, babe.” Riley Porter-Wright leaned up to buss Malcolm’s cheek, then stepped back so his fiancé could do the same. “We’re just glad you could make it.”

  Malcolm smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Riley’s and Carter’s easy affection gave him a lightness he loved, and he basked in the sensations. Outside of his family, only they and Kyle made Malcolm feel like this. “What’s the occasion anyway?”

  Carter smiled so the corners of his pretty hazel eyes crinkled. “We’re celebrating your birthday. Which, lucky for us, falls on a Saturday this year.” He accepted a fresh drink from Kyle and held it up, the others mimicking his actions. “Happy Birthday, Malcolm, and many happy returns.”

  Malcolm’s face blazed as the whole bar toasted his health. “Holy crap. And thank you. I’m gonna kill you guys later.” He couldn’t fight his grin. Or his delight at putting Staten Island behind him—at least for a while—so he could let go in the company of his favorite people.

  Chapter Two

  “I know this is a rush job, so you should refer to the plan I’ve made.” Stuart Morgan nodded at the sheets of paper clipped to the ticket rack above the workstation. “The recipes you’re familiar with—the plating will be a bit different, however. I need small portions, no more than two bites, and everything tidy. We don’t want food landing on the designer dress of a woman who wants to write a fat check to Corporate Equality.” Everyone laughed softly. “Three key words for these passed hors d’oeuvres are small, simple, neat. You got that?”

  “Yes, Chef,” the small cluster of men and women arranged in a semi-circle in front of him chorused.

  Stuart nodded, dismissing them, and they scurried to retrieve the serving dishes and pull prepped ingredients from the walk-in cooler across the kitchen. He’d asked them to come in early to prepare the tasting menu for a last-minute job he’d agreed to do, and this would be a long day for all of them.

  “You don’t mind me taking this on, do you?” he asked the dark-haired woman to his right. She was surveying the kitchen like a ship’s captain, and the comparison wasn’t so far off, given how orderly the space was and the way it ran like a well-oiled machine.

  Marisol King, executive chef and owner of the Tribeca restaurant where Stuart worked, let out a little scoff. “Why would I? I’ve never minded you doing these catering gigs. You pay for the supplies and the equipment, along with a wage to my staff, so we all make a nice bit of extra money. It’s a good deal for everyone.”

  Stuart chuckled. Marisol was more than a boss. She’d taken Stuart under her wing after he’d arrived in New York eleven years ago from the small town in Utah where he’d grown up. Stuart had worked as a dishwasher and a cook and had always wanted to go to culinary school but, once there, found he was woefully unprepared for the rigors of the Culinary Institute of America. He’d almost quit half a dozen times. As one of his instructors, Marisol had seen something in him and helped Stuart gain confidence. He’d graduated with the skills and grades that allowed him to get his foot in the door at his first fine dining restaurant.

  After opening her own restaurant, Marisol had hired Stuart as her sous chef. And if she was King’s captain, Stuart was the first mate. He oversaw everything for the food preparation and cooking. When Marisol was away, he took charge.

  “You’ve worked with Carter Hamilton before. Gave him some private lessons, if I remember right.” She waggled her eyebrows at Stuart.

  “Private cooking lessons, yes—not any other kind. The man wanted to learn to cook to impress his kids and his boyfriend. Besides, I’m not in contact with Carter on this. I’ve been talking to someone he works with named Malcolm Elliott. “Speaking of which…” Stuart glanced at the wall clock. “He’ll be here any minute. I better put on a fresh uniform.” He signaled James, the garde manger chef in charge of salads and appetizers. “You got this?”

  “Absolutely, Chef.”

  This side catering was a delicate balancing act, forcing some flexibility into the typically rigid hierarchy of the kitchen. People were pulling double-duty and stepping outside their typical roles, things Marisol saw as opportunities for the staff to learn skills they wouldn’t otherwise. Not every executive chef would have felt the same.

  Stuart walked down the hall toward the cramped office he shared with Hugh—the other sous chef there at King’s. The rest of the staff had a locker room they shared but Stuart was grateful to have this space. It was a small oasis of calm after the loud, chaotic kitchen. A desk took up the majority of the space and behind the desk were two even tinier closets. Stuart’s held his uniforms, clogs, aprons and knife kit. With a small smile, he reached for one of his black chef’s coats.

  Stuart was proud of his uniform. He’d worked his ass off to earn it. He liked managing the staff of chefs, cooks and kitchen workers at King’s, as well as helping create dishes for the restaurant menu. While many chefs hoped to work their way up to an executive position, Stuart wasn’t sure he’d ever want to own his own place. Becoming an owner would push him into an office, away from the noise and energy of the kitchen where he thrived on the challenge of keeping the people under him working like a well-oiled machine.

  Marisol had asked Stuart about owning his own place once and he hadn’t known how to answer. A part of him liked the idea of total creative control. But Marisol wasn’t the sole owner of King’s—she had other investors to answer to. There was always someone else to answer to.

  When Marisol had opened her place, she’d chosen her investors wisely and deliberately created a different type of atmosphere that did away with many of the traditional unspoken rules of the restaurant business. She paid everyone, from her sous chefs down to her dishwashers and waitstaff, a living wage and gave them more reasonable working hours.

  Most restaurateurs easily worked eighty-plus hours a week and most sous chefs like Stuart worked at least seventy. The hours took a toll on Marisol’s relationship with her wife, too, and Stuart’s own schedule had strained the few relationships he’d attempted over the years.

  Her unorthodox approach
was a risky move in a field that had incredibly tight profit margins. Creative marketing that appealed to people willing and able to pay top dollar for ethical business practices had ensured a steady stream of customers. So far, it had paid off and Stuart was grateful to work for someone like her. Whether or not he ever attempted to open a business like that himself someday…well that remained to be seen. For now, he was happy at Kings.

  Stuart buttoned his black uniform jacket, rolled the sleeves halfway up his forearms and stepped back to eye himself in the mirror. He smoothed his thick, dark hair back from his forehead.

  Hair neat, beard trimmed, tatts on display. Check, check and check.

  He had no idea what Malcolm looked like, but he had a damn sexy phone voice and Stuart wasn’t about to go into this meeting by putting anything less than his best foot forward. Besides, he represented King’s and respected his job, the restaurant and his boss too much to let them down.

  * * * *

  “Stuart Morgan.” He held out a hand to Malcom, who gave it a firm shake. He wasn’t sorry to see that the rest of Malcolm matched his voice. Damn sexy indeed.

  “Malcolm Elliott.”

  “Nice to put a face to the great voice I’ve been talking to on the phone,” Stuart said with a smile.

  Malcolm’s blue eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “It’s, uh, a pleasure to meet you as well.”

  “Please, follow me.” Stuart ushered Malcolm into the restaurant and toward the table he’d prepared.

  He wasn’t here to flirt. At least, not just to flirt.

  With hours to go before the restaurant opened, it was peaceful inside the front of the house. Wood floors, brick walls and black ceilings gave the place a modern rustic vibe. Black metal lanterns hung from the ceiling, lighting the polished white plates on the long wooden tables and making the flatware and crystal gleam.