Hound Dog & Bean (13 page)

For a moment Bean panicked.

The house. Was it a mess? Could he have a guest? Especially one who might be using his kitchen? H.D. had said he made a mean salmon.
Do I have any charcoal? Any lighter fluid?

Bean looked around the bedroom. It looked okay. Mostly. The bed wasn’t made, but then he never made the bed. He did so right then. Fluffed the pillows. Grabbed a few out of the chest at the foot of the bed and made it all look the more inviting.

Inviting?

Was he planning on inviting H.D. upstairs?

Well he certainly wasn’t going to say no. Raccoon face or not. Sore face or not. It had been too long since he’d had a man in his bed, and he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity, especially one as sexy as H.D., despite the fact he hardly knew the man.

Even
if
hopping in bed with a man he hardly knew had led to disaster before.

At least this time there wasn’t an angry father to contend with—one who had taken offense to the fact that Bean had sex with his son.

Oh, but the lovin’ had been nice even with how it had all ended. The bedding and finding secret places for more and the sweet kisses and the beautiful look on Estuardo’s face when they looked into each other’s eyes and…

Bean’s cock began to stretch itself again.

Oh God. Should I jerk off?

Or save it?

Save it sounded better, even though he was getting horny.

So Bean busied himself instead. Straightened up the master bathroom, even wiping down the mirror (no tiny little flecks of toothpaste!), and changing the roll of toilet paper and stowing the half-used roll in the cabinet. He even dropped a tab of auto-cleaner in the tank to make the water nice and blue.

You’re acting like you
like
this guy
.

He froze.

Was he?

Did he?

Bean smiled. He did. At least so far. Who knows, he could hate H.D. fifteen minutes after he got here. But wouldn’t it be nice if that didn’t happen?

And he really wanted to touch those dreadlocks. See what they felt like.

Well, maybe he’d find out.

Start by getting something on and stop dashing around, flopping in the wind. He was half in his baggy jeans and stopped.
Maybe I should wear the ones that Mara says make my ass look good
.

Bean laughed out loud that time. Laughed at himself and for himself. This was crazy. He’d only met the guy yesterday. Bean had gotten in the way of a flying fist for him, even if it hadn’t been intentional. Why was he so excited? He didn’t even know what the hell “H.D.” stood for, let alone the guy’s last name.

He would just have to find out, now, wouldn’t he?

H.D.
FOUND
that Mrs. Rosenberg was more than happy to watch Sarah Jane again, which meant he could ride his bike. And damn if that didn’t mean he could go right by The Shepherd’s Bean once more.

And why the hell was he doing that? Wasn’t he going to avoid the coffee man until the absolute last second?

Sure enough, there was Bean. Right out front.

H.D. brought his bike to a stop when he saw Bean was trying to wrestle a huge burlap sack off of a pile of even more sacks onto a moving dolly. He was bent over, and H.D. couldn’t help but stare at his butt, which looked good even though the jeans were baggy. Big and square and muscular (different from Blue’s…. He shook the image from his head).

“Want some help?” H.D. said before he even realized it.

Bean jumped, and when he looked up, H.D. saw he indeed had gotten a good dark stripe under each eye. But at least they weren’t swollen up. Was that a wet shine under them? Was Bean using the oil he’d left for him? It made H.D. smile, and he quickly hopped off his bike and grabbed two corners of the bag before Bean could reject his offer of help.

“I could have done it,” Bean said but nevertheless took hold of the other end of the bag. They easily moved it onto the dolly.

“I know you could have,” H.D. said. Never step on a man’s sense of masculinity. He looked at the pile of bags. There were about six more. He pressed his hand against the next one, read the stenciling on the bag, then looked at Bean. “This is coffee?”

Bean nodded. “Yup.”

“Big bags,” he said.

“A hundred and fifty pounds,” Bean supplied.

“And you said you didn’t need my help. Let’s get this finished.”

They loaded another two bags onto the dolly and wrestled them through the door. It was the place next door to the shop. Bean apparently owned both. Once they managed to get the bags inside, they went back for more.

“You really don’t need to do this,” Bean said.

H.D. shrugged. “Whatever. Let me help anyway.”

Bean smiled. “I appreciate it. Like the hat by the way.”

H.D. reached up and was almost surprised to find he was indeed wearing one. A sky-blue pseudo fedora with a few feathers sticking jauntily from the band. “Thanks,” he said.

Bean nodded and together they got the rest of the large 150-pound bags into the shop.

It was about half the size of the place H.D. had visited yesterday. There was a counter in front, and the back end was dominated by a big drum-looking object lying on its side with what looked like Tim-Burton-inspired pipes running up into the ceiling. There was a funnel in front of the thing, and with the contraption’s red color, it reminded H.D. of a locomotive from the Old West. A lot smaller, of course. As H.D. stepped closer, he saw a large pan-like thing attached to the front, a good three feet across and nearly one deep. It was filled about a third of the way with dark-brown coffee beans.

“Dude,” H.D. said. “Is this it? Is this how you make your coffee?”

Bean nodded. “It sure is. You pour the green beans—”

H.D. eyes widened.
Green beans?
“Green beans?” he asked aloud.

Bean laughed. “Not like the vegetable,” he explained. “The coffee beans are green when we get them. And we pour them in up here in the loading hopper”—he pointed at the funnel—“then they run down into the roasting chamber.” He pointed at the part of the machine H.D. thought looked like a drum. H. D. smiled as Bean gave it a rather affectionate pat.

“This baby here,” Bean continued, “is made of cast iron, with these fins welded inside to toss the coffee around. We roast up to about 425 degrees F. At 390, it enters what is called, first crack. It's an audible cue to let the roaster know that the free water in the cells is condensating, and the cell walls are rupturing. Second crack comes later. It’s different for every bean type and….” He looked up, then rolled his eyes. It was especially comical looking with the purple stripe over his cheeks. “I’m sorry. This is far more than you were asking. Hell, you weren’t really asking at all, were you?”

“No! No, go on,” H.D. said, grinning all the wider. He couldn’t help but catch a little of Bean’s fever. Bean obviously really cared about what he did, and H.D. found it charming. Who knew? H.D. had never spared any of this the first thought. Figured the shop owner got the beans already roasted from some big factory somewhere.

“Are you sure?” Bean asked, a dubious look on his face.

“Yeah. Tell me more, dude.”

“Well, if you’re sure….”

“Sure I’m sure,” H.D. said cheerfully.

“Okay…. Well….” Bean looked at him again and H.D. nodded his encouragement.

“Okay. Caramelization occurs between and during first and second crack. That’s a whole subject I won’t even get into….”

“How long does it take to cook?” H.D. asked.

“Cook?” Bean chuckled, then gave a little shrug. “Our roasts take about twelve to fifteen minutes.”

“Really?” H.D. asked, surprised. “I figured it took hours.”

“Oh, no!” Bean shook his head. “In a roaster this size? The beans would be fried into crispy little briquettes! Anyway, when the beans are ready, they fall out into this cooling tray. It has a blower that pulls air down through a screen to cool the coffee down to room temperature. Believe it or not, that only takes about four or five minutes. Then this stir arm here”—Bean touched a slim metal bar that crossed the big tray and had little rake-like stems coming down into the coffee beans, as well as a couple of brushes—“agitates the coffee to help with an even cooldown. We don’t want little pockets of hot beans roasting the beans around them. We want it as perfect as we can get it.”

“That’s pretty cool, man,” said H.D. and meant it. “I guess I didn’t realize what an… art it was.”

The coffee roaster beamed at him. “It is!” He nodded enthusiastically. “It’s like a wonderful marriage of science
and
art. And in the beginning, you’re guessing and you’re figuring it all out. Different roasters do it differently, but over time I found the way that worked best for me.”

“I’m impressed, man.” And he was. By the machine. The wonderful aroma of the room. But most of all by Bean’s excitement. His passion.

Would Bean have as much passion in bed? H.D. hoped so. And he hoped to find out soon.

No! Wait. He was going to fix the man dinner and then get the fuck out!

“We still on tonight?” asked Bean. “I mean, I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble,” H.D. said, then realized he had just passed on a way to get out of the evening. He could have lied. Said he was busy.

“I’m glad. What time? Seven? Eight?”

“Let’s make it seven,” H.D. shot back. Too late would mean it would be dark when they finished dinner. Dark brought out the horndog in him, and suddenly, he’d be all over Bean. Somehow that seemed like a complication when it came to this man. There was something about the way the guy was looking at him that said sex wasn’t a one-night stand kind of thing.

“I thought I’d get some wine,” Bean was saying. “White goes with salmon, right? Mom would tsk at me for even having to ask.”

Wine?
That sounded like romance to H.D. Was Bean trying to be romantic? And how the hell should he know what kind of wine went with salmon? He was a boxed wine kind of guy. Hell. Complications. He hated anything even resembling complications.

“I need to get to work,” H.D. said abruptly. At the same time, he found he couldn’t move. Bean was so damned handsome. But it was more than that. There was an… energy that came from him. It made H.D. feel good.

Funny. Today work was the last place he wanted to be.

“Sure,” Bean said. “By the way, I think what you guys do is cool.”

“What we do?” H.D. asked, confused. Had he missed part of the conversation?

“Yeah,” Bean said and went to rub his face, then flinched.

“You okay?” H.D. asked, stepping up to Bean, reaching out and taking his hand midair. “Try not to touch.” Bean had obviously forgotten his injured face. Or at least forgotten what rubbing at it could do

“I know. But it’s instinct, you know. It hurts and I rub it and then….”

“It hurts more. I know it. Is it bad?”

Bean gave a half shrug. “Not too bad. Thanks to that stuff you gave me.”

“Awww… I don’t know how much it helped,” H.D. replied self-consciously. “You wouldn’t be hurting in the first place if not for me. I….” He forced himself to look away, but those eyes drew him back. What color were they? Brown, of course. But a golden brown. And they seemed to be boring into him.

Say something! You’re staring!
“It was really cool what you did for me,” H.D. managed.

“All I did was get punched! You didn’t need my help at all.”

“You didn’t know that,” H.D. was quick to say. Because Bean hadn’t known. He’d simply leapt in to help. Then H.D. realized he was still holding Bean’s hand and (reluctantly) let go. Bean’s hand was strong and rough in all the right ways. A man’s hand. Not soft. Who would have known a coffee man would have hands like that?

Bean didn’t let go, though. He kept the contact, and H.D. found himself letting it happen. They stood there for what seemed forever, but surely was only seconds, looking at each other, H.D.’s hand in Bean’s.

H.D. suddenly wanted to kiss him. Where the urge came from, he didn’t know, but he did. He wanted to kiss Bean under each of those brown eyes and tell him the kisses would make it better, and then he blushed at the thought. Butterflies began to flutter around in his stomach.

This is so strange. I don’t know this guy! Why am I feeling this way?
He stepped back, pulling his hand free gently. “Work….”

“Oh,” said Bean. “I… I was saying how cool it was what you guys do. Taking care of animals, I mean. Finding them a home. Not killing them.”

Suddenly H.D. was thinking of the animals they’d had to put to death. Not because they were taking up space, but because they were vicious and unadoptable or in tremendous pain. It didn’t make him feel better about it, though. There was nothing worse than that needle and then their almost immediate death. “They didn’t ask to be born,” he said quietly.
Think about all the dogs we help.
“They sure didn’t ask to be dumped,” he said, fighting a sudden anger. “Why I have a dog I’m watching right now that was left in a backyard for days without food or water.”

A pained look came over Bean’s face. His sore eyes or…?

“How could anyone do that to an animal?” Bean asked. “It makes no sense. Why do people even take on a dog unless….”

H.D. found himself smiling inside. Bean cared about animals. Any man who loved animals was okay with him.

“Who knows why?” H.D. had his ideas, but it was no time to go into it now.

“You know, I’ve been thinking it’s time to get a dog again. I haven’t had one since my corgi Moses died. I loved that old boy, and I just couldn’t…. Well….” Bean got a faraway look on his face. Sighed deeply. “There was no replacing him, you know? I couldn’t do that to him. To my memory of him.”

Before H.D. even knew what he was doing, he’d stepped forward and given Bean a kiss. Not a big one to be sure. Just a peck. But even that sent a little shock through him and made his whole body tingle. He took a step back, blushing. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Bean smiled at him. “Don’t be.”

“Work,” H.D. cried and turned and dashed out the door.