Of Cocoa and Men 01

Of Cocoa and Men

By Vic Winter

At First Sight

Dayton slunk into The Silver Kitchen Diner and took a booth at the far end, his back to the wall. It was late, or rather very early -- not quite four a.m., and the only other patrons in the place were the deputy on duty sitting at the counter and flirting with Betsy as he drank his coffee, and the old guy with the crazy gray whiskers who sat in one of the booths most nights, drinking cup after cup of the high octane mix they called coffee here, complaining of insomnia.

Betsy left her post behind the counter with a flirty smile for the deputy, her coffee pot in hand. Like the diner itself, Betsy never changed. Her brown uniform with the odd green piping fit exactly the same over her too thin frame as it had the first day he’d come in. That had been the day he’d turned eighteen and he’d left the pack land like his feet were on fire. He was a little older now, but he still was a lone wolf, separate from the pack.

“Coffee?” She hefted the pot toward the thick, ceramic mug in front of Dayton and he shook his head, turned the cup over so she couldn’t fill it; he knew from experience that just saying, “no” wasn’t enough -- the woman had mad skills with her coffee pot. She raised an eyebrow at him, her question clear.

“Hot chocolate, with whipped cream on top.” Like it was ever anything else when it wasn’t coffee.

Her other eyebrow went up to join the first. “You sure?”

He growled at her, letting his teeth show. What he did or did not eat -- drink, whatever -- was none of her business. Of course, try telling that to anyone in a small town and they’d keep on sticking their nose in regardless. It was why he did his man-trolling outside the town limits. Way outside. “I asked for it, didn’t I?”

She shrugged, clearly unimpressed with his attitude. “You did. You want a slice of chocolate pie with that, too, or how about some chocolate pudding? Maybe a brownie with chocolate ice cream and fudge sauce?”

He shook his head. “Just the drink.” He was jonesing for the sweet, cocoa-y stuff, but that didn’t mean he was going to gorge on it. Of course, even just the drink was more than he should have. Canines and chocolate just didn’t mix. He loved the stuff, though; he was addicted to it. Besides, it hadn’t killed him yet. Most times it barely even gave him a stomachache anymore, and he had a healthy stock of Tums in his pocket, even more in the saddle bag on his Hog.

“You sure now?” Betsy was clearly bored if she was messing with him instead of clearing off to get him his hot chocolate. Of course it was old Deputy Benjamin on duty tonight and not the young buck Sheriff Bingham had somehow conned into joining his force a year or so ago. Betsy wasn’t so quick with the coffee pot or the butting her nose in when Deputy Steve was on duty.

Dayton stared her down. He was a werewolf -- he had a hell of a stare. It didn’t hurt that they were coming up to the full moon, too, making the beast very close to the surface.

Betsy finally backed down. Sort of. “How about some marshmallows?”

He made a face and replied curtly. “No.” Marshmallows were disgusting bits of pure sugar. Overly sweet and stale, they did nothing but dilute his hot chocolate. Whipping cream, on the other hand, added to the richness of it.

“Whatever.” She headed back to the counter via Insomnia Guy, pouring the last of the sludge from her pot into his coffee cup.

The old dude giggled as he thanked her, the sound more than half crazy. The guy needed a new hobby, Dayton figured as he picked at the chipped Formica in front of him. Of course, so did he.

If he didn’t want the chocolate so badly, he wouldn’t stay. But he did.

Dayton had two weaknesses, and neither of them were things that a wolf should want. Chocolate and men. Human men. Tonight he’d tried indulging in the latter, only to be shot down by a pretty little cock-tease who’d gotten him all riled up and then walked out the door with a girl of all things. Now, Dayton didn’t have a problem with females -- he liked them well enough. She-wolves were fierce, proud and beautiful, and human women were generally far easier to get along with than the men -- not to mention often also beautiful and he could appreciate that esthetically like he would a painting, if he was into art, which he wasn’t -- but he wasn’t interested in mating with them. He wasn’t even interested in having sex without strings with them.

Sex without strings with men, on the other hand, was something Dayton could get into. A lot. Oh sure, his kind mated for life, but there was no rule that said you couldn’t have a lot of really hot sex while you were looking for said mate.

The pack didn’t like it, though. They didn’t like that he had a lot of sex with a bunch of different partners. They didn’t like that those partners were men. They didn’t like him having sex with human men. As he’d explained to them, though, Dayton knew that his mate was not only a male, but a human male at that, so if he was going to find the man, he needed to look among human men. He was pretty sure they disapproved of that more than any of the rest of it.

It didn’t bother him, though -- it wasn’t like he spent a lot of time with the rest of his pack. He was far too much of the lone wolf type to enjoy spending a lot of time with a bunch of other wolves, all jostling for the best position next to Donald, their Alpha, who, quite frankly, Dayton didn’t like. The guy was too... beta wolfy.

And if he had to endure one more lecture about finding a nice bitch and settling down with her, giving her a few litters, he was going to tear Donald’s throat out. Which would make
him
Alpha, and that was a job that he most definitely did not want. Not now, not ever. He’d never even dreamed of wanting it when he was a young pup cutting his first set of teeth.

Nope, lone wolf was the way he rolled. And that’s the way he liked it. Well, lone and with a mug of hot chocolate in front of him.

He put his nose in the air, scenting for it. There, faintly from the direction of the kitchen, came the smell he was looking for. It was only a few moments later before he heard the clink of the mug being set on the pass and Betsy came around from the kitchen to pick it up and bring it over to him.

She plonked it down in front of him, and he held his breath a moment as it sloshed around, nearly spilling. He didn’t lose a drop, though, and he wrapped his hands around the warm mug, grumbling out his thanks. Her grunt was equally laconic and then she was gone again to settle behind the counter and shoot the breeze with the deputy. She’d forgotten the whipped cream, but now that he had the chocolate in front of him, he didn’t want to be disturbed and decided to cut his loses.

Leaning over the mug, Dayton breathed in deeply, the chocolate steam filling his nose. Sweet with a hint of bitter and the very faintest underlying richness from the milk Betsy had made it with. That was almost as good as drinking it. Almost.

He didn’t drink it right away, though. He wanted it to last. The diner would start to fill up around six thirty, seven in the morning, the smells and looks from the other patrons chasing him away, but until then he could keep his ass planted and not be bothered and slowly savor the sweet drink.

It was probably too hot to drink yet, anyway; if he burned his tongue on the first mouthful, he wouldn’t be able to taste the rest of it and that would be a crying shame, not to mention a waste of decent hot chocolate.

He kept blowing on the liquid in his mug, making the steam rise up, bringing with it the yummy scent over and over again. When it had cooled a little and he couldn’t wait any longer, he took a careful sip. Oh, perfect. He took a bigger mouthful, letting the taste slide over his tongue and coat the inside of his mouth.

Managing somehow not to groan out loud, he still couldn’t keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. God, it was good. While it didn’t quite scratch the itch he’d been having all night long, it did warm him and mellow him out. The sting of rejection faded fast under the onslaught of the liquid chocolate.

Speaking of chocolate... he was about halfway through his drink when something new hit his nose. Sweet, a little spicy, all male with a lovely chocolate undertone. He looked up, eyes searching for whoever it was who smelled so intriguing.

“Hey, Betsy.” The voice, belonging to a very nice-looking man dressed in chef’s whites, was a lovely timbre, settling as nicely on Dayton’s ears as the smells had on his nose.

“Connor.” Betsy nodded to the newcomer. She didn’t give him any more attention than that, which allowed Dayton to observe as this Connor made his way along the counter and then into the kitchen.

Connor was fair -- hair and skin -- and slim. If Dayton’s eyes weren’t fooling him, the man was also green-eyed, and his hair was an almost-brown red. As he’d already observed, Connor was decently built, thigh muscles on display through the white pants as Connor walked.

The scent that had first caught his attention grew stronger as Connor came nearer, and then faded slowly away once the man was in the kitchen.

This had to be the new baker Dayton had heard rumblings about. Of course ‘new’ meant that the man had been in town for some time now. Almost a year, he thought. It was too bad he’d never noticed before now, because gossip also told him that Connor was gay. Dayton had always assumed the man was in his fifties and a little plump from eating his own wares. He wasn’t sure why he’d made that assumption, maybe because his father had been a baker, so Dayton associated the job with older guys.

He knew Connor worked out of the diner, so how come he’d never actually seen the man before now?

Tempted as he was to stay and figure it out, about a half hour later he was not only finished with his hot chocolate, but the place was starting to fill up. Okay, two customers had come in, but that was two more than he wanted to deal with. He did check out the baked goods counter that had gone in next to the counter by the door when the baker had started working. Dayton had never checked it out before. Bread, pies, cakes, cookies, and pastries. And they looked pretty damn good at that.

“Huh.” With that single grunt, he let himself out and headed for his bike, promising himself he’d try to find out more about this Connor before he needed his next chocolate fix.

Everyone Loves a Bad Boy

Connor parked his little red Mini Cooper behind the diner and shook his head when he saw the junk still piled up by the back door. Two weeks ago Bill Deans, owner of the Silver Kitchen Diner, had promised him the garbage blocking the back door would be removed, and it was still there.

He knew part of the problem was that he was the only one who’d complained and because Deans didn’t approve of Connor’s “lifestyle,” he was going to drag his feet on any requests Connor made, including this one. Connor had a half a mind to call the fire inspector -- this wasn’t just an inconvenience for him to have to go around to the front to let himself in, it was a fire hazard. If he had to get out of the kitchen in an emergency, he wasn’t going to be able to do it out the back door. Nor was anyone else -- employees and customers alike.

Deciding to give Deans one more chance before siccing the fire inspector on him, Connor opened his cell phone and called the owner on the spot. Deans wasn’t going to appreciate being woken at four a.m., but maybe that would get it through his thick skull that Connor wasn’t fooling around here -- the diner’s back door needed to be accessible.

Deans finally picked up after the sixth ring. “Huh? Whu?”

“It’s Connor Griffins. There’s still two tons of garbage blocking the back door of the diner. If it isn’t removed today, I’m calling the fire inspector out to look at it.”

“You called me at four in the fucking a.m. to tell me this?”

“It’s been two weeks, Bill, and I won’t work another day risking my life -- if there’s a fire, I’m the one who’s going to get caught in it because I can’t make it out the back door. Do something about it. Today.” He hung up, feeling good for having made his point without screaming or yelling, but it was mitigated by the fact that he’d had to call again and that he had to go through the diner proper to get to the kitchen. It was never very busy at this time of day, but he’d likely have to pass Hank, who smelled of old, cheap wine, and Deputy Steve, who would look him up and down and then give this smug, I know your secret grin. Connor just hoped Deans was going to take him seriously this time because he didn’t want to start missing work.

Selling his wares out of the diner wasn’t ideal, but the building he’d been looking at for the storefront of his bakery had gotten tied up in probate and, even when it finally did become available, he’d have to do renovations before he could bake and sell out of it. In the meantime, he worked out of the diner. Deans got a share of the profits and Connor got a place to work, and a growing, increasingly loyal clientele. When he finally did open his own place, the customers would follow him.

He went in through the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen doors at the other end of the counter. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone and made a noise of some sort in response to Betsy’s, “Morning, Connor.” He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, chit-chat or anything else cute that required him putting on a happy face and pretending he wasn’t grumpy as hell over the whole garbage thing. He was not a bright and cheery morning person under the best of circumstances, which made his being a baker with a starting time of four a.m. feel like the universe making him the butt of a joke.