Max - Bey Deckard Page 0,19

He went back into the master bedroom, picked the blue shirt because it matched his eyes, and glanced at his reflection again before he left to go greet his guest.

Did the man in the mirror look scared or was that excitement he saw?

Buttoning his shirt, Crane walked slowly down the stairs, his heart pounding and fingers clumsy. Max was still in the kitchen, putting things into the fridge from a black cloth grocery bag. “What’s that?”

Max turned with a bright smile. “I thought I’d make us supper.” He reached for Mary’s yellow apron and tied it around his waist. “Lobster ravioli with a white wine sauce.”

Crane gave a small nod. “Sounds delicious.”

Dark brows pinched together over his nose, Max tilted his head. “You don’t sound enthusiastic. What’s up? Here, you’ve got this wrong—” Max reached for Crane’s chest, and he tensed, taking a half step back. “Look, you’re buttoned all ass-backwards.” Crane looked down at himself and saw that he’d missed a buttonhole. Max quickly fixed his mistake and then lifted his eyes to Crane’s. “There. All better.” Biting his bottom lip, Max stared up at him adoringly and patted the front of his shirt. “Geez, you got all gussied up for me? You smell amazing.”

Uncomfortable, Crane pushed Max’s hand away and went past him to get himself a beer. When he saw the bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée Brut chilling, he shook his head.

“What? Tomorrow is the two-month anniversary of when we met. I thought we’d celebrate a little,” said Max, laughing as he slid the big kitchen knife out of the block. “And it’s not like I spent any money on it… I took it from Marc’s cellar.”

“Hm.” Crane grabbed a can of Czechvar and cracked it open. Taking a sip of beer, he went around to sit on one of the kitchen stools to watch Max get supper ready. It felt utterly surreal having Max in his personal space, like things were happening without his control.

What control?

Max wielded the kitchen knife with consummate skill, and Crane added “cooking” to the scant list of things he had learned about the young man during their last few blowjob-therapy-blowjob sessions. Other things he had gleaned were that Max owned a condo by the canal, paid for by his stepfather; he had recently completed a bachelor’s degree in sociology; and he made miniatures for a popular board game company, even though he didn’t need the money. Max looked up from the parsley he was chopping, the sharp blade making quick work of the green leaves without his supervision. Crane would have cut off a finger by now.

“I’m glad I brought my own supplies,” Max said conversationally. “Your fridge is all mustard and jam. I take it neither of you cook?”

“I can make spaghetti.”

“What about Mrs. Crane?”

“I don’t want to talk about Mary with you,” Crane said tersely.

The knife stopped, and Max stared at him without expression for a few seconds. Then he shrugged, setting a big garlic clove on the cutting board. “Suit yourself.” He slammed his hand down on the flat of the blade, startling Crane. If Max was trying to rattle him, it was working, judging by how fast his heart was going. Max winked and lifted the knife—the paper-thin peel had separated from the crushed clove.

Crane took a big swig of beer to calm his nerves. “How did you get in here?”

“The door was unlocked.” Max crouched to look around in the lower cupboards for something.

He was lying, Crane had locked the door himself, but he decided to play along. “Did anyone see you?”

Max straightened, brandishing a cast-iron skillet. He looked faintly insulted. “What do you think?” He set the pan on the stove and retrieved a little bottle of oil from his shopping bag. “What’s the deal with the mile-high fence?”

“Ah. The neighbour,” Crane said, curling his lip. “He’s a… difficult man.”

“You don’t get along?”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Crane gave Max a wry smirk. “Honestly, had we known we were going to be living next door to that ignorant sack of shit, I don’t think we’d have bought the place.”

“Hey, Doc, don’t hold back on my account,” said Max, chuckling.

The sauce cooking in the pan started to smell terrific as Crane told him about all the problems he’d had with their neighbour Mr. Bertrand. It had started off small, with passive-aggressive notes about the Cranes’ English-only welcome mat, but soon Mary and he had to deal with Bertrand calling the cops on them any time they had