Whiskey and Salt (MM)


Heat Rating: Sizzling
Word Count: 10,779
0 Ratings (0.0)

Harlan is only in Vegas for two nights for his brother’s wedding. His parents want Harlan married, too, and not to a man. What would people say? Not that Harlan cares. He doesn’t like most people, and he enjoys making sure they dislike him in return. He can play nice long enough to finalize a contract or get laid, what more does he need? He definitely doesn’t need a date with his smart-mouthed waiter. But he wants one. Maybe more than one.

Apolo doesn’t get paid enough to take crap from customers. On the other hand, he might be willing to take something else from the rude but hot whiskey snob in the expensive suit. Especially since he seems amused rather than offended by Apolo’s attitude. Apolo doesn’t have anything (or anyone) better to do tonight. But if it’s just sex, why has he somehow agreed to go to a wedding with Harlan? As Harlan’s husband?

Harlan is abrasive and Apolo is prickly. They both want the last word and neither likes to lose. Is it possible that being equally stubborn is how they both win?

Whiskey and Salt (MM)
0 Ratings (0.0)

Whiskey and Salt (MM)


Heat Rating: Sizzling
Word Count: 10,779
0 Ratings (0.0)
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Cover Art by Written Ink Designs

“Bring me the Malvenie 20,” Harlan ordered before the waiter could escape.

“Already? Oh, you’re an alcoholic. Sorry, I didn’t realize your personality was a medical issue.”

“Given the speed of service, I’ll be done before I see you again.”

“The customer is always right,” the young man deadpanned. He spun on his heel and stalked back to the staff area. Indignation did good things for his posture. Nice ass, too.

The second drink took twelve minutes.

The third took fifteen, but by this time the alcohol had begun to take the edge off.

“I’ll have a Lapfrog, and there’s no need to distill it yourself this time. Although I see you have nothing else to do.”

“People don’t hang out alone at whiskey bars on Friday night unless they have no lives,” the waiter explained meaningfully.

This time the drink arrived almost promptly.

“My shift is ending. Time to settle your tab.”

Harlan handed him a credit card and said, “Wait.” He folded a couple fifties into a square and tucked them into the waiter’s tight hip pocket.

The waiter watched him with narrowed eyes but didn’t move. “Is that your version of an apology?”

Harlan didn’t apologize. “Charity is cheaper than therapy,” he answered.

The waiter tossed his head and took the credit card to the soft-faced young man at the register, who took it and said, “Hey, Apple, can you hang out for a couple hours before coming home?”

“Why can’t you go to Pauli’s?”

“Uh, because it’s not Pauli.”

The waiter -- Apple, really? -- growled something Harlan couldn’t make out and stomped back to Harlan’s table with his charge slip.

“Happy to see someone else having as bad a night as I am,” Harlan told him.

The waiter’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, you seem like that kinda schadenfreudistic asshole.”

Harlan smirked. “So you and cashier boy live together but he’s giving it to other guys?”

“We don’t live together, we share a studio to save money, and we don’t usually work the same shift. Not that you care.”

Harlan steepled his fingers. “I could care enough to offer you a different bed.”

“One with you in it, I suppose,” the waiter sneered.

“That’s the bed I’ve got,” Harlan agreed.

The young man leaned on the table and glared at Harlan for a minute.

Harlan felt his pulse pick up.

“Fine,” the waiter spat. “But you either get me off or pay for my time.”

Harlan felt his face stretch in the first genuine grin in a long time. “You don’t have to worry about my customer service,” he promised.

“I have to clock out.” The waiter spun on his heel and disappeared into the staff area. Not before Harlan saw that he was blushing.

A minute later the waiter strode past his table and out the exit. Harlan picked up his jacket and followed. His trick, or date, or whatever he was, slowed as he reached the corner and Harlan caught up with him.

They walked in silence for a block.

Harlan broke it. “Your name is Apple?”

That got him an eyeroll. “Of course not. It’s Apolo.”

“Like the Greek god.”

“After Saint Apolinaris, but same difference. How about you? Got a name, or do I just keep thinking of you as ‘that rich asshole who wants to get in my pants’?”

“Accurate, but inconveniently long.”

Harlan saw Apolo grin and found himself smiling, too. “It’s Harlan.”

Apolo raised his eyebrows when Harlan led him into the hotel. “Fancy, but far from the action.”

“I’m not here for action,” Harlan told him.

“Then what am I doing here?” Apolo shot back.

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