Ricky’s insides convulsed. Not from panic, which has been typical since he heard the name Fantabulous! His hands needed to do something other than cut garnishes, pet Ian on the back, and lounge on his knees. He made fists of his useless meat hooks. Ironic, he needed to cook. Not just chop ingredients. He missed the magic spices and oils made with the fire. Success, measured by the intensity of the smoke in the air, so potent it assaulted your senses and salted your clothing. Last night, his clothes stank of cigarettes, lemon juice, and Drakkar Noir. This morning, he threw everything he’d worn to the reopening in a laundry bag, called the Shutters on the Beach concierge, and requested dry cleaning. Whatever was necessary to get rid of the memory of Tyler’s kiss. Erase the memory that their barback was right. Ricky gave him plenty of signs since they bonded on the patio. Maybe from the moment they met. Kitty teased him and warned him. He insisted on calling him Ty. Admitted that Ty was hot. Did he overhear? Or did Kitty gossip while helping him hide his OOL tattoo?
He wanted to forget his hands. He didn’t need his Mickey Mouse watch to know the searing rays of light slashing through the cracks of the cream-colored plantation shutters meant it was almost lunch. As he sat on the matching striped armchair, listening to the ocean, a stray yet purposeful bar hit his eyes. He dipped his chin to escape it, only to stare at his no-good hands again. Phantom sensations took over. The comforting feeling of thwacking a chef’s knife on a wooden board, dicing garlic. Hearing it thwack-thwack-thwack through the cloves. Almost crying at its crisp, pungent scent. Then, using the weight of his hands to mash it until the smells became sweeter.
His noisy breathing should’ve woken Ian. He noticed him leave the bar at 2:00 AM. Ricky made it a rule to wake before noon, no matter what time he’d slept. He lived with a mother and cousins who frowned on sleeping in. On idle hands. He rattled around and made coffee. He thought about breaking the coffee pot or dumping the bag of gourmet beans to wake up his boyfriend. Instead, he ground his teeth and snooped for his unmissable snoring. It was a comfort when it tickled the nape of his neck. Now, the silence tempted Ricky to barge into the bedroom. Pick up where they left off. Not their mutual deal to steer clear of Only One Love, but that Ian broke it. But he’d act hurt, explain his lie away, and buy him whatever the love of his life desired. Except for peace. Or a kitchen.
He put away the extra pillow and comforter, smoothed the corner of the couch he’d slept on. No evidence he’d returned to their suite. Except he’d traded last night’s yucky clothes for an immaculate terry robe. His plaid Tommy Hilfiger boxers weren’t passable as trunks, so he could hang out at the pool or beach. He knocked on the bedroom door, sniveling, “You win. I slept on the couch. I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to get some clothes. We’re open this weekend.”
No one answered. He cracked open the door. A jolt ran through his whole body. The California King-size bed wasn’t slept in. White, Terry towels were folded in their cabinets or hung on the side of the gigantic soaking tub. The generous complimentary toiletries in the cabinet above it, still complete. Ian hadn’t come home. It filled him with both anger and fear. Was he stupid enough to meet Dobbs wherever OOL’s hideout was? Of course, that was where Tommy Glock would be–diving into trouble despite knowing it’s a trap. And no Joey…no Cheese…to knock common sense into an impulsive Mac. No Jake. He knew they were TV characters, but Ricky’s heart broke nevertheless, as if every 80s kid’s best friend, Joey DeMarco, died with his actor. His poor Mama Carol, and younger sister, Eliza.
With shaky hands, he grabbed a towel, sat at the edge of the marble tub, and cried his eyes out. He might not have known Jake, but Joey, not Tommy, was 14-year-old Ricardo Luna’s crush. He knew Tommy’s precarious nature was to grab attention. They addressed it in the pilot that was repeated during his first American summer. Only child Tommy’s folks were wealthy compared to Joey‘s working single mom. Joey’s mom always had money problems, but spoiled her kids with attention. Love. Tommy’s parents only paid attention when their son was in trouble. The writers stretched it successfully for four years.
“I made you cry…” Ian waited in the doorway, watching Ricky. He cried himself.
“I was home by 5:00 AM.” He threw a towel at him, then held his head in his knees. “I slept on the couch to let you sleep in. No problem. You were at the police station early yesterday. Why couldn’t you call to let me know you weren’t coming home?” He choked on the word he used twice now. “It’s not like you can’t.” He peeked up and stared at his right pants pocket, where the Motorola was always snug.
“I fell asleep at the–” He crossed his arms over his tummy.
“Where?” he asked before Ian finished.
“I was safe. I can’t tell you right now. I’m sorry about everything.”
“Don’t tell me you already broke your promise not to pursue Treat Dobbs? How was spending the night at Only One Love?” His throat clenched up. Ian could have slept wherever OOL ran from, but he knew it was to investigate Jake’s would-be killer. Didn’t he just cry over his Glock character? Ricky may have slept at home, but hours before that, he kissed Ty. Ty kissed him. Like Ian cared about the details. He’d been unfaithful again.
“I wasn’t anywhere near Treat or OOL. This has gone on too far. I was saving this as a surprise for Valentine’s Day.”
“Don’t book us anywhere. Kitty has a yearly anti-Valentine’s night that brings in business.” He felt emptier. He always took the night off cooking for others to make an extra special meal for them. It didn’t matter, considering he’d been without a kitchen forever. His hands trembled. He stood up, turned on the hot water, and washed his hands. The steam and French Lavender scent of the soap calmed him.
“Where I was isn’t so far,” he said. “I’d like to take you there, but I don’t want to ruin things. We can take my Jeep. B-B-B-ut.”
But?” There it was. His heart raced. Ian Hornsby’s unconditional love on one condition. He forgot if Jake’s letter mentioned it. Certainly, it wasn’t solely for Ricky.
“I need to blindfold you. I don’t want to ruin your surprise. I know you’ll love it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he groaned. “I’ve had enough surprises for a lifetime, Ian. Tell me where we’re going.”
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