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Loren was used to awaking to the sound of dishes clattering. That
was Elia's usual way of spending the morning hours before the bar opened.
Some men – Loren, for example – spent their leisure time with books, or
with magazines, or with television. Elia spent his leisure time with measuring
cups.
Loren had never teased him about this, being sensitive from the start to how easy a target he would make if Elia chose to start evaluating his own degree of masculinity. In turn, Elia seemed serenely unconcerned by the jokes that were initially made by the other leathermen about his penchant for cooking. As a result, the jokes soon dropped off.
It had not taken Loren long to realize that Elia's drive to cook was no different from his drive to install plumbing or to bind men in particularly imaginative positions. Elia simply liked to work with his hands. He liked to create new, exciting things out of plain, uninspiring ingredients. In a word, he liked to master.
So Loren wasn't surprised to be awoken by the sound of dishes. What startled him was the sunlight slanting through his window.
It was afternoon. It was well after noon, Loren saw when he consulted the bedside clock. What was Elia doing in their kitchen when the bar needed to be tended?
Loren swung out of bed and headed for the door. He had just reached the doorknob when he remembered.
He opened the door cautiously.
Ken was standing in the kitchen, with his back to Loren. He was fully clothed, his dark hair glossy in the afternoon light that poured through the kitchen windows. His wrists still held the faint indentation of the previous night's ropes; otherwise, there was no sign of what had taken place the night before.
He was shaking a salt container vigorously over a pan on the stove. As he turned to set it aside on the counter, he caught sight of Loren. For a moment he froze, as though he had been caught in the act of burglary. Then he took the pan off the stove, fumbled with the control knob, and grabbed the nearby tea kettle. He poured water from the kettle into a waiting cup, nearly scalding himself in the process. Then he turned to face Loren. He took a deep breath. "Good morning, sir."
Sir, not master. Well, at least he was still being polite. Loren glanced at the counter between the kitchen and the dining room, which was scattered with bowls, cups, plastic containers, broken egg shells, butter wrappers, and spilled tea leaves. "You've been making yourself at home, I see."
Ken offered no reply, and it occurred to Loren that he could have phrased himself better. He tried again. "You've been preparing breakfast for yourself?"
"It's for you, sir. Master Elia came back a short time ago and showed me where everything was, in case . . . in case you wanted to eat right after you rose."
"Ah." Loren glanced automatically at the mat next to the apartment door, where Elia usually stowed the boots he wore when the leather club met. The boots weren't there, which meant he must be still wearing them, which meant he hadn't changed out of his clothes the night before – which meant that, in all likelihood, he hadn't come home the previous night. It occurred to Loren, belatedly, that he hadn't given his partner the "all clear" signal that would have assured the other Ess that he wasn't going to walk in on an S&M session.
Where the heck had Elia slept? Had he slept at all? And if he hadn't slept, what kind of mood was he going to be in when he confronted Loren?
Loren passed his hand over his forehead. This wasn't shaping into being a good day.
"Would you like your breakfast now, sir?"
"Yes," replied Loren in an automatic manner, having grown used to Elia's penchant for serving five-course meals. "Tea, orange juice, and whatever it is you've got in that pan."
"It's scrambled eggs, sir. The tea isn't quite ready yet, but I can get you the rest now. . . ." Ken practically dropped the orange juice container in his eagerness to pour. Loren sat down at the table, which now had a cloth over it, hiding any incriminating evidence from the night before. He'd had a thought just before he fell asleep, he knew – an important thought. With any luck, his incipient headache would grow bad enough that he wouldn't have to remember that thought.
Ken nearly spilled the scrambled eggs into Loren's lap while serving them. The em was standing on the left side as he served, Loren noted; apparently, whatever daydreams Ken might have had over the years, he hadn't translated them into anything practical, like reading books on table service. Loren took one bite of the eggs and quickly swallowed a mouthful of orange juice. The eggs had four times the amount of salt they should have; Ken was in no danger of replacing Elia as the apartment's cook.
Shoving aside the thought and the plate, Loren rubbed his forehead again and tried to focus his mind on more pleasant thoughts. Property tax payments. City regulations on bars. The sodomy squad. Anything besides Ken and the danger he represented.
Ken was hovering over him now. "Is the food the right temperature, sir?" he asked anxiously, staring at the abandoned plate.
Darn it, he might as well still be saying master. Loren had to put an end to this somehow, before he remembered why he didn't want Ken calling him master. "My tea," he said abruptly, hoping that rudeness would shock Ken back into his proper senses.
"Yes, sir," the policeman replied with alacrity and leapt for the kitchen. He returned with the tea, placing it carefully on Loren's left side. Loren took a sip and nearly sputtered. Whatever instructions Elia had given had apparently not included how many tea leaves to steep. The taste was so strong that it choked him.
"Would you like sugar, sir? Master Elia said that you only took milk."
"No sugar." Maybe he could try dropping the hot tea on Ken's bare skin to see whether that got a reaction from him. But no, that would get the wrong sort of reaction.
Ken continued to hover. "Sir, may I ask you a question?"
"Ask." Perhaps he should just go down to the bar and drink himself under the counter. He didn't do that often these days – it set a bad example for his customers – but surely it would be forgivable under these circumstances.
"The men last night, at the party . . . They called your business partner Master Elia. But they only called you by your first name. Why is that, sir?"
Loren, who had been about to make another try at the tea, put the cup down on the table. There was no way he could swallow the tea now, no matter how palatable it might have been.
He forced himself to raise his eyes to Ken. This required him to crane his neck. He managed to keep his voice steady as he said, in the tones of a classroom lecturer, "Different leather clubs have different criteria for the use of titles. In our club, a man is granted the title of master after he has demonstrated to the other club members that he has a talent for mastering men. Elia was given the title of master by the other Mayhill leathermen before he even finished his apprenticeship with me."
"And you weren't, sir?"
"No." Despite himself, his gaze shifted away. "I have never had the opportunity to master anyone. Not before last night." He waited, his fists clenched in his lap. He could hear the low rumble of conversation coming from the bar under the apartment, and the occasional passing of a car. The room was otherwise silent.
"I see."
Ken's response, when it finally came, was quiet. Loren forced himself to meet the policeman's eyes once more. Ken's gaze was as steady as it had been when Loren had pretended he was an em.
This excerpt is part of a serialized novel in the Loren's Lashes series. To receive notice of book publications and free online fiction, subscribe to one of Dusk Peterson's e-mail lists or blogs.
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