Chapter 2

Between the first ring and second, I lifted the receiver off its cradle and said, “Hello.”

“Hatch…we need to talk,” Jay Manson, one of my oldest friends, blurted into my right ear. Always hyper and a little too much to handle.

“Why do we need to talk?”

“Put your spatula and icing down and listen.”

Although Jay was almost forty, a handsome thirty-eight-year-old with blue eyes and blond hair, he acted as if he were twenty: immature, foolish, and wild, always looking for a good time with anyone. The guy had never grown up, and never would. Living off his tycoon daddy’s money from Mason Beer, Jay pretty much did nothing with his life except drink, eat, and enjoy night after night of random sex with a variety of men, most of whom he didn’t know their names. Loose, funny, and demanding, I couldn’t believe he and I were friends of the same circle since we were so different. Friendship could be like that, though: unconditional, confusing, and nothing average.

“I’m listening,” I told him.

I pictured his handsome grin of all-white teeth and narrow lips as he said on his end of the line, probably at a bar, somewhere in downtown Channing by Lake Erie, “I’m seeing the Boulder twins tonight.”

I rolled my eyes, smiled, unsurprised. Robby Bold and Kent Herr owned and operated their own contracting company, Boulder Boys. Both were gay, players, and studs. Some believed they were twins—Jay included—with their molten brown eyes and cinnamon-colored hair. Both were six-three, muscular, and sported clefts in their chins. Rumor had it in Channing’s small gay community they were a couple. Another rumor suggested the two picked up guys like Jay, using the “somebody” for his handsome skin, ultimate pleasure, and then got rid of the man by morning; game over.

“Just be careful, Jay. Don’t do anything unsafe. Do you hear me?”

“Everything about my life is unsafe. We both know that.”

Right again. Damn. Even I couldn’t get him to settle down, grow up, and become serious about life. Once he nailed the Boulder guys, he’d move onto his next sexual feat, new drugs, and dangerous whatnots.

If Florence, Jay’s mother, called me and said, “Jay’s in trouble, Hatch. Can you help me?” I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least. And I would have helped Jay, as best I could.

Jay chuckled, paused, and added, “Some dude’s giving me the fuck-eye, and I have to go.”

The “fuck-eye” was his way of saying someone was attracted to him. It meant that the dude solidly stared at him, started to visually eat him up and down, and probably wanted to sleep with him, unwilling to learn his name.

“Have fun, Jay. Like I said, just be careful.”

“Will do, man. Call you later.”

Of course, he would, with scathing details about his sexual adventures, his fun, binge drinking, drugging, and whatnots of his active world with the Boulder guys. Jesus, we reallywere different, weren’t we? Of course, we were.

* * * *

I gave the rose water tea cookies recipe an approval and high rating, turned in my positive report to my boss, Regina Bliss, at Ravenous, boxed the two dozen cookies in an aluminum tin, and set the box aside.

I took the call when Michael Risk, another friend, phoned. He was in tears, heaving.

“Calm down…calm down. What’s the problem?”

“Everything’s ruined, Hatch. Everything. I can’t make things better.”

“Are you okay? What are you talking about? Michael, tell me what’s going on.”

He sounded rushed, panting, and beaten. “Just come over. Please, be a friend and just please come over.”

My heart dropped, and panic came over me at the possibilities of his emergency: his husband could have had a heart attack, or Mitzy, his yappy little dog of one hundred and fourteen years, could have taken a stroke on the kitchen floor. Maybe his mother, Melinda, found out she had breast cancer? Or maybe Michael had learned that his hubby had lost his job and they were shit broke.

“I’ll be right over,” I hurriedly answered and ended the call.

* * * *

Michael lived six doors down from me on Heshner Street in Channing. His Tudor seemed larger than it was from a street view. It looked haunting due to its grey shutters and black brick walls. A wrought-iron gate decorated the front yard, and dark limestone created a walkway to the abode’s tiny front porch and door.

I let myself in and discovered Michael kneeling on his kitchen floor, crying. Surrounded in flour, chocolate batter, aluminum circular tins, and sugar, he looked up at me with his baby blues and sniffled.

“It’s over, Hatch. The five-tier wedding cake will never be done on time. I’ve ruined everything. As you can see, it’s a disaster. Everything has crashed around me.”

A chuckle lifted at the back of my throat because of his emotional breakdown over a baking incident, but I kept it there. At his side, practically on my knees, I chose to console the drama queen who could have passed as Justin Hartley’s twin because of his light brown hair, matching scruff on his chin and cheeks, and caramel-colored eyes. I helped him off the floor, hugged him, and rubbed his back.