Cakewalk

Cake Walk - 1

Cake Walk Copyright © 2009 by CB Potts All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78650. ISBN: 978-1-60370-825-8, 1-60370-825-1 Printed in the United States of America. Torquere Press electronic edition / October 2009 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78650. www.torquerepress.com

Cake Walk - 2

Cake Walk

By CB Potts

Part One

"You know, hitting refresh every two seconds isn't going to make the news get here any faster." Brandi pulled a long stretch of plastic wrap off the roll, covering a just-mixed batch of cookie dough. "It might," Joel replied. "You never know." "And the competitive advantage you're getting by reading the announcement a nano-second before every other baker on the coast?" She was laughing, but her laughter was kind. Brandi had only been working in Joel's Patisserie for four months, but that had been more than enough time for a genuine friendship to flower between the forty-five year old woman and her much younger boss. "Not nearly enough. I know for a fact that Rasmussen already knows what the theme is. He's known for weeks, maybe even a month." "That's not fair!" Brandi protested. "You're all supposed to find out at the same time!" Joel shrugged. "Rasmussen doesn't worry about what's fair. He worries about what will help him win." The swallow of coffee he took was strong, black, and very bitter -- but it had nothing on what Joel felt about Rick Rasmussen. Once his partner in every sense of the word -- professionally, personally, they'd had his and his life insurance policies -- now Rick was Joel's fiercest competitor. Add to that the fact that Rick was seemingly hell-bent on destroying any chance Joel had of ever having a normal social life, and bitter didn't even begin to cover it. "It doesn't matter," Brandi said, startling Joel away from that all-too-familiar train of thought, at least momentarily. "He can work on a design for a year, it's not going to be as great as what you come up with." "He's got the judge in his pocket." "Then you'll just have to work that much harder." Brandi sounded very sure of herself. "Because no one can beat you when you're giving it your all." Joel smiled. "Thanks, Bran." "Don't thank me for the truth. Flattering lies will cost you, but the truth is always free." Joel chuckled, and then leaned forward, tapping the mouse again.

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"No, shit!"

"It's there?" Brandi asked.

"It's here." Joel's gaze flickered over the laptop's small screen, scanning the prose. "The Creative

Committee of the Gay Pastry Artisans Association is pleased to announce the theme for 2010's Showpiece Competition." "Yeah?" Brandi's hands, so practiced at kneading dough, waved in the air impatiently.

"Classic male beauty." Joel's lips thinned, clamped tightly in a thin line. "Those mother fuckers.

Classic male beauty."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Rasmussen. That's what's wrong with that. He's a hellenophile. Wanted to be an architect or an

archeologist, back in the day. He even spent a semester in Greece, studying the Parthenon, the

Acropolis, all that shit."

"So he's got a little bit of an edge."

"A little bit? They might as well award him the prize now."

"Well, yeah, if you're going to roll over for him."

Joel shot her a look.

She shrugged. "It's true. If you're not willing to fight for it, to give this competition your all,

Rasmussen's going to win. There's nobody else out there doing that level of work. You're it."

"So it's up to me to beat him."

"Well, yeah. More importantly, it's on you to not make it easy for him to win. So what if he's got

the judges in his pocket?" Brandi waved her hands in the air, her fingers fluttering with frustration. "Those judges have people watching them. If Rasmussen's going to win, his work has to be demonstrably better than the rest of the field." She paused for a moment, staring at Joel. "It shouldn't be a cake walk!" Joel stared back for a moment, and then burst into laughter. "Nope, not a cake walk!"

Brandi joined in. "You know what I mean."

"I do. But do you know what that means?"

"What?"

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"I've got a ton of work to do. Thirty days isn't long to create a masterpiece." Joel grinned. "You'd better be ready to pick up the slack." "I'm ready, Boss." Brandi's grin went from ear to ear. "Any time you are." "Then I guess I'd better get started." *** Getting started turned out to be far easier said than done. Joel sat in the back room for hours that night, long rolls of paper spread across the drawing table where he usually sketched wedding cakes. Generally, this space worked for him: Joel could, after an initial interview with a couple, come directly here, and draw, the lines coming fast and furious. A few hours later, he'd emerge with a design that wowed the pair nine times out of ten. Tonight, though, he had a whole lot of nothing happening. The biggest competition he'd ever contemplated entering -- and the first one he'd entered since he and Rick had broken up -- and his mind was as blank as the paper in front of him. This was as true now as it had been when Joel walked into the back room three hours ago. "Great. I'm blocked," he said, tossing his pen across the room. "Just what I need." The pen hit the far wall and fell with a clatter onto a stack of sheet pans. The noise was disproportionately loud, loud enough to make Joel realize how much his head hurt. He sat back in his chair, the base of his palms pressing against his closed eyes. Classic male beauty. What the hell was he going to do? He knew what Rick was going to do. The theme was tailor-made for Rasmussen, playing toward his artistic strengths. For a lot of people, classic male beauty meant the long, lean, beautiful men painted on the side of Greek vases. The Greeks believed that man is the measure of all things, and celebrated that in their artwork, particularly their statuary. Rick would certainly draw from that tradition, combining his love of ancient architecture with figural pieces sure to please the judges. Rick did great work. If all he did was create some buildings, it would take all the skill Joel possessed to beat him. The graceful straight lines of Grecian architecture would be rendered confidently -- perhaps in pastiage -- a sugary celebration of symmetry and proportion. And that wasn't the whole of it. Rick was smart. He knew how to please his customer, which were, in this case, the show's judges. He wouldn't stop with some buildings. Oh, no. He'd have to take it further than that, with a patisserial nod toward the show's organizers.

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Perhaps he'd create a bathhouse, with gum-paste men, arranged in age appropriate pairs, lounging in a poured-sugar pool. Joel snorted. At that point, Rick would have the competition sewn up. He knew for a fact that at least two of the judges had special places in their hearts for bathhouses. The laughter helped. He didn't have to worry about what Rick was doing. Joel had his own cake to fixate on. He stood up and paced the perimeter of the room. Classic male beauty. What was he going to do with that? He'd spent too much of his life with Rick, clearly. The images that filled his mind were guided by their time together: the trips to the Met to look at ancient sculptures, with flowing marble robes and placid expressions. The time they went to Italy, joining throngs of tourists to see all of the artistic world's must-sees: The Sistine Chapel, the Pieta, Michelangelo's David... Now there was an idea, Joel thought. If Rick was going to be subtle, shy and coy, with small gum-paste men hinting at greater passions, maybe he should take the opposite route with a frank examination of male desire. At the same time, he needed an approach that would satisfy the theme. When the judges looked at the cake, they needed to see something that defined male beauty not just now, but through the ages. Joel would have to create the image of a man that would be appealing today and throughout all of the world's yesterdays. He didn't have to be bound by Rick's interpretation of classic male beauty. Not when the entire history of art was there, waiting for him to draw upon it. Joel couldn't go too modern, of course - the Picasso approach was right out -- but he could certainly consider one of the masterpieces of the Renaissance. Michelangelo's David might be the perfect inspiration. Joel could create what they all wanted: the ideal man. Joel would present this perfect man not in some lascivious fashion, but simply, elegantly, without eroticizing anything. It would be a celebration of the beauty inherent in the male form. Just like Michelangelo with David. Well, just like Michelangelo if Michelangelo had worked with sponge cake and fondant instead of hammer and chisel; buttercream and gum paste instead of cold, dead marble. *** "These are all pretty good," Brandi said, letting the edges of an inch-high stack of papers fan against her palm. "How many did you draw?"

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Joel shrugged, exhaustion evident as his shoulders sloped back into position. "I don't know. I didn't count." A yawn caught him then, a yawn long enough and deep enough that he had to pause in the middle of it to rest. "Once I got started, I just couldn't stop." "Did you sleep at all last night?" Brandi asked, looking at him sharply.

"Not yet."

Brandi glanced at her watch. "It is five-thirty in the morning, Joel. We're a little bit past 'not yet'

here."

"I'll be fine." Joel raised his coffee mug.

"Joel. This is no way to start this competition."

"I..."

"'I' nothing!" Brandi crossed her arms over her chest. "If you want to win this thing, you're going

to need to do your best work. And if you're going to do your best work, you need to get your

sleep."

"Yes, Mom."

"You know I'm right."

Joel laughed. "I do."

"And that's why you're going to go home and get some sleep."

"After the rush, I'll go," he agreed.

That wasn't good enough for Brandi. "It's Sunday. What kind of rush are you expecting? I can

handle the after-church contingent." She waved Joel toward the door. "Go on."

"Are you always this bossy?" Joel mused. "I never noticed before."

"I'm only bossy when I'm right."

Joel yawned again. "Maybe I'm a little tired."

"Good night, boss man."

***

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Maybe Brandi was right, Joel thought, as he sank into bed. He hadn't realized how quickly the time had started going by once he started sketching out ideas. Had Brandi not come in to open the Patisserie up, Joel would still be drawing. Deciding on the pose was easy enough: Michelangelo's David was standing, one knee slightly bent, the other leg straight. Head turned to the left, gaze fixed on some middle ground, the expression watchful and wary; a still, contemplative moment. His left arm was bent upward at the elbow. The same pose would serve as Joel's starting point, the framework upon which he would hang his vision. But Joel wasn't planning on copying Michelangelo's masterpiece. Let Rick deliver confectionery carbon copies of yesterday's artistic triumphs. He certainly had the technical prowess to do so -but that route didn't appeal to Joel. This cake would portray the ideal, classically beautiful male, but it would be Joel's vision of that ideal. His interpretation of the concept, his design for the perfect man -- not only for himself, but for the whole world. Deciding that was easy enough. But then it was time to figure out what that meant. What would the arms on the ideal man be like? Joel liked his men muscular, slightly more beefy than the sculpture was. The gentle swell of the right bicep became a more pronounced bulge, the left arm more defined, forearms thickened. Thickened and furred. The hairless aesthetic of the idealized marble appealed, but Joel liked his men to have at least some body hair. Besides which, adding hair to his design would allow Joel to exploit the full range of his sugar art skills, demonstrating the extent of his technical prowess. Joel intended to use as many different sugar skills as possible. The intricacies of stringwork to add hair, blown sugar for rich, dynamic, expressive eyes, carefully color-mixed fondant to serve as realistic skin. He was full of ideas about how to create the perfect cake of the ideal man. The ideal man, whom Joel was already beginning to think of as David. And what constituted the ideal man? He'd drawn arms, legs, hands, feet, fingers, and toes. Torsos, long, lean. Backs, gently rounded with muscle. Some parts of perfection were more pleasant to contemplate than others. Joel must have sketched a dozen asses. Flat, square butts, athletic behinds, disproportionately small, tight rear ends. Nice round asses, with cheeks you could really grab onto. Joel shifted in his bed, letting the pillows bear more of his weight as he ran through the possibilities.

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His David needed to have the perfect ass, he thought, the kind of butt that makes a guy want to go down on his knees and worship; lush, round cheeks, velvet smooth against his lips. The perfect ass. Solid hips, built for holding onto, especially from behind, as a lover clung and panted and bit at his neck. Joel bit his lip, entirely unaware of the gesture. His eyes were closed as he followed the vision. The cock on Michelangelo's David was confidently soft, but Joel's David was definitely hard -hard, and long, the embodiment of those classical virtues of grace, balance, and proportion. The type of cock that Joel loved to have in his mouth, rubbing against his body, sliding slowly, deliberately, into his ass. Joel could feel his frustration against his flesh. It had been so long -- nearly two years now since he and Rick had parted ways. No one had captured his interest, but now this ideal man dominated his consciousness. Joel could see him: his grace, his form, his power. Half-unconsciously, Joel's hand drifted to his cock. He squeezed and pulled, slowly at first, faster as the image of David clarified in his mind. Thick black hair, wavy like the Aegean sea, spilled to David's shoulders. He had a dark complexion, the rich, browned-butter hue almost luminescent and impossible not to touch. His arms were open, a wide smile revealing surprisingly white teeth. "Yes," David said, his voice both musical and masculine, in response to Joel's unasked question. "Yes, you can." His cock was amazing, sliding over Joel's tongue, filling his mouth. It felt perfect, it felt natural, it felt right. Joel had been born for this moment, his entire existence created simply to justify the exquisite joy of kneeling before this man, clinging to his thighs, licking and tasting and sucking in the quest to provide pleasure. "David," he groaned aloud, shattering the silence of his dream-filled bedroom. "David, come for me." In his vision, David smiled.

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Part Two The most important aspect of any showpiece is the underlying structure. Every layer must be

adequately supported, ideally without placing too much strain on the lower levels.

The unique structure of Joel's David was complicating the situation. Most cakes were wider on

the bottom, narrowing as they got taller. But this cake was more columnar, supported by the twin

towers of sponge that served as David's legs.

Joel was staring at his sketchbook, trying to figure out how to approach the armature that would

form David's hips, when Brandi poked her head in the office door. "Boss? Rick's here. He says

he wants to see you."

"Did he say why?"

"No." She shook her head. "Do you want me to send him away?"

Joel sighed. "No. I'll be right there."

Brandi nodded and disappeared.

Joel looked at his sketches of David. "Well, this had been a really good day. Don't you go

anywhere."

*** "Rick. What do you want?" "Who says I want anything?" Rick spread his hands, revealing the breadth of his chest. Joel had forgotten what a big man his ex-lover was. Or perhaps forgotten was not the right word, although he would have had to admit to a start of recognition when confronted with Rick's bulk.

"Precedent." Joel raised an eyebrow. "If nothing else."

"Don't be like that. If I do want something, and I guess I have to admit that I do, it's just that I

want to take you out for lunch."

"What?"

"Come on. Let's go grab a bite to eat. There's a neat little Italian place opened up down the street

here." Rick smiled. "They've got the best olives."

Joel glanced at Brandi. She shrugged ever so slightly, pointedly looking at the few customers

lingering in the shop.

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"All right," Joel said. "Let's go." Rick had the tendency to say exactly what he wanted to say, exactly when he wanted to say it, with little regard to who might be listening. It would be better to have whatever conversation they were going to have away from Joel's customers. *** "You're looking good," Rick said. They were tucked in a quiet corner booth at Enzo's, antipasto and the house white between them. "A little tired, but good." Joel nodded. "Thanks. And likewise," he lied. Rick didn't look tired, he looked exhausted. Deep lines were forming in the corners of his eyes. His lower lip was slightly droopy, a telltale sign that his former partner was working too hard. Even his hair looked tired, golden locks limp and ever so slightly out of position. "Don't lie to me." The tone was light, although the words were sharp. "There's really no point in it now." "What do you want, Rick?" If his former lover wanted to do this tightrope dance without the safety net of at least surface civility, Joel was willing. "I don't have a lot of time to waste." "Neither do I, Joel. That's why I'm asking you to drop out of the competition." "What are you talking about?" Rick sighed. Every ounce of confidence and self-assurance left his body with his exhaled breath. He got smaller, shrinking to occupy a smaller portion of their space. "It's a long story." "You want to tell me, or you don't." There were peppercini stuffed with tuna and capers, salty and sharp. Joel bit into one, letting the flavors linger on his tongue before he swallowed. "I'm not going to beg." "Jesus, Joel, I'm not asking you to!" Rick snapped. "This isn't easy for me!" Joel said nothing. "I've made some... mistakes." Rick said, after a miniature eternity had passed. "Financially. With The Red Door." The Red Door. The bakery that had been their dream, designed to showcase Rick and Joel's talents, providing cakes and pastry for the city's finest establishments. The small shop -- just under a thousand square feet, with room enough for a kitchen, a counter, and a handful of tables -- was supposed to have held their future. Joel had pinned all of his hopes on the shop. Instead, it had proved to be their undoing. Rick had no qualms about having what he termed

Cake Walk - 11

'casual flings' with the help. That led to a nearly constant stream of arguments, as Joel's despairing accusations were met with Rick's rage at being questioned. "And?"

"And I'm over-extended. Debt up to here." Rick's fingertips were even with his eyebrows. "The

economy's killing me. Sales are way down."

"Times are tight," Joel agreed. "But I don't see what this has to do with me."

"I need that prize money."

"Then you need to win the contest." Joel took a long drink of wine, draining half the glass in a

single swallow. "Seems to me you've already done enough behind the scenes maneuvering to

make that a done deal anyway."

"You don't understand. I could lose the place!" There was a note of real desperation in Rick's

voice, a plaintive, pleading whine. It might have been effective, had Joel not heard it a million

times before. "You've got to help me out."

Joel blinked. "You're sitting there, asking me to help you out? That's pretty rich." He stood up,

pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. "I'll tell you what." He threw a pair of twenties on the

table. "I'll pick up lunch. Consider it my contribution to the cause."

*** "I don't know," Brandi said. "It seems to me your David's a little broad across here." She raised her hands, spreading them until her fingertips were even with the outside of the towering cake

layer. "He's gonna be barrel-chested."

"There are worse things," Joel said. "A big chest means a big heart."

"Does it?" Brandi looked down at her not-inconsiderable bosom. "I must have missed the

memo."

"Every rule needs an exception."

"Very funny. Speaking of exceptions to the rule, guess who stopped by this morning?"

"Who?" The armature for David's left forearm was off, just a fraction. Joel bit his lip and bent it

slowly into position.

"Chloe Sternman."

Joel let go of David. "No shit?"

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Brandi smiled. "No shit. She's having a luncheon on Friday and wants you to make 'some of those tropical things I like so much.'" Brandi let her voice drop back into its normal register, abandoning her attempt at imitating Chloe's overblown and totally fraudulent British accent. "She is confident that you'll know what she means." Joel nodded. "We did coconut macadamia tartlets at The Red Door. All the time. I'm surprised

she didn't go to Rick."

"Apparently she tried. But Rick's people couldn't promise her they'd be done in time."

"Why? Does she want twelve hundred or something?"

Brandi laughed. "Just twelve, actually."

"And they couldn't get that done for Friday?" It was Wednesday afternoon.

"I told her it would be no problem." Brandi nodded. "And thanked her for thinking of us."

"That's strange," Joel mused. "For Rick to pass up easy money like that." He briefly relayed what

had happened at lunch the day before. "It sounded like he was hurting for cash."

"Maybe turning down jobs is why he's hurting," Brandi said. "I can't believe he would ask you to

drop out of the contest."

Joel shrugged. "I can. That's classic Rick. It's all about what he wants."

"Do you think he's going to lose The Red Door?"

"Probably. Unless he finds someone to save the day for him."

"Or he wins the contest."

"There is that, yeah." Joel turned his attention back to David. "I'd better get back to work if I

want to get the fondant on tonight."

"Do you want me to stay and give you a hand?"

Joel smiled. "That's sweet of you. But I think I want to handle this on my own, at least for right

now."

Brandi nodded. "It's your baby, huh?"

"Maybe my babe." Joel grinned. "But when it comes time to move this babe, you better believe

I'll need your help." David was going to stand nearly six feet tall -- and being composed of cake, coated metal armatures, and a staggering amount of fondant was going to make him exceptionally heavy for his size.

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"Oh, I'm pretty sure I'll be sick that day," Brandi laughed. "Or I'll have to get my hair done." "See how you are." "You know it." Brandi flipped the front door sign to closed. "I'm going now -- you want to lock

up after me?"

"Mmm-hmm. I'll get it in a few minutes," Joel said.

He didn't hear Brandi's reply; he was too focused on the challenge of David's arms.

Three hours later, he'd done it. David didn't look like much yet. He was a vaguely human-shaped

tower of cake at this point. He wouldn't even start looking human until the fondant went on,

creating the appearance of skin and unifying structure.

Still.

"You're looking good, babe," Joel told his cake. "So far, anyway. And they say it's what's inside

that matters the most. So you're all good there."

Cutting away some excess cake made David look even more human. His calves were graceful

swells of muscle, tapering to the point where, soon, feet would be attached.

Joel stepped back and examined his work. "Man, David, you've got some pretty narrow ankles."

He cocked his head. "I hope I didn't fuck that up." He picked up a sketch and stared at it, then

back at David. "I mean, yeah, I can fix it with fondant, but still. Shit." He sighed. "Well, it's not

like you're going to be walking around on them."

*** The next step was preparing the fondant, the thin, almost plastic layer of coating that would cover the cake and serve as skin. Joel had had Brandi prepare a monster batch for him. It would take a lot to cover a cake this large. What Brandi had prepared was creamy white, the basic recipe. Now it was time to tint the mixture. Joel bit his lip as he reached for the food coloring. His David needed to be dark -ideally, the sun-kissed bronze of Greece. Joel placed a small amount of fondant on the counter. Coloring fondant was far from an exact science. Colors were achieved by adding a tinted paste to the base and kneading it all together until the right shade was achieved. He added yellow and orange paste to the base, the merest hint of red, and then, hand trembling, a small amount of brown. He wrote down the proportions and started kneading. If he could get the color right in a small batch, it simply became a matter of scaling up the formula and adjusting quantities.

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Nothing was ever that simple. Joel's first attempt was great -- if he wanted David to look like a

radioactive space alien.

"Maybe a little less orange," he mused, beginning the process again. "And more brown."

That batch was too dark, a flat tobacco brown that didn't match the skin tone Joel envisioned.

The third batch was better, but still not right. "I thought the third time was supposed to be a

charm."

His cell phone rang.

"Joel's." He answered automatically, realizing only belatedly that the Patisserie had been closed

for hours. It was after ten, and he still hadn't locked up after Brandi.

Phone to his ear, he walked out front to secure the shop.

"Joel, it's me." Rick's voice filled his ear. "I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"For what? Or are you just apologizing in general?"

"For today. I had no right to ask you to drop out of the contest."

Joel pulled the cell phone away from his ear and checked the number. It was Rick's number.

"Well. No harm, no foul. You know?"

"No. It was wrong, and I'm sorry. I know you need the prize money as much as I do. Maybe even

more." Rick's voice rose as he said the last word, turning it into a question.

Joel sighed. The front door was secure now, the alarm finally set. He turned on his heel,

retreating into his workroom. David was there, waiting for him to create the perfect skin tone.

"I'm not doing this for the money, Rick."

"What other reason is there?" There was more than a little anger in the question.

"That's always been the difference between you and me, hasn't it? You're after the money

always."

"And what are you after?"

"The challenge." David stood steadily now. He didn't rock at all when Joel patted him. "Creating

beautiful art. That's the point."

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"You are so full of shit. The only reason you're entering this contest is because you don't want

me to win."

"And the only reason you want me out is because you know I'll beat you."

"You're pretty confident. Who have you been blowing?"

Joel snorted. "I figured I'd try hooking up with any of the judges you hadn't been with yet, but

guess what? There aren't any!"

"You're an asshole."

"That may be," Joel acknowledged. "But I'm an accurate asshole."

Rick hung up.

"Screw you," Joel said to the dial tone. "Trying to get in my head and mess me up. Stop me, right

when I'm on the verge of doing my best work ever? I don't think so."

The very next batch of fondant was perfect -- exactly the color Joel had been striving for.

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Part Three "Joel? Joel?" Brandi shook Joel's shoulders gently. He'd fallen asleep in the studio, arms crossed under his head to serve as a pillow. His head was inches from the base supporting David's form. He would have rested his head on David's feet, but David didn't have feet yet. Those would come later, rendered in gum paste. And there were no hands, no facial features, no hair. But what there was was unmistakably a man, tall and muscular, posed as if any moment he might take a step and walk off of the worktable. "Joel. You've got to wake up." Brandi's voice was firm. Maternal. "Carefully." "Huh?" Joel lifted his head as Brandi gently pulled him backward, away from his cake. Away from David. "You'd want to kill yourself if you knocked this thing over," Brandi said, "After all this work." "What work?" Joel said, getting to his feet. He looked at David and grinned, a wide, crooked smile that transformed his face. "This is joy, right here. Nothing but joy." "Looking good." "Looking good," Joel smiled. "We're just getting started, aren't we, David?" His fingers sketched pictures in the air. "A little airbrush, we'll put some definition on the muscles. And he needs nipples..." "And a face," Brandi interjected. "I know men don't look at those, but between you and me? A man without a face is kind of creepy." "Oh, he'll have a face," Joel said. "An amazing face." It was a face that was a long time coming. Days melted away as Joel worked on David's musculature. The lines delineating calf muscles were too light. Then they were too dark, and countless hours had to be spent bringing them back to the proper shade. David's abdomen presented another challenge. Joel wanted to make it aesthetically pleasing without giving him the stereotypical six pack. Too many people thought that gay sexuality was nothing more than the fetishization of some athletic ideal. "That's not for you, buddy," Joel mused. David's belly had a bit of a curve to it, a soft plain of flesh that tapered to narrow hips. It was a stomach that spoke of leisure, of slow mornings spent curled in bed with a lover instead of jogging through dawn's early light. It was the stomach of a hedonist, the type of man who wouldn't needlessly deny himself pleasure. The type of man who might eat dessert first.

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David's arms, on the other hand, practically materialized out of thin air. Joel was steady and sure

with the airbrush, using dark food coloring to define biceps. His forearms were corded with

muscle; a delight to look at, surprisingly wonderful to touch.

"Your boy's pretty ripped," Brandi said. She'd taken to bringing Joel coffee and sandwiches

periodically throughout the day, since he wouldn't stop working to feed himself. "You'll have to

be careful when you do his hands so it all matches up."

"I know," he said. "And I'm worried about how they'll line up when I attach them. The angle's

got to be perfect."

"It's not just the angle," Brandi said. "I think you can tell more about someone from their hands

than from anything else. All of their personality. The way they interact with the world. It shows

in the hands."

"Really?" Joel extended his arms and stared at his hands. "What do mine say about me?"

Brandi smiled. "That you're in dire need of a manicure."

Joel laughed. "You're good. You should have a TV show."

"Seriously? You can tell you work with your hands. Your nails are short. You've got burn marks

and calluses. But your fingers are long and thin. ." Brandi smiled. "Intelligent hands."

"At least my hands are smart."

"What about David?" Brandi asked.

Joel pulled a sheaf of papers out of a file folder and fanned them on the stainless steel table. "I'm

not quite sure. Here are close-up shots of the hands on Michelangelo's David."

Brandi studied the images. "He's got intelligent hands, too. Elegant. But big." She pursed her

lips. "You know what they say about big hands."

"Big gloves, I know."

Brandi laughed. "Do I get to see those reference photos?"

"If you want," Joel replied. He pulled out another file folder.

"No, no, no! That's all right!" Brandi said. "I'll see the cake when it's done. That'll be enough."

She arched an eyebrow. "Probably more than enough."

"I've got to please the judges, Brandi."

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"Even if it breaks your heart, I know." She grinned. "What a thing, to suffer so for your art." "It is." Joel nodded, solemnly. "You have no idea." "Well, not that misery doesn't love company, but I'm out of here. You want me to lock up?" "Yeah." Joel ruffled through the hand sketches. "I'm going to be here a while yet. There's a lot to do." *** Each hand required its own set of armatures. Joel used flexible plastic tubing to serve as the 'bones' in David's hands. It wasn't as strong as the metal he'd used in the rest of the cake, but was markedly lighter. Around this, he formed the filler and gum paste. Like Michelangelo, Joel wanted long, narrow hands that managed to be both graceful and capable, enticing and practical. Five hours later, uncomfortably close to midnight, he had it. Almost. The hands lying on the worktable were balanced, long fingers in perfect proportion with detailed palms. Joel had even crafted David's knuckles, the subtle bumps joining fingers to hands more challenging than he'd ever imagined, requiring extra infrastructure. The fingernails were shellsmooth, dusky petal-pink gum paste flattened and subtly scored, half-moon cuticles pressed in while Joel held his breath. If you looked closely, you could see the raised ridges and whorls that served as David's fingerprints. If you looked extremely closely, you could see that each fingerprint was individualized, a unique pattern until itself. Joel knew the judges would be looking closely. He hoped they'd be looking extremely closely. That wasn't the whole of his motivation, though. Winning the competition was one thing, but this project had become more than that. Putting David together had become an artistic quest; a challenge to see if, by using every bit of his skill and talent, he could create the perfect man. He'd never been happier. Joel had forgotten how much fun his work could be, what delight there was in taking to the kitchen and creating just for the joy of it. So many hours -- so many days, really -- were lost to fulfilling commissions, to realizing someone else's vision. That was frustrating. Too often, that vision was, "We want three tiers of ecru -- not white, ecru -with the roses matching this swatch of fabric." But that's what you did when you had a business to run. Joel ran the Patisserie conservatively, partly out of necessity -- it had been remarkably difficult to secure financing when the bankers discovered he'd been entangled with Rick -- but he still couldn't afford to turn any work away.

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Add to that the daily output of tarts and danishes, creme pies and napoleons that kept Joel's doors open, and there was precious little time for anything else. He'd found time -- or made time -- for this contest, and he was glad he had. The excitement of creation was like a drug, a drug he remembered, but had inexplicably abandoned. A drug he could embrace wholeheartedly and it would cost him nothing. At least as long as he won the contest. Affixing David's hands was nerve-wracking. Joel held his breath, worried that despite all of his calculations -- the numbers checked and re-checked and checked once again -- something would be wrong. The hands would be too heavy and plummet to the ground, ripping fondant and sponge cake flesh away in the process. "Oh, please," he murmured, as he slowly slid David's right hand into position. "Please work." His eyes flickered up to David's face, to the hollow where someday eyes would be. "I don't ever want to hurt you." He smiled ruefully. "I'd say just watch and see, but you can't, can you?" David's right hand was on now, still cradled between Joel's hands. "I'll tell you what. If this works, the next thing we'll do is your eyes." It may have been the angle Joel was sitting at, but for a moment it looked like David was smiling. *** Joel's phone rang early, startling him out of a dead sleep. "Hello?" "Joel, it's Brandi." He was instantly awake. "What's the matter?" "Everything is fine. I'm fine, we're all fine." Brandi spoke quickly. "But there's been a little... incident... on the train, and they want me to go to the hospital to get checked out." "Wait. What? Who wants you to go to the hospital? What happened? What are you talking about?" "Joel. I have to go. I won't be in this morning. Do you understand?" "Yes." Joel nodded, despite the fact that Brandi had no way to see him. "Call me when you can." The phone went dead in his ear. "Shit," Joel said. "I hope she's all right." He pushed his work stool backward, away from the impromptu bed he'd created from a corner of the kitchen counter. Standing up requiring straightening a surprisingly stiff back. "Hopefully better than me right now."

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He staggered out front to the coffee maker and began to brew the morning pot. The newspaper delivery was piled against the front door. Joel retrieved it, scanning the headlines. Of course, there was nothing about Brandi in there; he'd have to wait until the morning rush of customers came in for that news. He poured himself a cup of coffee and paced back into the kitchen. "What if she's not all right?" he mused aloud. "Who's going to take care of her?" Brandi's husband was no longer around, her daughter was in college in Virginia. "What if she needs something?" Setting up the morning bake was almost wholly routine; sweet rolls and crullers appeared to manifest almost magically as he moved around the kitchen. It was a ballet of flour and yeast, mixer and rolling pin, the timer marking, with digital precision, the arrival of each new batch of baked goods. There were cookies to unwrap, Brandi's latest batch of pies to cut and plate for the front case, biscotti to restock. Time melted, passing with Joel's first pot of coffee, as the sky faded from black to gray. Shop lights flickered on up and down the street, illuminating the coffee shop, the McDonald's, the newsstand. Joel turned on the lights in the Patisserie's seating area and unlocked the door. Five minutes later, his first customer was arriving. It was Harold, a heavyset man who worked nights for the city's sanitation department and made a habit of stopping at Joel's on the way home. "Did you hear what happened on the train this morning?" Joel asked. "You haven't?" Harold looked around for a TV. "It's all over the news. Some moron had firecrackers in his pocket, wanted to stage a protest or some shit. With M-80's." He snorted. "Transit cops beat the shit out of him, from what I heard." "Did he set them off? Was anybody hurt?" "People thought it was a bomb, I guess. Or maybe gun shots, I don't know. But they went running back away from him, some people got overwhelmed by that." He nodded. "No one got burned up or nothing." "That is messed up," Joel said. "And Brandi was on that train." "Little Brandi?" Harold asked. "That works here?" Joel nodded, although he'd never in his life imagined calling Brandi little. "She called and said she was all right but that she had to go to the hospital and get checked out." Harold shook his head. "Ain't that some shit. Man."

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"Yeah." They stood for a second, and then Harold asked, "There any of them cinnamon crullers today?" *** It was almost one o'clock by the time Brandi came in to the Patisserie. She looked tired and

irritated, decidedly out of sorts, but uninjured.

"Brandi! Are you all right?"

"Grrr." Brandi shook her head. "You don't even want to know. What a morning." She glared

around the shop. "Is there anything to eat in this joint? I'm starving."

"I'll make you a sandwich. Sit down," Joel fussed. "Why did you even come in? You should go

home and rest." He poured her a coffee. "Right after you tell me what happened."

Brandi laughed. "You are too much." She took a sip of the coffee. "You really are."

"Tell."

"What's to tell? I'm on the train, we're riding along, I'm next to this idiot in a suit who keeps

banging into me with his bag, and I'm thinking if he doesn't get off at the next stop, I'm going to have to say something to him, and all of a sudden, we're all running so we don't get run over." "You didn't see anything?" "Not really," she said. "I smelled smoke, afterward, all sulfur, and I thought there was a fire, but it turns out he had some firecrackers. But I was going this way, and he was that way, and there were all these cops trying to go that way, and we were in their way." She took the sandwich from Joel. "And that didn't work out so well." "You got hurt?"

"I got knocked around a little bit. Hit my shoulder up here on a pole. But that was it."

"You sure?"

"They did x-rays and everything," Brandi said. "All of us had to go in. Freakin' cops. They didn't

listen to anybody."

"That's what they have to do."

"Yeah," Brandi said, "But I don't have to like it."

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Joel smiled. "Can't say that I blame you." "Even if you did," she said, "I don't think it would matter." Suddenly she looked very tired. "Would you mind if I called it a day, boss?" "Of course not! Absolutely, go home, if you want. You've had a terrible morning -- and you've been doing a ton of work here lately while I've been working on David." Joel suddenly felt very, very guilty. "You don't have to ask that! Of course you can have the day. And tomorrow too, if you need." Brandi smiled. "Joel, it's okay. I'll be okay. I just want to go back to bed, honestly, and start this day all over." "Tomorrow will be a better day," Joel replied. "You're going to be okay without me here?" "Yeah." The morning rush was long over, and the second big push of the day -- when people on their way home from work would stop to pick up dessert -- was never as intense. "I can handle it." "I hate to take you away from David." Joel shrugged. "You won't be. I'll be working on his eyes later on. No worries. You're more important right now." "Thanks, Joel. I appreciate it." *** Joel had meant the words when he'd said them, but as the afternoon stretched out, he found himself anxious to work on David's eyes. Blowing sugar wasn't his favorite thing in the world, but nothing else would provide the realistic depth and shine he imagined. He used the time between waiting on customers to sketch David's eyes a dozen times. They would be brown, of course, with deep chocolate bands arrayed around pitch black pupils, russet and golden highlights adding some extra sparkle. Normally a day at the Patisserie passed quickly, but today the hours were dragging. Joel found himself pacing the shop. He couldn't abandon the sugar-blowing process once he'd started it, and who knew when a customer would come walking in? "Maybe I should close early," he told David. "Because I can't wait to see what you look like with your eyes in."

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The idea was appealing. Irresponsible, but appealing. Joel was seriously considering it when the front door bells rang, signaling the arrival of a customer. Before he made it to the front of the shop, the bell had rung two more times. He had a steady stream of customers for nearly forty-five minutes, seeking out birthday cakes and fruit cobblers. "Busy today?" Annie, one of his regular customers, asked. She was there to glean treasures from Joel's day-old bin; the best bargain in town if you didn't mind yesterday's pastry. "I shouldn't be surprised. Bad news makes people buy cake." Joel said. Last year, there had been a political scandal that tore the mayor's office apart. The Patisserie had had their single best day ever when the city comptroller was arrested on charges of embezzling hundreds of thousands of dollars from the city's retirement fund. "I don't know why." "It's a simple way to feel good. That's what cake does for you," Annie said. "Cheaper than therapy, too." Joel laughed. "And I'm grateful for that." Once the crowd died down, Joel pulled the day's offerings and locked the door. "All right, I've been patient long enough. Let's go make some eyes." Blowing sugar requires perfect concentration and a very still mind. There's no sense in even trying when you're agitated or upset. That's a lesson Joel had learned the hard way while he and Rick were running The Red Door. He couldn't even begin to count how many projects had been ruined when he attempted to work on them while upset over Rick's latest dalliance. Today, Joel wasn't upset. If anything, he was excited: eyes, more than anything, would make David seem real. There was something about having a gaze that conveyed personality. If the eyes were the windows to the soul for humanity, for pastry, they were the doorway to verisimilitude. Still, Joel needed to control his excitement. Too much enthusiasm sent through the blow tube could result in an eye too large or imperfectly shaped. Human eyes aren't perfectly round. To work properly, David's couldn't be, either. Joel was aiming for a particularly plump tear, a spring-swollen raindrop, rounder than it was long. The eyes couldn't be too large. Joel needed no more than three-quarters of a carefully blown breath to achieve the right size. Creating small, imperfect spheres sounded simple enough, yet the task took Joel the better part of the evening. He crafted fourteen eyes. Seven pairs of brown sugar eyes gazed at Joel from the worktable as midnight turned to morning. He was trying to select the best ones.

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"Okay, David. Where are you?" Joel sat on a stool, elbows propped on the countertop, chin resting in his hands. He stared for a moment into each pair of eyes. Was this David, with lush round eyes, brown streaks so wide and deep that all the secrets of the universe could fit neatly in? Or were David's eyes full of light, more tawny than brown, shining like the sun? They were decidedly not this pair, stoic, static and predictable. Men should want to stare into David's eyes for hours; they wouldn't want to if he resembled a department store mannequin. The next set was good but oversized -- no matter how much magic Joel worked, they'd make David appear bug-eyed. He wasn't sure about the pupils on the next pair. They were just a hair too large, as if David was startled or afraid. Ideally, a man should never have a reason to look scared. There was too much gold in the sixth pair, with wide yellow blotches spaced unevenly throughout the irises. Joel stared at this pair a long time: they were striking, unusual enough to be noteworthy. If he saw a man with eyes like that, Joel would stop and look again, solely on the basis of his eyes. But would that be classic male beauty? Or were such striking, unusual eyes by definition not classical beauty? Was one o'clock in the morning the right time to be pondering this? "I don't know," Joel said, answering the last question aloud. He turned on his stool to face David. "You could be a little more helpful, you know. Help me make this decision." He turned back to the countertop and pointed to the seventh pair of eyes. "Do you like these ones?" There was, of course, no reply. "Or what about these?" He pointed to the fifth pair, and then the third. "I know you don't like those." He pointed to the second pair. "What about these?" Yes. Suddenly Joel knew, with total, absolute confidence and clarity, that he was looking at David's eyes. They were perfect. The russet and gold highlights the gleam of autumn topaz captured the attention while the chocolate browns were warm, deep, and inviting. His hands were trembling as he set the eyes in place. Gum-paste lids, upper and lower, were carefully pressed into place, cradling the blown sugar orbs and transforming colored spheres into eyes. It was nerve-wracking, precise work. The pupils of both eyes had to remain relatively aligned. At the same time, Joel had to be aware of the emotional impact of the eyelids. Lowered this much

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and David was an innocent, open to the world and all it had to offer. A fraction of an inch lower, and David became seductive, flirtatious, coy. Drop them further, and David was defiant, dangerous, almost tangibly angry. Lower still, and suddenly David was sorely in need of a nap. He was a man then with nothing but sleep on his mind. Joel smiled. If he could be certain of anything about this competition, it was the fact that everyone who looked at David would imagine him in bed -- and not one of those viewers would picture him sleeping. He placed David's eyelids somewhere between innocent and seductive, and stepped back to consider the result. "Oh my." Speech failed him as he took in David thus far. Even incomplete -- no feet, no cock, no hair on his body nor his head, David was the most beautiful man he'd ever seen. "You're perfect. You're amazing. The judges are going to love you. I think I already do."

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Part Four Two days later, David was nearly complete. It had been a whirlwind forty-eight hours. Once Brandi was safely ensconced in the Patisserie again, a look at the schedule revealed there was only a limited amount of time before the competition that wouldn't be eaten up by commissions - he had three wedding cakes, a bat mitzvah cake, and two birthday cakes to complete. The lion's share of the remaining work on David had had to happen in two days. The remaining ten days or so until the contest would hold enough time, perhaps, for last minute detail work, but not more than that. He'd accomplished a great deal in those two days. David had feet. He had nipples. He had thick, black hair on his head and a fine mat of curls that highlighted the curves of his chest. He had ears and eyebrows and lips, curved in an enigmatic smile. He had a truly magnificent cock. Neither hard nor soft, David's prick occupied the position devoted to freshly woken desire, the moment when the body acknowledges what the heart wants. "That is perfect," Brandi'd pronounced upon seeing David in his entirety. "Sexy without being too much, you know? I like it. Very classy." Joel grinned. "That's what I was hoping for."

***

Now it was the end of the second day, and Joel was working on toenails.

"Everything you've given them to look at, and you're worried about toenails?" Brandi looked at

her watch. "You need to give it a rest."

"I'm almost done," Joel protested. "I've got this foot entirely finished and one nail on this one."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

Joel shook his head. "I want to start the Walters wedding tomorrow. And it won't take long.

Forty-five minutes, maybe. No more than an hour."

Brandi smiled. "You really believe that, don't you?"

Joel shrugged. "Of course I do. I always believe it."

"You want me to lock up?"

"Nah," Joel replied. "I'll get it. I really won't be that long."

***

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"How many times have I told you to always lock up?" Rick said, his booming voice a most unwelcome intrusion in Joel's workspace. "Leave it open and you never know what kind of riffraff is going to walk in off the streets." "Point taken." Joel replied. He'd just finished affixing the fourth toenail to David's foot; there was only one left to go. He stood up, hoping to keep Rick from entering any farther into his workroom. "Thanks for letting me know. I'll take care of that right now." It was already too late. Rick had seen David. "Fuck me sideways, Joel," he murmured, in tones that were the closest thing to reverence Joel

had ever head from his former lover. "Look what you've done."

He circled David, blue eyes flickering over the nearly complete cake. "He's amazing. The detail.

The musculature." Rick peered at David's face. "Blown sugar eyes. You are too much."

He stepped backward. "You've done it."

"What have I done?" Joel asked. He felt distinctly uneasy; it was wrong to have Rick here now,

when David was so near completion.

"You've proven -- to me -- that you are the better artist." Rick raised his arm, gesturing toward

David; Joel flinched as Rick's fingertips got uncomfortably close. "I can't beat this. Hell, I can't even match this. Not even close." "Wow." In all the years they'd had together, Joel had never heard such an admission from his exlover. "Thank you. That means a lot, Rick."

Rick nodded, once. "That just leaves one question."

"And what's that?"

"How much will it take to get you to drop out?"

"What do you mean?" Joel took a step forward. Rick did not retreat. "How much will it take?"

"What do I gotta pay you? The top prize is ten grand. You step back, let me take first, I'll give

you half." He smiled. "It won't completely fix my financial... situation, but it'll make a dent. Buy me some time. And you'll have cash in your pocket without all the stress and bullshit of competition. I know you hate that. This way," he shrugged, "we both win." "You are unbelievable," Joel said. He moved so he was between Rick and David. "I absolutely

cannot believe you."

"What's belief got to do with this? I need that money to save The Red Door."

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"And because you need it, I should just give up on what I want?" "You got what you want! You said so yourself: the point was to create magnificent art. You've done that. And I think you wanted to prove you're better than me." Rick bowed his head, imperially, a patriarch acknowledging the loss of some long-disputed territory. "You've done that." "Believe it or not, Rick, this actually isn't all about you." Joel struggled to keep from shouting. "The fact you need money? Not a factor in my decision-making process. Not anymore." "It's not for me," Rick protested. "It's for The Red Door." "I lost The Red Door a long time ago." "Joel." "Get out of my place." "You owe me this much, Joel. After everything we've been through. Everything you've learned from me." Rick was staring at him, intently. He stepped closer and closer, his bright blue eyes glaring. Joel could almost feel their impact, boring through his flesh, burning through his brain, into his soul. He knew what Rick was doing. It was the Evil Eye, the traditional curse so much part and parcel of the Greek culture Rick loved. Almost instinctively, he made the sign he'd learned in Athens, a flicker of fingers that a merchant had assured him would ward the curse away. Rick saw it and snickered. "You're pathetic. Do you really think your will is stronger than mine? You're nothing without me. Everything you've got, you got from me. Every bit of skill, you learned from me. You owe me big time." "Fuck you." Joel was shaking, shouting. "I owe you? For what? For lying to me every time you opened your mouth for three god damned years? For screwing around on me every chance you got? Fuck you, I owe you." He stepped forward again, and this time, Rick did retreat, the force of Joel's anger propelling him backward. "And now you're coming in here giving me the Eye? I don't think so. I'm done with that. Done with The Red Door. Done with you." "Joel..." "No. This is my time, now. My shop, now. My life, now. It's time for me to take care of me. It's not about what you want, Rick," Joel was snarling, each word profane in delivery if not actuality. "It's about what I want."

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They'd reached the front door, Rick's back against the glass. "And what do you want, Joel?" "Right now, I want you out of my shop." The small set of bells hung on the door jangled as Rick complied, the sound incongruously cheerful in the tense moment. "Fine. I'll go." Rick shook his head. "But you know what, Joel? You're not as strong as you think you are. Telling me fuck you." He glared at Joel, the gaze even more intent than it had been earlier. "You'll regret that. You're not going to win this competition. I guarantee it. And you'll wish that that was the worst thing that happened to you." He raised an eyebrow. "I'll see to that." *** "What an asshole." Joel glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was almost eleven -- hours after he'd planned to go to bed. "How much is it gonna cost me? I'll tell you what, Rick, darling, there's not enough money in the world. How about that?" Joel kicked his shoes off and undid his jeans, letting them fall to the floor. His shirt stank, more sweaty from the heated exchange with Rick than all day working on David. He peeled it off and let it drop, a split second before collapsing onto the bed. The sheets were cool and comforting against his stomach, the pillow a soft refuge for his aching head. Joel wrapped his right arm around another pillow, pulling it up against his side. He let his eyes close. When they opened, it wasn't a pillow he was holding. It was David. David, who was not cake, but man. David, who not only allowed but welcomed Joel's kiss -- for a kiss was Joel's immediate, instinctive response to finding himself in David's embrace. The kiss was followed by a series of touches and tastes, a dream-like exploration of David's magnificent body, each discovery more delightful than the one that preceded it. It was surreal: Joel had never thought of how magnificently warm David's skin would be, how firm and heavy his muscular frame would feel, yet the moment he discovered these things, they were entirely natural, as if Joel had expected them all along. David never spoke, directing the encounter with touches and smiles, strokes, and the occasional throaty groan. He wanted Joel; that was clear from the confident grip he had on Joel's cock, the knowing way his fingers curled around Joel's balls.

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"Oh, God," Joel groaned. "That feels so good." He wanted to throw his head back and abandon himself to the moment -- but at the same time, he couldn't look away from David, for fear this vision would fade away and be gone. For a vision, David certainly felt real enough. His skin was soft and warm -- warm bordering on hot when Joel's hand dropped to David's cock, stroking him fully erect. Eyes fixed upon each other, the occasional breath sneaking in between kisses, they pulled each other closer to bliss. It was such a perfect dream, Joel was surprised it didn't have a soundtrack. *** Joel turned, stretching beneath the sheets, extending his leg until his toes encountered a dip in the mattress. A dip, a hollow, a slight depression. A change in the topography, indicative of company. Proof positive that he wasn't alone. Sleep left him, instantly, abruptly. Joel became fully awake without opening his eyes. He was conscious of his breathing suddenly. Had it changed? Had the rhythm of inhalations and exhalations so altered that his companion could not help but notice, telling from the changed pace that Joel was, in fact, awake? There was no way to tell. He lay perfectly still for a moment, listening, ears straining for any clue. There was nothing. Not even the sound of someone breathing -- there was no subtle movement of air, no indrawn breath, no sighed release. It was the silence that convinced Joel that he was still asleep, that last night's dream was still unfolding. All of the evening's many delights were not the entirety of the bliss, there were pleasures yet to be discovered. If he opened his eyes, Joel mused, perhaps David would be sitting there, fresh-showered and wrapped in a white bathrobe, holding a steaming mug of coffee and smiling. It was worth a shot. David wasn't wearing a bathrobe. In fact, he wasn't wearing much of anything. He greeted Joel with a smile, teeth that Joel had never seen almost obscenely white in the wee hours of the morning. "I think we should talk."

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"Holy shit!" Joel sat upright, abruptly, scooting backward rapidly until his spine was flat against the bedroom wall. "It's okay," David said. "It's okay."

"But you're here." The words tumbled out of Joel's mouth, so fast he could barely control them.

"Here. In my house. Now."

David nodded. "Yes."

"How?"

David shrugged. "I don't know."

"But you're real. You're really real." Joel ran his fingertips over David's forearms. They were so

familiar -- the arcing lines of muscle, the fine mesh of black hair -- and so foreign. Warm,

resilient skin, taut and flexible and nearly always in motion. "I can't believe it."

David smiled. "I can't not believe it." His shrug was entirely artless, genuine puzzlement shining

through the gesture. "Since it is me it's happening to."

Joel bent forward, peering at David's feet. Sure enough, on David's right foot, there was no

pinkie toenail.

"It's really you," he said. "But how? How did this happen? Cakes just don't come to life. It

doesn't work like that." Joel could hear the hysterical note in his voice, creeping steadily higher.

"I don't know. I was not, then I was."

Joel closed his eyes. "Maybe I'm dreaming. I'm still asleep. This is all a dream."

David touched him, fingertips sliding over stubbly cheeks to lift his chin. "Does this feel like a

dream?" The kiss was deep and searching, David's tongue sliding over his own and dominating

Joel's mouth.

"Frankly, yes." Joel said, after David pulled his lips away. "A wonderful dream at that." His eyes

went wide. "So last night. That. Us." He fanned his hand over the bed, the tangled sheets, the

knotted blankets. "That really happened."

David smiled.

"Holy shit."

"It was very wonderful," David replied. "We should do that again."

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Joel blinked. "This must be a dream." He took David's hand. "Better than a dream. My dreams never wanted more in the morning." "What did your dreams want?" David asked. "Mostly to discover my long-buried psychological issues," Joel replied. "We can do that later." David nodded decisively. "First, I want to kiss you some more." Joel had nothing to say to that. There were no objections voiced when David pushed him back in the bed, forcing him down with kisses and quick touches. "Oh, my God," Joel groaned. "You're amazing. You're perfect." "All I am is what you made me," David purred, a split second before he swallowed Joel's cock. The lips Joel had spent long hours forming wrapped perfectly around his cock, a tight band slowly descending toward Joel's balls. A tongue, never even imagined but fully realized nonetheless, flickered along the underside, dipping into sensitive spots, teasing out shuddering moans. David's hair -- hours and hours of precisely placed piping, each individual strand put in place by Joel's own hand, now parted like silk between his sliding, grasping fingers, curls thick enough to sink knuckle deep in. Joel tightened his fingers. Tentatively at first, more confidently as he became assured of David's reality, more desperately as David pulled him closer to the edge. "Thank you," he groaned. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve this, but thank you." "That looked wonderful," David said after. Joel scooted up to kiss him. "It is," he said. "Wait until you try it." He left a trail of kisses down the side of David's neck, over the gentle swell of his pecs. Raisin-colored nipples, miniature sculpted pieces of perfection, were transformed into dynamic, sensitive nubbins of flesh, where every flick of Joel's tongue resulted in an indrawn breath, in fingers scrabbling for a hold in the sheets. His stomach was almost as sensitive -- kisses that trailed too far down one side of David's torso had him shuddering like a fly-stung horse. By the time Joel reached David's hip bone, where thigh, torso, and pelvis met with a grace and precision Joel could never hope to emulate, David was groaning aloud. "So good, so good. This feels so good." His hand rested lightly on top of Joel's head, not pushing, simply there.

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Joel took the hint anyway and continued the journey downward. The first tentative kiss on the side of David's cock was enough to make him fully erect, the long pink shaft swelling to dimensions Joel had only pictured in his more inspired imaginings. "Wow," David breathed. His cock twitched, jumping for more attention, more contact -- a connection Joel was more than happy to provide. He took David in in one smooth swallow, letting his lips go as far down as they could easily, and then slowly drawing back, inch by inch. The next stroke, he took a little more of David's cock, trailing his tongue along the underside before making his snail's paced retreat.

The cycle repeated, time and again, the motions becoming faster and deeper as they found their

rhythm; David driving his hips upward at an increasingly frantic pace, Joel dipping his head to

meet every thrust.

"Oh. Oh. Oh, oh, oh." David groaned. "Now. Oh, now, now, now."

Despite the small fear lurking unacknowledged in the corner of Joel's mind, David tasted like a

normal man. There wasn't a hint of buttercream about the whole thing. Nonetheless, he was delicious. *** "Where did I come from? I don't know," David said. "I wasn't, then I was." He nodded, looking around the room. "And then I was here, with you." "Do you know what you are?" Joel asked. "Some kind of angel? A dream come true?"

David shook his head. "Only that I'm meant for you." He held out his hand, grasping Joel's

fingers in his grip. "And that you're for me."

"How did you know that?" Joel asked. "Not that I'm arguing, mind you."

"Maybe I've always known," David said. "Before I could see you, I could hear you. I could feel

you." He tapped his chest. "Here. Inside."

Joel reached out, letting his fingers trail over David's chest. "In your heart?"

David nodded. "It must be."

"What's the last thing you remember before you were here?" Joel asked.

"It was noisy," David said. "You were shouting, but I couldn't see you. And then it was dark.

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"It had been dark before, but now the darkness frightened me. And I closed my eyes, and I thought of you, so I wouldn't be afraid." David opened his eyes. "I opened my eyes, and there you were." Joel smiled. "It's the same for me. I opened my eyes, and there you were." His smile faded. "The shouting you heard was Rick. Rick's the man I used to love."

"Before you loved me?" David asked the question with perfect confidence, as if he was assured

of his position in Joel's heart.

It made Joel melt a little inside. "Yes. That was before I met you."

"What was he yelling at you?"

Joel relayed the conversation as well as he could remember it. David grew increasingly troubled

as the tale went on, and by the time Joel relayed Rick's final words, David was pale.

"Hey, don't take it so hard. It's not that big a deal. Rick's like that. All anger and bluster and

bullshit. You can't take him seriously." Joel shrugged, lightly.

"But what did he mean, you'd wish that was the worst thing that would happen to you?" David's

forehead wrinkled. "What's going to happen?"

"What's going to happen? He got his way -- here you are, and that means I don't have a cake for

the contest. He'll get his money, and that's all Rick's ever been about."

"That's not all of it." David was firm. "I know it's not."

Joel shook his head. "I don't know. Rick usually backs off when he gets what he wants. And you.

You're everything I wanted -- everything any man would want, really. "

"I'd never hurt you," David said. "Not willingly."

"I know." Joel leaned forward and kissed David tenderly.

"How can you know that?" David demanded. "Maybe Rick did something completely evil to me.

Like set it up that I'll explode when you least expect it."

"He not only brought you to life, he turned you into a bomb? I think you're giving him more

credit than he's due." Joel grinned. "Rick's not that smart. And anyways, all of the shrapnel

would be made of sponge cake."

David laughed.

Cake Walk - 35

"Losing you, though." Joel said, suddenly somber. "That would suck. I wouldn't want to go through that." "Would it destroy you?" Their eyes met, there, in the still, quiet confines of Joel's bedroom. "Do you want the honest answer to that?" "If I don't like the honest answer, will you tell me another one?" Joel laughed. "If you like." "Then yes, I'd like the honest answer."

"I think if I lost you, now that you're here? Lost you now, after everything, after this?" Joel's

voice broke, wavering under the weight of sudden sentiment. "Yeah. That would be the worst

thing that could happen. I think that might just destroy me."

David kissed him then, a half-desperate embrace involving hands and arms flung around Joel's

body, lips pushing open to surround one shared breath.

"You won't lose me. Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Maybe you won't. Maybe that's how the curse will work. We go along, all in love, and

whammo! Something happens to you."

"What kind of something?"

"I don't know. It could be anything. Car accident. Heart attack. You name it."

"And I'd be gone." David swallowed. "And that would destroy you."

"Not for long." Joel smiled. "I'll be right there behind you, headed to whatever afterlife there is

for guys like us."

David frowned. "I don't even like to think about that."

"I do," Joel replied. He stroked the back of David's hand. "Spending eternity with you? That

sounds good to me. There are worse places to be than the great bread box in the sky."

They kissed again, slow and close, before David pulled his head away.

"I remember another place," David said. He looked around Joel's bedroom. "Larger than this.

Brighter." His hands waved, sketching out remembered furnishings. "There were shelves on the

wall. Steel tables." He frowned. "I was much bigger there."

Cake Walk - 36

Joel laughed. "You were standing on a table."

"Where is this place?" David asked.

"The Patisserie? Only a few blocks."

"Can we go there? Now?"

Joel shrugged. "I don't see why not." He glanced at the clock. It was minutes after four. "Brandi

won't be there for an hour and a half. We'll have the place to ourselves."

"Brandi is the woman."

"A woman," Joel said. "She works for me."

"She cares for you."

Joel thought about this for a moment, of all the meals and mugs of coffee David had seen Brandi

deliver, the steady, warm encouragement he'd overheard. "She does, yes."

"Then I like her already."

"That's good," Joel replied. "She's not going to know what to think about you."

Before they could go to the Patisserie, David needed something to wear. This proved to be more

than a little challenging; Joel had created his dream man considerably larger than his own wiry

frame. He had to rifle his closet and empty his dresser until he found something that would fit

David: an oversized sweatshirt and some red gym shorts Rick had left behind. "We need to get you some clothes," Joel said. "First thing. But this will do for now." David looked down at the ensemble with some distaste. "I prefer to go without them." "I prefer you without them myself," Joel agreed. "But you can't just walk around downtown with

no clothes on. You'd attract too much unwanted attention."

David turned out to be the type of man who attracted attention no matter what he wore. He and

Joel had walked no more than a block and a half through the chilly, still night when trouble

found them.

There were three of them, two large guys, one small. They had red shoelaces in their boots,

crossed hammers tattooed on bared biceps, hair shaved cleanly away. The little guy was clearly in charge. He confronted Joel first.

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"What do we got here? Couple of fags out for a moonlight stroll?" "We're just on our way to work," Joel said, trying to sidestep the guy. "We're not looking for any trouble." "And where's that? Swing shift at the fudge packing factory?" The little guy took one last drag on his cigarette, creating half an inch of ash before flicking it away. "It don't matter none that you queers weren't looking for trouble. Trouble done found you." He hit Joel with a quick rabbit punch, high on the temple. "Joel!" David cried, rushing toward him. "Stop it! What are you doing?" One of the larger guys grabbed a hold of David and threw him casually aside. He crashed into a brick staircase, his head bouncing against the black iron handrail. "Not only do we got a faggot here, we've got a stupid faggot. What do you think we're doing?" He had a wrench, shining steel reflecting what little ambient light was available. "We're gonna beat your ass." Bright lights surrounded them, the loud, abrasive 'blat' of a car horn filling the air. "Get away from those guys or I'm gonna pump your ass fulla lead!" Five heads turned as one to see a taxi cab, front wheels angled toward the sidewalk. The driver was hanging out of the window, gun in hand. "This ain't your fight, Grandpa!" "I'm making it my fight!" The small guy stopped punching Joel in the head long enough to extract a small pistol from the front of his jeans. He turned away from Joel and pointed it toward the cab. "You don't want to do that." "The fuck I don't!" There was an incredible roar as the cabbie fired the .45. He missed the small guy's head by inches, the round smashing into the building behind him. A shower of brick debris rained down on Joel, helping him fall to the sidewalk. The small guy took off running. His companions followed. The trio reached the corner and turned, disappearing into the night before Joel and David realized what had happened. "God damn, I hate skinheads," the cabbie announced. "Are you guys all right?" David rushed to Joel's side. Joel's left eye was swollen nearly shut, a purple-blue blossom of pain. A thin trickle of blood came from his nose. "He's hurt!"

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"I'm fine," Joel slurred.

"You need a ride to the hospital?" The cabbie was nervous. "Cops'll be here any minute, shots

fired and all."

They piled into his car.

"It's not that I have an issue with law enforcement, you understand." The cabbie threw the cab in

reverse, spun the car around, and started off in his original direction, all in the space of two

heartbeats.

"Of course not," Joel agreed. His enunciation was perhaps less than perfect, but the cabbie

seemed to follow him.

"It's just that my daughter will kick my ass, I get in trouble again. 'You're not Batman, Papa!'" he said, voice climbing into the falsetto range for a moment. "What she don't see is this city needs a few more Batmans to get back under control. All the gangs and the bullshit..." "I don't want to go to the hospital," Joel announced. "They'll ask questions, you know?" He turned to look at the cabbie. "I wouldn't want to have to tell them about you -- not after you helped us out and all." The cabbie nodded his head. "I appreciate that. But maybe you need to see a doctor. You could

have a concussion and shit. Your head's nothing to mess around with."

"I'll be all right. If it gets bad, I'll see someone," Joel said. "I promise."

"You gonna be with him? Keeping an eye?" the cabbie asked David.

"Always," he replied.

"I guess that'll be all right, then. Don't let him go to sleep. Not for a while. Where do you want

me to drop you then?"

Joel gave him directions to the Patisserie.

"Wow. You guys work here? I wondered about it but I've never been. It any good?"

Joel smiled. "It's not bad."

"I'll have to come in, give it a try. I always did like a maple creme."

"After tonight? You come in, we'll hook you up with all the maple cremes you want."

Cake Walk - 39

Part Five It was not the easiest morning Brandi had ever had. Joel's appearance was the first shock -- a shock that had her scrambling for antiseptic and feeling Joel's face, muttering about skull fractures. But that had nothing on meeting David. "Brandi, this is David. You've got to meet David," Joel said, calming her fussing around his injuries. "This is important." "Nice to meet you, Dav..." She spoke absently at first, the majority of her attention still fixed on Joel. Then she really saw David, the recognition a physical shock. "David. You're the one he based the cake on." Brandi turned toward Joel. "The likeness is amazing! I knew you were good, but damn!" "I'm not that good, Brandi. He is the cake."

Her jaw dropped. "What do you mean, he is the cake?"

David replied. "Joel baked me, formed me, decorated me. And here I am."

"But you're alive! You're breathing!"

David nodded. "I am."

Brandi stood up, pushing past the front counter to access the workroom. The same sight Joel had

taken in earlier confronted her now: Joel's tools, neatly laid out where he'd left them the night

before.

Right next to the worktable.

The empty work table.

There was no sign on the stainless steel platform that a cake had ever been there; no lingering

trace of gum paste, no scrap of stringwork, not even a trace of sugar.

She scanned the floor, stopping only when she realized she was searching for footprints.

"How did this happen?" Brandi demanded. "You're fucking with me. I know you are." She glared

at Joel, then at David. "I don't know why. But a cake does not suddenly come to life and start

walking around!"

"Then where is the cake?"

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"I don't know!" Brandi wailed. She was shaking, her hands trembling. "It was amazing, it was perfect. You have no reason to get rid of it, to hide it -- not from me. But how? This can't be. I don't understand!" "I don't either, honestly." Joel filled her in on the previous night's events, Rick's late night visit, his angry tirade. He glossed over the more intimate details. "I had a dream, and David was in the dream, but he was alive, not a cake. And when I woke up, there he was." "That is messed up," Brandi said. "I mean, yeah, I know Rick wanted to win the contest, but to do this..."

"Brandi," David asked, speaking very slowly. "What did Rick do? What does this have to do

with the contest?"

"He wished you into being, that's what!" Brandi said. "As for why?" She turned to face the empty

worktable. "You don't have a cake now, do you? And the contest is nine days away."

Joel frowned. "You're right." He shrugged. "Rick got his way after all. I guess he won." He

looked at David. "But that doesn't really matter."

"Sure it matters!" Brandi said. She turned to David. "Not that you're not wonderful and everything, but there's a principle at stake here. It's not right to let Rick win this thing." She turned back to Joel. "There's still time. You could do another cake." Joel shook his head. "Nine days? That's not nearly enough time."

"On Food Network, they put together a cake in two days. I've seen you do it yourself."

"Not from concept to creation, you haven't," Joel replied. "And right now, I don't even have a

concept."

"Re-do the David cake," Brandi suggested.

"No!" Both men spoke at the same time.

"I don't think I could do that," Joel explained.

"It would be very weird to have a cake that looks like me," David added. "What if that cake came

to life, too?"

"It wouldn't have to look exactly like you," Brandi explained. "Joel could model it after someone

else. Vin Diesel, maybe."

"And if that cake came to life?" Joel asked.

Cake Walk - 41

Brandi sighed. "I guess I'd have to take care of that little problem." She smiled. "Talk about

being good enough to eat."

"Yeah, thank you, no. I don't think it's a good idea to start baking up any more fantasy men."

Brandi pouted. "So you're just gong to let Rick win everything?"

"He can have the money." Joel shrugged. "I've got the real prize already." He reached for David's

hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Oh, please." Brandi rolled her eyes. "I can see it coming from him. He's made of sugar. But

you? There's no excuse for you going on like that."

Joel laughed. "I'd say I was sorry, but..."

"I know," she said. " You're not."

"Not at all."

There would be no cake entered in this year's competition. It was final. If Joel were to be honest

with himself, he'd have to admit that technically, Brandi was right. There was enough time to

create another cake.

Maybe even a cake that would win the competition.

But it would take everything Joel had. Every ounce of his skill. Every bit of his creativity. Every

minute of the nine remaining days -- and that was the price Joel wasn't willing to pay.

He didn't know, exactly, how David had come to life. He had even less knowledge about how

long his dream man would stick around. Had he magically been granted the lifespan of a normal man? Would he be around for sixty more years -- or was it a matter of sixty more months? Sixty weeks? Sixty days? Sixty hours? Facing the prospect that his true love would expire before the week ran its course triggered many

emotions in Joel.

The competitive urge to create a magnificent cake and win a pastry contest was not one of them.

*** Joel had not set foot inside The Red Door since the day he'd walked away from Rick. He'd had no reason to return, and the memories and disappointment were too painful. Even now, his heart ached as he pushed the door open. The bells that jangled, signaling his arrival, were the brass ones he'd selected in an Athenian market. The small black tables where the customers were seated were tables he and Rick had painted, one sunny Thursday morning.

Cake Walk - 42

The menu board had been a gift from Joel's sister Sarai, custom made, and such a bone of

contention during the separation that Joel still had nightmares about it.

At least the counter help was new. Almost as new as David; the boy Rick had hired to replace

Fern didn't seem old enough to require regular time with a razor. He was certainly beautiful, and

very eager to please.

"Hello, sir." He was practically purring. "Welcome to The Red Door. What can we tempt you

with today?"

Joel smiled. "Actually, I'm here to see Rick."

The boy frowned; a pretty pout, but a pout nonetheless. "I'm afraid Mr. Rasmussen is simply not

available. He's working on the most magnificent cake for a very important competition and is not

to be disturbed."

"Please. Rick's been disturbed longer than you've been alive." Joel avoided, narrowly, rolling his

eyes at the boy. "He'll see me."

"And you are?" The purr was gone, although there was still plenty of cat in the boy's tone.

"Tell him Joel's here."

"Is a first name really going to be enough? You know, Mr. Rasmussen sees lots of people."

"That's always been the case. How about this: you go and see if he'll see me, and if he won't, I'll

leave. But if you don't want to, I'll leave now, and I'll tell you what. That'll cost him a lot of

money." Joel smiled. "Since you know him so well, you know how happy that will make him."

The boy stared at Joel for a long moment, as if assessing the worth of his proposition. If he'd had

a tail, it would have been twitching.

Joel waited.

"Fine," the boy said, spinning on his heel. "I've got better things to do with my time than worry

about the type of people Rick chooses to associate with."

"Believe me, kid," Joel said to the boy's back, "your life will be much happier if you maintain

that position."

*** "This is a surprise." Rick snapped his fingers. "Bobby. Bring us coffee. He takes his black, two sugars. And some snacks. Baklava." He led the way to a corner table. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Cake Walk - 43

Joel waited for the coffee to be delivered by a now-surly Bobby. The baklava was delicious -paper thin as prayers whispered into the desert wind, sticky sweet with rosewater and honey. "I've been thinking about your proposition," he said. "That I should take you up on it."

"That's an interesting shift in position." Butter wouldn't melt in Rick's mouth. "Considering that,

last night, you booted me out on my ass."

"I was... tired," Joel said. "I may have overreacted." He looked at Rick. "Maybe we both did. We

get to snapping at each other, we wind up saying shit we don't really mean."

Rick's gaze dropped. "That's always been my problem. Half the time, I don't know what I'm

saying."

"Did you know you said you'd pay me five grand if I drop out of the contest?"

"Yes," Rick hissed, looking around. "But you've got to keep that shit quiet!"

"Does the offer still stand?"

"Of course it does." Rick cocked his head. "You gonna tell me why?"

"Stage fright," Joel replied. "Fear of competition. Or maybe you were right, and I already proved

the point I wanted to prove."

"That's the real reason?"

"I'll tell you what. You want the real reason, I'll tell you the real reason. But you'll have to bump

my share up to six grand." Rick burst out laughing, his amusement delivered in a short, almost canine bark. "Haven't you heard? The going rate is a penny for your thoughts." Bobby watched the exchange from behind the counter, a smugly superior smile slowly crawling into position on his face. "A thousand dollars? Babe, no one's ever going to be that curious." *** "You understand the entry fee is non-refundable." The registrar was sympathetic but firm. "The

deadline to withdraw passed nearly a week ago."

"I understand," Joel told her. "But if I can't show my best work, what's the point?"

The registrar clucked her tongue. "I'll tell you what. Seeing as you're being so good about the

refund, I'll let you keep your show passes. You -- and three guests -- can attend the show at least. So it's not a total loss." She dropped her voice to a confiding whisper. "From what we're hearing, it looks like it's shaping up to be the best show ever."

Cake Walk - 44

Part Six "Come here, you." David looked up from the worktable, confusion plainly evident even through the fine coating of flour he was wearing. "I thought we were making cookies."

"That dough needs to rest." Joel pushed the kitchen door shut and prayed Brandi would get the

hint. "And I need you, now."

"Now?" David melted into the kiss. "Why now?"

"Because you're standing there, looking so serious." Joel ran his finger gently around the outside

of David's mouth. "Biting these perfect lips. It's adorable."

David kissed Joel, catching his lower lip for a moment before releasing it. "Your lips are pretty

perfect, too. I love how they feel on me."

There was no time for subtlety -- not with every oven full, not with Brandi likely to push through

the door at any moment. Joel maneuvered David to a secluded space between racks and sank to his knees. David was ready for him, his cock springing out as soon as Joel pulled his pants down. He grabbed onto the wire racks, eyes closed.

"So beautiful," Joel whispered, a split second before swallowing David.

This was about speed, speed and heat and need; the need to hear David's breath quicken and

merge into a gasping, shuddering moan. "Oh, Joel." It was a sigh, a confession, a prayer. "Joel, now!" *** Joel had washed his face and hands and was drying off when Brandi came back into the kitchen, looking for an order of macadamia tartlets. David was diligently at work, removing cookies from

a sheet pan and placing them on cooling racks.

"These are for Chloe, yes?" Joel asked. "I'll bring them out to her."

"You know, boss," Brandi said on the way up front. "You all might want to get a room. I'm not

up on all the health department regulations, but I'm pretty sure they're not going to approve of what you're doing with that cake."

Cake Walk - 45

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Chloe," Joel said. "Thank you for thinking of us."

Chloe smiled, grasping the narrow tartlet box with perfectly manicured fingers. A diamond on

her left hand glittered, sending refracted light bouncing around the Patisserie. "If these are half as

good as I remember, we'll definitely be back."

"They might be twice as good as you remember," David said.

Chloe raised a carefully arched eyebrow. "Really?"

"Joel's been practicing."

"I like your new young man," Chloe said to Joel. "He's clever and good looking." She grinned.

"Where do you find them?"

Joel smiled. "I'm just lucky, I guess."

"Don't be modest," Chloe said. "You totally deserve it." She left, some four minutes before her

perfume departed the premises.

"I like her," David announced.

"What's not to like? She's rich, charming, and has a sweet tooth." Joel ticked off points on his

fingers. "If you ask me, that adds up to the ideal customer."

Brandi hung up the phone. "She's even better than that. Apparently, Mrs. Sternman has been

busy telling all of her friends about us. We've got an order here for two continental trays and three dozen cheese-almond danishes." "All right!" Joel's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Happy days are here again..." He grabbed David and danced in a small circle before planting a big wet kiss on his lips. "I'm beginning to think you're a good luck charm." "What's that smell?" Brandi asked.

Joel stepped back and sniffed the air. It was hot, almost crackling. Something sharp and electrical

lingered, the scent carrying overtones of sugar syrup spilled directly on the oven floor.

"I don't know, but it doesn't smell good."

Almost in reply, the fire alarm began to ring.

"Brandi, take David and get out of here," Joel said. He started toward the back of the shop.

"I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you!" Brandi grabbed Joel's arm. "Come on, we'll call 911!"

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Joel shook her off. "I have to see!" He opened the door and instantly regretted it: the back wall of the kitchen was engulfed in flame, black smoke building and curling across the ceiling. Flames were pushing out of the wall into the interior of the room, growing larger by the second. Joel grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall and pulled the pin, aiming toward the heart of the flames. "Aim lower!" Brandi screeched. "Fire burns up!" "Get him out of here!" Joel yelled. "Now!" The foam wasn't doing anything to slow the flames; they'd die down for a moment and then flare up again, crackling with fresh intensity. The heat was incredible; hotter than the interior of any oven, an almost physical force pushing him backward. Sweat was pouring over his face; the skin on his hands was so hot, it felt like he was swelling like a balloon. The sprinkler system kicked in, finally, sending pathetic drizzles of foaming chemical out in every direction. The chemical hissed when it hit the flames, but beyond that, did nothing to abate the flames. The fire kept raging. A ceiling panel collapsed, coming down in a cascade of foam board and sparks. It hit the floor and broke, sending burning fragments skittering under the table like so many ignited mice, sparks trailing behind them as incendiary tails. So much of the kitchen was stainless steel and tile, designed specifically to minimize the danger of fire, but that didn't seem to matter. Everything was burning: the heavy canvas piping bags, the cardboard boxes Brandi'd pulled out for the day's orders, the rolling pins. Even the scale they used to weigh ingredients was burning, green and blue flames shooting out from underneath the silver tray with an intense electrical fury. The sprinkler system, sensing perhaps that its efforts were futile, stopped working. Another ceiling tile fell, closer to Joel. He aimed the fire extinguisher at it, spraying foam over the burning rectangle. A thick inch of white bubbles appeared on one corner, narrowing at a steadily increasing rate as the extinguisher lost charge. It took Joel a minute to realize what was happening. He stared at the extinguisher, now empty, dead weight in his hands, and then at the flames consuming his shop. Then, suddenly, someone grabbed him from behind and pulled. He was propelled backward out of the kitchen, past the counter, and through the front door.

Cake Walk - 47

David and Brandi were there, standing behind a canary yellow fire truck.

"Oh, thank God!" Brandi cried.

David said nothing. He simply wrapped his arms around Joel and clung there, shaking like a leaf.

"It's okay. I'm okay. It's all right."

"You could have been killed," David said. "Destroyed!" Firemen were rushing past them,

dragging six-inch hoses into the Patisserie's burning interior. Sirens wailed, splitting the air.

"No," Joel said, his voice desert dry. His throat ached, raw like he'd spent hours screaming at the top of his lungs. "Fire extinguisher." He shook his head. "Fucking sprinklers shit the bed." "Fire extinguishers don't make you invulnerable." The paramedic, a short, stout man badly in need of a shave, peeled David off of Joel. "You can still get hurt."

"I know that," Joel said. "But what was I supposed to do?"

"Right now, you're gonna let me check you out," the paramedic replied. "You have any injuries?

Are you in any pain? Did you get hit by any debris in there?"

Joel shook his head. "My throat hurts. I'm really thirsty."

The paramedic pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and peered into Joel's mouth. "That's to

be expected. We'll get you a drink in a moment." He ran gloved hands over Joel's arms, paying

special attention to Joel’s hands, examining each finger. "How long were you in there?"

"A couple of seconds."

"No," David said. "You were in there a long time."

"Five, ten minutes at least," Brandi agreed.

"If they're right, you're the luckiest man I've met today," the paramedic said. "Not a mark on you.

Still, you should come in and let us check you out. Smoke inhalation. There's some nasty fumes

in a structure fire."

"I'm fine." Joel craned his neck to peer toward the Patisserie. "What's going on in there?"

"They'll let you know as soon as they know," the paramedic replied. "You gotta stay out of their

way."

"As soon as I know what's happened, I'll come in and get checked out," Joel said. "But I'll tell

you what, I'm not going anywhere right now."

Cake Walk - 48

***

An eternity passed; a loud, discordant, bright eternity where fire fighters shouted and ran; an

eternity punctuated by metallic crashes, the loud whistle of escaping steam, and, when the flames

reached the gas lines that led to the ovens, one large, dramatic boom that shook the ground

beneath their feet and sent bricks tumbling into the alleyway. The noise was so loud it left their

ears ringing, the sound of a million bells struck all at once.

"Holy shit," Joel said anyway. "It's all gone. All of it."

"That was the worst of it," a fireman assured him. "The hard part's getting the fire contained.

Once that happens, you've just got to clean up the mess."

"How long?" Joel asked. "Until the fire's contained?"

The fireman shrugged, the bulk of his turnout gear making the gesture awkward and slow. "Who

knows? Could be five minutes, could be five hours."

It was closer to five minutes, although not nearly as quickly as Joel would have liked. Two hours

after that, the fire marshal escorted Joel through the shop so he could have some idea of the

damage.

"Watch your step," the marshal said. "All this water makes it easy to lose your footing."

There was a good two inches of water on the floor, covered by a floating layer of soot and debris.

Joel stepped gingerly, watching waves radiate from every step. They coursed through his

kitchen, sloshing under the worktables and disappearing under countertops.

"What a mess." The stove had been obliterated, the oven doors blown with such force that only

one remained. It hung from a hinge that somehow, inexplicably, had held on through the

explosion. The racks had been blown clean out, one with such force that it was embedded in the

far wall.

Most of the pans and mixing bowls appeared fine, despite being blackened. But the scale was a

total loss, as was the batch mixer. Joel let out a groan. "Man, oh, man."

"You insured?"

"Yeah," Joel replied. "But I'm not sure it's enough."

"It's never enough." The fire marshal shook his head. "But considering this looks like it started in

your neighbor's walls, I'm guessing you've got more than one pocket of money to draw on, if you

know what I mean."

"Oh." Joel blinked. "I hadn't even thought of that."

Cake Walk - 49

"Get yourself a good lawyer, you won't have to think about that." The fire marshal smiled. "Chin up, kid. I've seen lots of people come back from worse. This will only break you if you let it." "Yeah." Joel tried to sound like he believed that. "But where do I even start?"

"If I were you, I'd call my insurance agent. And a lawyer. But first thing? You better call your

mama, let her know you're all right."

*** Joel nodded. "I understand," he said into his cell phone. "Thank you for explaining that. I

appreciate it."

He hung up.

"So what did they say?" Brandi demanded.

"We're out of business, for a while, at least. The insurance company sends out their own

inspectors, they assess the damage, and then, maybe, cut us a check. And then we have that money to rebuild and get the Patisserie going again." He sighed. "It could take weeks, maybe even months." "Shit."

"I'm sorry, Brandi."

"Don't worry about me," she said. "I'll be fine. I was fine before, and I'll be fine now. But I'm

worried about you. What are you going to do?"

Joel shrugged. "What can I do? I'll have to see if I can find some kitchen space to rent so we can

get the cakes on the calendar taken care of. And we'll hold on as best as we can until this place is

up and running again."

"I'm so sorry," David said. "This is all my fault."

"How in the world is this your fault?"

"It's me, being here. You heard what Rick said. That losing the contest wouldn't be the worst

thing to happen to you. Do you think it's a coincidence that your shop burned while I was here?

I'm a curse."

"No, you're not," Joel said. "That's ridiculous." He waved his hand toward the front of the

Patisserie. "Do you know how many fires there are in this city every year? Hundreds. Maybe

thousands. And they've all got nothing to do with you. So why would this one?"

"And how many fires have you had before I came along?"

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"None, but that's not the point," Joel snapped. "This is not your fault."

"And we did have a fire," Brandi cut in. "Remember when I was clarifying the butter?"

Joel nodded. "True. It wasn't like this," he said, "but we did have a little fire then."

"Had to use the fire extinguisher and everything." Brandi added.

"I know you're trying to make me feel better," David said, "But we've got to face the situation

here. Rick said that losing the contest wasn't the worst thing that would happen. Now this fire! What better way for him to destroy you than to wreck your business? It's the Evil Eye, I know it." "That's ridiculous." "You're talking to a man who was a cake a week ago," Brandi said. "I don't think you get to say

what's ridiculous here."

"Don't you start." Joel rubbed his face with both hands. "You mean to tell me you agree with

him? That you think he's a curse, too? Because I'll tell you what, I just don't buy it."

"I think you need to find out," Brandi said. "It's not right for the two of you to go around with

this threat hanging over your heads."

"There's no threat. It's just worry. Stress. Imagination. That's all."

"Even if that is all," Brandi said. "You still need to deal with it. You need to find out what the

situation is, and what you can expect. Because if you don't, you'll always be worrying, and that's no good. It keeps you two from enjoying your time together." Joel blushed. "I don't know if I'd say that, exactly."

Brandi blushed too, her cheeks taking on a crimson hue. "Even so. What there is could be better,

if you weren't, at least in the back of your mind, worrying about what might someday happen."

Joel shrugged. "I've looked in every cookbook I own. Nothing."

"You're not going to find any answers in a cookbook!"

"Where else would I look?"

"The way I see it, you've got two choices. Church or magick." She cocked her head and looked at

Joel. "In the time I've known you, you've gone to church exactly never."

"And that leaves magic."

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"Not magic. Well, it is magic, but a different kind. Magick," Brandi said. "There's the magic that is David Copperfield and disappearing airplanes. And then there's the magick that is... well." She looked at David. "Magick that is you." "Where do we go for that kind of magick?" David asked. "I know a guy who deals with this type of thing," Brandi said. "Kinda." "What do you mean, kinda?" "I know where he hangs out and what he does," Brandi explained. "But I don't know him. I don't

know his name. Everyone calls him the Mystic."

It was Joel's turn to roll his eyes. "And where does this Mystic hang out?"

"He's got a place over the Grain Valley food co-op."

"And what were you doing there?" Joel asked. Grain Valley's clientele tended to eschew butter,

cream, chocolate, liqueurs... any number of the key ingredients that Joel and Brandi worked with

every day.

"They've got the best pistachios in town."

Joel raised an eyebrow.

"Shut up. Some of us take our nuts very seriously."

"Oh, I'm with you there, Brandi. One hundred percent."

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Part Seven The Grain Valley food co-op reeked of earthy earnestness. Rows of Lucite-fronted chutes featured fiber in bulk: oatmeal and split peas, granola and sticky wrinkled prunes. "Hey guys!" A petite blonde, hair twisted into a tangle of dreadlocks, bounced as she greeted them. "What can we do for you? Cheese? Coffee? Chai? Pistachios?" She spoke rapidly, the speed of her words influenced, perhaps, by the steaming mug she held between her hands. "Lots of people come for our nuts." "We've heard that, actually," Joel said. "But we're really here to see the Mystic."

The blonde's smile faded. "Are you sure?"

"Shouldn't we be?"

She shook her head. "The Mystic's a nice enough guy. Don't get me wrong. But some of what he

does?" The frown looked out of place on her face, so dour and severe. "Let's just say the Goddess

wouldn't approve."

"But we really need to see him."

She tilted her head toward the back of the shop. "There's a door back there, next to the cheese

cooler. Go through and up two flights. The first landing's the store room. You want the next

one."

"Thank you," Joel said. "We really appreciate it."

"Just try to remember the Threefold Rule," the blonde said. "It always applies, no matter what he

tells you."

"What's that?" David asked.

"Freya love you," she replied. "Maybe she'll save you from yourself."

They found the doorway easily enough. A yellow sign bordered with faded red magic marker

tulips warned them that it was Employees Only, but they pushed through anyway.

The blonde had failed to mention that the second set of stairs was not lit.

"I'm not sure I like this," David said, as they ascended. "It smells bad in here."

"That's health food," Joel replied. "I've been told it tastes better than it smells."

"It would have to."

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Joel laughed. "You would think so, but no. People will do the strangest things. Especially if they think it's good for them." The second-floor landing had a small window, rectangular and covered with cobwebs. It let in just enough daylight to illuminate the doorway, where a small sign read, "Please knock." Joel did. "Yes?" The door was opened by a behemoth of a man, nearly as wide as he was tall. His head was shaved, but not recently; fine black fuzz covered a sloping skull. Wire-rimmed glasses magnified wide, intelligent eyes. Directly below his ears on either side, rolls of fat cascaded downward, jowl-like, obscuring any pretense the man might have had of claiming a neck. "May I help you?" "We're hoping to see the Mystic," Joel said. "The girl downstairs sent us here." "That's surprising," the man said. "Generally, she tries to scare everyone away. She thinks I'm a bad man." He pulled the door open and ushered Joel and David inside. "I don't know what she tells them. Probably that I keep bodies in the freezer." "Do you keep bodies in the freezer?" David asked. His gaze flitted around the room, apparently searching for the appliance in question. "No need. I just dip them in patchouli and stack them in the back room." The Mystic grinned. "But I'm sure you two lovebirds didn't come by to discuss my hobbies. What can I do for you?" "How did you know we were lovebirds?" Joel asked. He didn't like the way the Mystic was looking at David, with an expression somewhere between confusion and hunger. "A blind man could see the love that surrounds you. And I'm not blind." The Mystic puffed out his chest, in an ultimately futile effort to increase his bulk. "Seeing is what I do." "I'm hoping you can see a solution to the situation we're in." "Situation. That's an interesting word. People use it when they don't know what's going on -- but they know they don't like it." The Mystic led them through a largely empty room to a card table surrounded by folding metal chairs and one desk chair on wheels, the back of which was tilted at an extreme angle. There was contact paper stuck imperfectly to the top of the table, wrinkles distorting the pattern of sunbursts and copper-tinged moons. "Why don't you have a seat, and we'll start there." The Mystic sank into the office chair, which accepted his bulk with a practiced whine. "But first," he said, looking directly at David, "why don't you tell me what you are?" David swallowed. "You're never going to believe this."

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The Mystic scoffed. "I make a practice of believing unbelievable things. I try to fit in three a day. Usually before breakfast. Always by lunch time." "I'm a cake," David blurted out. "A cake who has been brought to life." "Now that," the Mystic pronounced, "I did not see coming. How wonderful to have a new experience." He leaned forward and clasped David's hand between his own. "I mean that most sincerely." Releasing David, he turned to Joel, eager anticipation evident in every line of his body. "You must tell me everything." Ten minutes later, Joel had told all that there was to tell. "And we need you to tell us what's going on. What David is. How to stop Rick's Evil Eye from wrecking our lives." Joel swallowed. "David thinks he's a curse, but that can't be it." He looked up at the Mystic, eyes wide. "Can it?" "You don't understand what you're asking," the Mystic said. "David is not a curse. But he is the result of a curse. Specifically, from what you're telling me, the Evil Eye." He stood up and walked over to a book shelf. After studying for a moment, he selected a thin black volume and brought it back to the table. "The Evil Eye is an old and powerful Greek folk magic." David nodded, bowing his head forward until his forehead rested against his clasped hands. "I thought as much." "No, no, no!" Joel protested. "You are not a curse." He glared at the Mystic. "He is not a curse. He's not the result of a curse! You know how I know he's not? Let me tell you how I know." The Mystic nodded once, hands spread wide, palms open to the ceiling. "Please do." "A curse, by definition, makes your life worse. That's the point of a curse." "Agreed." Joel looked at David. "You with me so far?" David lifted his head. His brown eyes were shiny with unshed tears. "I'm with you as long as I can be." Joel took a deep breath. "Having David in my life has not made it worse." The Mystic cocked his head. "You have suffered many hardships since Rick gave you the Evil Eye." He raised his hand, fingers bent, pointing with his knuckle at the fading bruises surrounding Joel's eye. "You have been assaulted. Your business is lost." David winced. "My business is damaged, not lost," Joel replied. "There should be enough insurance to rebuild. It'll take some time, but we'll come back. And it was not David who attacked me."

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"You were attacked because of me." "I was attacked because some punks get off on beating people up," Joel replied. "If anyone is at fault, it's them." He turned back to the Mystic. "And as bad as both of those things were, they were more endurable because David was around. His presence made my life better, not worse." "Hmm." The Mystic stood up and paced, thick fingers tracing the edge of a shelf heavy with crystals. "I've heard of curses backfiring, but never of one misfiring so completely. Yet if what you say is true, that is what has happened. Bringing David to life ensured you didn't win the contest. Perhaps that's the extent of his involvement." He shook his head. "That's the problem with folk magick. You never know how it will work." "Simply knowing David is the greatest blessing any man could hope for," Joel said. "And loving him? Even more than that." The Mystic smiled, sadly. "I'm not sure that your perception matters." "It matters to me." David took Joel's hand and squeezed it tight. "Very much." "It is the intent that's relevant," the Mystic continued. "Rick meant you harm when he gave you the Evil Eye. When he created David." "Rick did not create me," David snapped. "Joel did." The Mystic nodded. "You can argue it that way. Joel certainly conceived of you, gave you substance, gave you form, but my best guess is that it was the Evil Eye that brought you to life. Rick didn't want Joel to win the contest, and without a cake, he wouldn't win." "Would I be here right now if Rick had said those same words, yet Joel had not first created me?" "I don't know. Maybe you would. Or maybe you'd have arrived in a different form. There's no way to say for sure what might have happened. There are so many variables to any magick -particularly an old, powerful, primal magick like cursing." "Can the Evil Eye do that? Is it truly that powerful?" Joel shook his head. "I thought that was just a thing, like throwing salt over your shoulder." "How else did he come to life?" The Mystic looked Joel up and down. "You don't look like you've had a miracle." "What does someone who's had a miracle look like?"

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"They have a glow around them. Really bright. If you can see -- see-see, the way I see -- you can't miss it. The bigger the miracle, the bigger the glow. That guy who landed the jet in the Hudson? He's got a glow on him you can see for miles." "What color is the glow?" David asked.

"It depends what god supplied the miracle."

"And I'm not glowing?" Joel said. "In any color?"

The Mystic shook his head.

"What about me?" David asked.

"I'm not well versed," the Mystic replied, "in the spiritual states of animated baked goods."

"I don't think you're a curse. And he doesn't think you're a miracle. What are you, David?"

"Maybe I'm a dream."

"Let's hope not," The Mystic said, most seriously."That's a whole other set of circumstances,

when you start dealing with the dream world."

"How would I know?" David asked. "If I'm a dream or not?"

"You wouldn't. But it helps that I can see you, that Brandi saw you, that lots of people have seen

you. Usually a dream manifests for only one person. For you to be visible to so many people, you'd have to be an exceptionally powerful dream. And you don't seem to possess a great deal of personal power." "So let's say Rick did put the Evil Eye on me. How do we take it off?" Joel asked.

"There are a lot of traditions," the Mystic said. "Most involve preventing the Evil Eye. You need

to wear a charm, usually a medallion shaped like a blue eye. But that's too late now. Your

choices seem to be going to your church, or making special devotions to your god." He flipped

through the thin book before him. "But I thought I'd read something... yes, here it is. "If the

person who bestowed the Evil Eye will renounce his actions before God, the ill effects will be

reversed."

Joel and David looked at each other. "What would that mean for David?" Joel asked.

"If he's truly a blessing, the way you explain it, Rick's renunciation should not affect him. Only

the negative effects are talked about here. It doesn't say anything about positive effects."

"We should ask him," David said.

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"But we don't know..." Joel began. "The risk to you is too great," David said, "to not try." He shook his head. "And as you've said, Rick's gotten what he wanted. Why shouldn't we get what we want?" *** "What a day," Joel sighed. He and David had spent the better part of the day tracking down commercial kitchen space and buying replacement equipment and supplies. Now they were home, snuggling into bed for the night. "I hope the insurance comes through before that credit

card bill arrives."

"Me, too," David said. "This is all going to be okay." He sounded like he was trying to convince

himself.

"Yeah, it will," Joel said. "Just wait and see. These things happen, but they get better." He

wrapped his arms around David. "That's how life is."

"Especially when you're cursed."

"Stop that. You're not cursed." Joel kissed David. "You're perfect. In every way."

"I hope so," David said. "Because..."

The rest of his sentence was lost beneath the thunder of blows coming from the front door.

Someone was clearly pounding on it with both fists, hammering their rage.

"What the hell?" Joel said, sitting up.

"Joel! I know you're in there, you lying fuck! Open this door!"

"It's Rick."

"What's wrong with him?" David whispered. "How do we make him go away?"

Joel stood up, pulling on his jeans. "He gets like this. Don't worry. I know how to handle him."

"I'm coming with you."

"No," Joel said. "You can't." He shook his head. "Seeing you -- it would only make things worse.

Trust me."

"I guess." David shifted in the bed. "But I don't like it."

"Me either. But sometimes, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

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Joel walked through the apartment, out of the dark bedroom, past the kitchen, snapping on the living room light as he went. He yanked the front door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, Rick?"

"You fucker. You made that deal knowing full well that you weren't going to enter the contest!"

Rick's face was fire engine red, from his neck to his hairline.

"I did no such thing," Joel replied.

"Your shop burned up!"

"It did." Joel cocked his head. "After I withdrew."

"But now you don't have a cake. It's not like you have anything to withdraw. You're not giving

up shit, and you want half my prize money?" Rick shook his head. "That's pretty low."

Joel snorted. "You've got to be kidding me. You think I burned down my shop for five grand?

That's just stupid."

"You've been stupid before."

"But I'm over you now." Joel crossed his arms. "And you put the Evil Eye on me and are

shocked I have bad luck? I thought you thought more of yourself than that."

Rick glared at him. "I'm no one to screw with, Joel."

"I'm not screwing with you. I sure the fuck didn't burn my shop down for some stupid ass

contest. If the contest meant that god damned much, I'd still be in it. My shop wasn't the only kitchen in the city. I could have made another cake." Joel shrugged. "You should be glad I didn't. Could you imagine the power of that sympathy vote?" Rick nodded, half unconsciously. Much of the anger seemed to flow out of him as he pondered

Joel's words. That was the route he would have taken. "So why didn't you?"

"We've got a lot of history together, you and I."

Rick raised an eyebrow. "Maybe I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Maybe both of us with five grand each is better than both of us broke." Joel shrugged. "And

yeah, I could use the money. But you know what? I could use ten grand more. Especially now.

You want to back out, that's fine." He looked at his watch. "I've still got time to make another

cake."

"No. No, don't do that."

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"You sure?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. The deal stands. You'll get your five thousand." Rick looked down at his

feet for a long moment. "Thank you, Joel."

"Don't mention it."

"What you said about us having history." Rick looked up. "It doesn't all have to be history, does

it?"

Joel held his breath for a moment. The way Rick was looking at him, with such desire, such

need. It was almost pure, unmitigated lust -- and he was the object of it.

It was a heady feeling, heart wrenchingly familiar. Even when David looked at him, it wasn't like

this, not this overt, animalistic sexual attraction.

This. This was the longing the prey has for the predator. Alluring, almost irresistible, invariably

destructive.

Destructive for him, destructive for David; the man who thought he'd been created to be the

instrument of Joel's undoing.

Joel let his breath out, a slow, shuddering sigh. "Yes, Rick. I'm afraid it does."

"I thought you were going to say that." Rick turned to go.

"Rick. It's not just that."

Rick stopped, mid-step. "It's not?"

"No. It's that losing you once was bad enough. I don't want to have to go through that again."

Rick looked at him, a long, long moment, blue eyes strangely bright. Then he nodded, a half-nod,

magisterial, acquiescent. "I can respect that. Good night, Joel." And then he was gone. *** "Are you all right?" David asked, as Joel slid back into bed. "I was going to call the cops if he

didn't leave soon."

Joel shook his head. "Actually, it's okay. He just wanted to back out of the deal."

"And you didn't let him."

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"Nope. I learned a long time ago that the best way to handle Rick is to always let him have what he thinks he wants." Joel pulled David closer, nesting against his lover's long, golden body. "That way I can get what I want. And what I want is you." "You've got me," David replied, snuggling closer. "For whatever you want. You know that." Joel peered into David's eyes, the honeyed brown gaze he knew so well. David was telling him the truth. Sincerity rang through every syllable. There wasn't an ounce of deceit in him. "I know." "But there is still something we want from Rick. Need from Rick." David was softly intent. "To renounce the Evil Eye." "We've got to play that carefully," Joel said. "If we're too up front about what we want, we'll never get it. Rick doesn't operate that way. He never has. There's got to be something in it for him." "So what do we do?" "We wait until he's in a really great mood. Like after he wins the contest." Joel smiled. "Then we tell him that as long as he says what we want him to say, we can make it even better." David raised an eyebrow. "How are we gong to do that?" "If Rick'll take it back? If he'll say he meant you to be a blessing and not a curse?" Joel said. "I'll give him back the five thousand." He shrugged. "For that much money, Rick'll say anything."

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Part Eight "It would be no exaggeration to say that this year's show contains not only the finest work we've ever seen, but the finest work anyone's ever seen. We're talking truly spectacular here, people! Am I right?" Taylor Hewitt was working the crowd, smiling as if he knew the crowd was really cheering for his elaborately styled hair, expensive teeth, and strategically bared pecs rather than for the dozen magnificent cakes arrayed behind him. "I think it's fair to say that all of our competitors are truly winners! Just look at what they've done!" There was more applause, this time tinged with impatience. The crowd wanted to know who the winners were. "With that in mind, I'd like all of the contestants to come forward." Joel crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall as Rick took to the stage. It was hard to ignore the big man's leonine grace, his assured confidence. More than a few pairs of eyes were fixed on Rick, and the majority of them weren't the least bit interested in his culinary abilities. Even now, that brought a rush of bile surging through Joel's stomach, burning its way up his esophagus, a sour flood in his mouth. And then Joel looked at David, and all of that melted away. Looking at David was the ultimate balm; cool relief that was almost physical. Joel felt the tension melting out of his body. His shoulders slumped. Fingers he hadn't realized he was clenching suddenly relaxed. "What's so funny?" David asked. "Nothing." Joel shook his head. "Why?" "You just got this big smile on your face for no reason," David said. "That's all." "I wasn't smiling for no reason," Joel said. He reached out and took David's hand. "I've got every reason to smile." From the stage, Rick watched the exchange. He glared at David, confusion clear upon his face. Still, he kept the requisite competition grin -- not too arrogant, not too humble -- firmly in place. "We'll begin by announcing our third-place winner," Hewitt said. He lifted a white ribbon rosette high into the air. "Winning this year's third place ribbon and a check for five hundred dollars, Beaudin Bakeries, for their Roman Raspberry Rhapsody!" The crowd applauded as the Beaudin brothers, Jacques and Simon, stepped forward. Simon, a tall, sparse, neat man, bent to speak into the microphone.

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"Thank you very much -- for the recognition and for the level of competition offered here today." The applause grew louder. Rick's smile got broader. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, a predator preparing to spring. "Do you think he's won it?" David asked. Joel shook his head. "He thinks so." Rick had some reason to be confident. Of the twelve cakes entered in the competition, four stood no chance of winning. One had not survived the perilous journey to the display table. Two more were simply unremarkable, with nothing particularly noteworthy about their concept or execution. The fourth was definitely noteworthy, but only if one needed an example of the worst possible way to execute a particularly insipid idea. That left eight cakes. Rick's was easily one of the best four. Beaudin Bakeries had just nabbed third. That left three cakes in serious contention, and Joel could see the judges selecting Rick's as the winner. "For superior adherence to the theme, excellent workmanship, and innovative presentation, second place, and a check for one thousand dollars, goes to Clarice's!" Clarice, six feet tall before you counted her elaborately coiffed hair, clasped her hands delightedly before embracing Tyrone, her assistant. "Hot damn!" she cried, eliciting laughter from the crowd. "Thank you." Clarice's acceptance speech owed everything to many years diligently spent studying Marilyn Monroe. "Thank you. Everybody. So much." She blew the crowd a kiss, vamping as the cameras whirred. Hewitt let the crowd quiet before he spoke again. "Now. The moment you've all been waiting for..." Applause and cheers drowned him out, the noise peaking when Clarice kissed Tyrone. He waited, smiling, and said, "Ah, young love." The responding laughter was knowing, and not unkind. "The grand prize winner, recipient of ten thousand dollars and the title of the Gay Pastry Artisans Association Artist of the Year is..." Rick straightened his shoulders and stood a little taller. "Dong-Min Lee, of Celestial Confections and Gifts!"

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"Holy shit," Joel whispered. "Holy fucking shit." He felt cold all of a sudden, a knot of fear and dread icy in his stomach. He turned to David. "We need to get out of here. We need to get out of here now." "Okay." David looked puzzled but followed Joel out of the room, away from the crowd of people swarming the winners. "But I thought we were going to ask Rick..."

"Believe me, Rick's not going to be in any kind of mood to help us now," Joel said. "He's

dangerous when he's disappointed."

"Dangerous how?"

"He found a way to bring you into this world," Joel replied. "Right now, I'm pretty sure he could

find a way to take you out."

David said nothing after that. He did, however, quicken his pace as they moved out of the

convention center.

There was a line of people waiting for the shuttle buses, ready to depart the world of competitive

cooking for collegial eating. Media professionals streamed past them, cameras shouldered and microphones stowed, content that they'd captured the event's money shot. "Forget this," Joel said. "We'll be waiting here all day." He started down the sidewalk. "If we go a block or two, it'll be much easier to get a cab."

"Boy, look at you two. Burning rubber to get out of here." Rick appeared out of the crowd, arms

crossed over his chest. "Man might think you've got something on your mind." He glared at Joel.

"Guilty conscience, maybe?"

"I've got nothing to feel guilty about, Rick."

"Then what's the hurry?"

"I know how you get when you're angry. I didn't want to be around for that."

"What I want to know is how you two did it." Rick cocked his head. "My cake is fucking

awesome. And I covered all the bases."

"Maybe some of the bases you covered talked to each other. And they didn't like what you were

trying to do, and so they held it against you."

Rick and Joel turned to look at David. He shrugged. "What? Fresh-baked doesn't mean naive."

"He's got a point, Rick." Joel said. "People know how you operate. Particularly when you're not

even trying to be discreet."

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"Hmmmph."

"What do you want me to do? I dropped out of the contest so you could win it."

"You dropped out of the contest because you didn't have a cake."

"Six of one, half a dozen of the other. If I remember correctly, you owe me five thousand dollars,

Rick."

Rick snorted. "Get in line."

"So you're not going to honor your word. Typical."

"I didn't win the contest."

"Not my fault." Joel shrugged. "I did what you wanted."

"I don't have five thousand. Hell, I don't have five hundred."

"You still owe me." Joel, angry, jabbed his finger against Rick's chest. "Don't try to deny it."

"What do you want?" It was a sigh as much as a question, resignation ringing through every

syllable.

"I want you to stop. Call off the Evil Eye or whatever the hell you did. I'm tired of this bullshit

curse. Let it go. Let me go." Joel reached out and took David's hand. "Let us go."

Rick blinked. "That's it?"

"To have you out of our lives? A bargain at twice the price."

"Fuck you."

"It is what it is, Rick. And you made the deal."

"I make lots of deals."

"And you've lied to me enough already." Joel's voice deepened, rage pushing through him.

"That's done now."

"Fine. Fine. That's what you want, that's what you've got." Rick turned on his heel, arms in the

air. "I don't know what I ever saw in you anyway."

"It was probably his eyes," David said. "Or, you know, the sheer raw talent. The sense of humor.

His kind, loving nature." He grinned. "The fact he's absolutely fabulous in bed. Any of this

ringing a bell?"

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"I really ought to..."

Joel held up a finger.

"I really dislike you," Rick said. "Rather intensely."

"Likewise." David smiled. "But I'm guessing you picked up on that already."

"Call it off, Rick," Joel cut in. "Renounce the Evil Eye. Now. Or we'll go right back in there, and

I'll prove that not only did you lose, but you blew the judges to come in -- what? Fourth? Fifth? Sixth?" "You wouldn't."

"Try me. There's no point in me protecting your reputation anymore." Joel looked at David. "I

have other people to worry about."

"People." Rick snorted. "That's rich. You couldn't handle a real man. You proved that."

"Take it back, Rick."

"You really believe that bullshit?" Rick's tone was mocking.

"I know you believe it. That's what matters." Joel countered.

"Fine, then." Rick shook his head. "If it'll keep you quiet, I take it back. I close my Evil Eye."

"Now and forever," Joel prompted.

"Now and forever, I close my Evil Eye. Never shall I wish you harm." Rick glared. "Satisfied?"

Joel was watching David, eyes scanning for any changes. A handful of heartbeats passed, fearful

moments where he waited for the love of his life to dissolve into nothingness before his eyes.

Yet David remained thankfully solid, miraculously real.

"I said satisfied?" Rick's voice cut through the contemplation.

Joel nodded. "For now. Do it again, open that Evil Eye of yours, that's the minute I'm coming

looking for my money. Oral contracts are binding, and, well... you don't seem too gifted at

getting judges to do what you want."

"You really are a ball buster, you know that?"

Joel smiled. "I learned from the best."

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***

"Where the hell did that come from?" Joel asked, after. "All this time, you've been sweet as pie. A pussy cat. And then these claws come out." David shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "It just seemed like the right thing to do." He frowned, a deep crease lining his forehead. "Are you upset with me?" "Are you kidding me? No one's ever stood up for me like that. Ever. I always wanted..." "Well, there you go." David smiled. "I'm supposed to be everything you ever wanted." "Everything I've ever wanted." Joel echoed. "Is that what you want to be?" David leaned forward, sliding his hands up over Joel's chest. "Everything I ever wanted. Is that who you want to be?" "More than anything." Joel answered, each word a whisper. David answered with a kiss, a kiss that deepened and extended, precluding the need for words. Clothes fell away, a shirt here, a pair of pants there, a trail of discarded garments marking their progress toward the bed. Once there, David lay on his back, smiling at Joel, brown eyes glinting through half-lowered lashes. "Come here." Joel knelt on the edge of the bed. He was hard, so hard, desire an insistent drumbeat driving all rational thought from his head. There was only longing, only need. "God, I want you." David lifted his legs, fingers curled along the underside of black-furred thighs, sliding down to glide over muscular calves, coming to rest around ankles that Joel had once worried were far too narrow but were now decidedly perfect. His feet were remarkably near his face; the length of his body jackknifed upon itself. "And I want you. And I want to see." Joel crawled onto the bed, blindly reaching for the lube, refusing to turn his eyes away from David for even a second. The sight of him was too magnificent to ignore -- a conviction Joel became doubly certain of as he slid one, then two, well-greased fingers into David. David's face, already beautiful, crafted in homage to one of the most amazing sculptures of all time, transformed with pleasure, becoming even more perfect. Joel bit his lip, stifling a moan. He wanted David so badly, so much, right now -- but it was more important that David be ready, prepared for what would come. The pleasure Joel was feeling should only be a fraction of what David would experience.

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David wiggled on Joel's fingers, clutching at the sheets and slowly pushing himself forward, impaling himself a quarter-inch at a time. "So good. You feel so good." He closed his eyes completely, savoring the moment. Joel dropped his free hand, giving his cock a few squeezes while watching David. This was better than any porno, better than any dream -- this was real, his real life, his real lover, panting in his bed. David's eyes flickered open. "Please. I'm ready. Now."

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as I've ever been of anything," David said. He spread his legs even wider. "Please,

Joel."

Joel stopped breathing as he slid into David, terrified of doing anything to disrupt the perfect

moment. David was so tight, so hot -- and looking at him with eyes full of love.

"How did I get so lucky?" he whispered.

David shifted position, tilting his hips higher to take Joel farther inside.

Joel groaned. He held his arms rigid, trying to support his weight and control his pace, not giving

David too much at once.

David was having none of that. "Come on." He let go of his ankles and let his legs fold around

Joel's back. "I want you. All of you."

Joel collapsed into the embrace, sliding the rest of the way into David in one smooth stroke. He

closed his eyes as he felt his balls crushing against Joel's ass. Never had he felt so joined with a

lover, so connected, so close to becoming one being.

Every move he made pleased David, every response from David thrilled him all the more. They

moved effortlessly, naturally. It was hard to tell where Joel ended and David began, where David

enveloped and Joel intruded.

"Yes. Yes." David was pushing himself up off of the bed, his legs so tight around Joel's waist.

"Give it to me. Give it to me now."

"David!" Joel arched his back, his body suddenly rigid. "Oh, God, David!"

David writhed beneath him, his trapped cock rubbing against Joel's stomach. "Oh, yeah. That's

it." He shook, his need spilling out in one convulsive shudder. "Joel!"

***

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"You," Joel said, after, "are amazing. Never in my life has it been like that." David grinned. "I can say the same thing." He snuggled in next to Joel. "At least until tomorrow." The End

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