Page 6 of Bears & Bakeries (Sweet & Stocky #2)

SIX

Poking the Bear

B enedict had never much liked diners, particularly their habit of blaring unflattering fluorescent lights at all hours. It was an especially bad look for this one, with its authentic 1970’s decor—all earthy browns and scratched-up vinyl flooring. There was a fine line between nostalgic and decrepit, and this place was drowning in the latter.

“Oh... my... God!” came a familiar voice. “Benedict Owens? What are you doing here? I am shocked. Shocked! ”

Kai slapped his cheeks, Home Alone style, to add to the effect.

There were a dozen or so people across two booths on the otherwise empty floor. Evelyn was one of the three people Benedict recognized, sitting as far from Kai as possible but still close to the blond man in the middle of the mass.

The man who was giving Benedict a long and weary look.

* * *

Locky shunted into Benedict’s booth, far enough away that the others wouldn’t hear them. He hadn’t told everyone about exploring a business plan, just like he hadn’t told Kai or Evelyn that he’d abandoned the idea. Although judging by his housemate’s terrible acting, Kai had already figured this out.

Benedict at least had the decency to look apologetic. He was wearing one of his fancy suits, but there was something crumpled about it, matching his expression. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Yes you did,” said Locky. “Unless Kai told you I’d be alone?”

“Well, no, but?—”

“Then you knew I’d be with people, my people , and you gate-crashed anyway.”

Benedict opened his mouth but shut it again. He’d probably expected the timid and anxious Locky. Not the Locky who’d step in front of a bus for his people, protecting them from threats and outsiders.

And Benedict was an outsider. Just because Locky had told him about the diner, didn’t mean he had any right to show up.

“I guess I deserve that,” said Benedict. “For what it’s worth, I am genuinely sorry for the intrusion. But I needed to talk to you.”

Locky pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d lodged seven job applications today, each one leaving him relieved and certain that he’d made the right choice. The last thing he needed was talking through whatever injured pride this guy was nursing. “What do you want, Benedict? Didn’t your parents teach you to take no for an answer?”

“My mother’s the head of a child literacy charity, and my father’s an engineering professor with more patents than friends. We’re more of a try, try again kind of family.”

Locky crossed his arms. “Well, go on. Have your second try.”

Benedict adjusted his tie. “I... I messed up yesterday. I should have asked a lot more questions before I flooded you with locations. Things that could have gotten those creative juices flowing. Like if there’s any existing stores you’d like to emulate? Or something from a movie or TV show that you’ve liked? Or maybe somewhere from your past you’ve got fond memories of?”

Somewhere from my past...

Heat spiked in Locky, sudden and savage. “Oh, sure . Let’s draw on some treasured childhood memories, shall we? Actually, there was this precious little malt shop my mother and father took me to every single year on my birthday. It was our special treat as a happy family, where I got banana splits and triple-stacked waffles and a unicorn of my very own. It was filled with soda jerks in these darling little paper hats and all the waitresses were called Peggy! You’ve got it, Benedict! I’m going to open up a 1950’s malt shop full of greasers and poodle skirts! Why didn’t I think of that?”

Locky was snarling by the time he finished.

It would have been better if Benedict had joined him in that anger. If he’d marched out at Locky’s rudeness.

Instead, Benedict looked him over with a deep sadness, like Locky was a ripped-up teddy bear that needing stitching back together.

Locky’s anger morphed into a creeping guilt. Because Benedict didn’t deserve that. He was just trying to help. Just trying to understand.

Locky searched for words to explain his outburst but came up empty. Because how could he explain a little without explaining all of it? Without going into the long, lonely nights on scratchy sofas and cold floors. Of being awoken by slurred singing and filthy thumps against the wall as his mother paid for their presence. Of moving every few months whenever his latest father figure got sick of them. Of going to school hungry and being too ashamed to take the free meals. Of bourbon-soaked whispers as he pretended to sleep—a thousand broken promises that tomorrow might be different.

That tomorrow she’d stay home.

That tomorrow she’d stay sober.

I swear, Locky Bear. I swear .

Locky bit back those memories, but a tear blinked down his cheek, doing what his body did best, denying him the smallest shred of dignity.

To his surprise, a hand threaded between his own, cool against his burn.

Locky gripped Benedict back on instinct. He didn’t want to, because he knew how fucking selfish that was. Because this poor guy didn’t need any more of Locky inflicted on him. He didn’t need this broken toy scratching at his perfect skin.

But Locky couldn’t bear to let go. Because right now, with the memory of all those dark nights, Benedict’s hand felt like the only stable thing in the world. And Locky felt like a drowning man against a crashing current, fearing he might never make it back to the surface.

More tears came as Benedict moved beside him, strong and stable in a way that Locky knew he didn’t deserve. The glass of Locky’s self-preservation creaked under the strain of the moment, telling him to resist, telling him to hold it all back, before finally shattering into a million shameful shards.

Locky burrowed deep into Benedict’s frame, too big and too powerful to be shaken by the flood of his tears. Broad arms wrapped around Locky’s shoulders as he wept a tide he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

And Locky hated how much he needed that strength right now. How small and how safe it made him feel.

When his tears finally settled, all Locky could bring himself to say was, “I don’t have those kinds of memories, Benedict.”

The bigger man stroked his back as Locky stared at the damp patch he’d left on Benedict’s shirt, tears and snot against designer cotton.

And Locky almost laughed at just how fucking perfect it was. Because that’s all Locky would ever be—a dirty stain on beautiful cloth.

When he turned up to face Benedict, he was shocked to see that the man’s cheeks were also wet. “Then maybe it’s time we made some?” Benedict whispered.

* * *

Locky almost tripped into the darkness, still wallowing in his earlier outburst. He didn’t know why he’d let Benedict drag him here—wherever here was—except that Benedict understood what he was feeling right now.

Locky crooked a finger into a stray beam of moonlight, drifting in through a gap in the newspaper-covered windows. His skin hung silver and alien in the dusty air.

Then, like some great vault being revealed, the L-shaped room roared with a warm and welcoming light. It was a restaurant—at least, Locky assumed it was, given all the tables. It was about the same size as the Chat Street Diner, but the similarities ended there.

Because this place was like nothing he’d ever seen.

There was a 1920’s vibe to everything, although Locky didn’t have the words to describe it. Art Deco? Art Nouveau? Either way, black wallpaper was patterned in gold velvet, all fancy flowers and peacock plumes. Clamshell lights were spaced between old record players and vases full of white feathers. Tall bookcases were stuffed with faded, leather-bound classics—surely more for show than to actually read. And every corner was filled with the sharp green fronds of potted palms.

It looked like a much more luxurious version of every Gatsby party Locky had attended in college. Like it should smell of cigars and rich perfume, full of people saying things like gee willikers .

“ Pizza My Mind ?” said Locky, reading the bright neon swirl over the counter. His voice echoed among the still.

“Hey, puns sell,” said Benedict, pulling a napkin from the dispenser and inspecting the logo.

Locky wandered through the circular tables that dotted the room’s length. There were also a dozen intimate booths running along each side, green leather and cream marble. To his surprise, a little stage was tucked at the far end of the L, with a lighting rig bolted to the ceiling and a space cleared for a little dance floor.

The decor left an odd impression on Locky. It was heavy-handed, yes, but also strangely warm. Playful in how absurdly overdecorated it was. So committed to a long-lost aesthetic that it almost coaxed a smile across his cheeks.

“Why are you showing me this, Benedict?” he said, genuinely confused. It wasn’t like they’d talked about coming here. The drive over had only been five minutes, and Locky had spent most of that time kicking himself for how much of an asshole he’d been. For how he’d let himself collapse in front of this man yet again .

“Think of this as the wildcard option. I know it doesn’t scream bakery . But you said you liked the vibe you got from bars—the liveliness and the socializing—you just didn’t want the alcohol? Well, I can see that happening here. Plus, there’s something about this place that fits with your baking? Jazz and aprons and interesting recipes?”

Locky didn’t react to that premise— that the store fit him . Because he wasn’t considering this place. He’d already made up his mind, already applied for the jobs, and that was final.

It didn’t matter that there was something strangely appealing and unexpected and, yes, completely absurd about this place. A bakery that looked like a prohibition speakeasy mixed with a Depression-era hotel lobby? With gilded furnishings and a dance floor? No one would expect that. No one would want that.

And neither did he—no matter the unfamiliar fizz that was forming on the edge of his thoughts.

But... still. He’d already put Benedict through enough these last few days. The least he could do was humor him.

Locky walked behind the counter and peered into the kitchen. Compared to the main area, it was almost intimidatingly undecorated—professional white and steel, with big commercial mixers and enormous ovens. “This can’t be another pop-up?”

“Nope, this is a normal business with a normal lease. But the pizza shop is on hiatus. The owners had to go back to Texas to take care of some family stuff. But they’ve got this lease they can’t get out of—paying rent even though they’re not bringing in money. They’re looking for someone to sublet the last chunk of time while they figure out what to do.”

“How long is a chunk ?”

“About four months. Until the end of February. And they’ve put some pretty specific conditions down. That’s why I didn’t think of this place originally. Plus...”

Benedict gestured to a long run of silver tubs beneath the counter. It was a cocktail bar—currently empty.

Locky wasn’t bothered by that.

After all, it wasn’t like he had to stock it.

He leaned against the counter, eyeing the antique cash register. It had buttons that probably went ping when the drawer sprung open. “And what are these conditions ?”

“The owners are fine with replacing the neon sign with your own. And with changing the napkins and lamp shades and things like that. But nothing more permanent. They’re hoping to come back and reopen the pizza shop at the end of the lease.”

Locky drummed his fingers on the counter. Pleasingly, it was at the perfect height for him. “So someone could rent this place for a few months and then just walk away? With no obligation?”

“Exactly. And the owners might never come back, meaning the temporary tenant could start a new lease of their own. If they wanted to. No obligation, though.”

“Interesting,” said Locky, giving the space a closer inspection. It was in surprisingly good condition for a shuttered store. Apart from one wonky light up back, everything seemed to be working.

A curious sensation came over Locky as he dwelled on the long room. Even though it was quiet, there was something almost alive in the decor. Like he could hear the soul of the place—jazz drifting over laughter, deep and rich. People dancing to swing and big band music. The gentle clink of crockery and the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg and dark, toffee caramels.

And among it all was the chatter of the customers, talking about how amazing it was to find somewhere like this. Because finally they’d found somewhere welcoming. Finally they’d found somewhere they could feel safe.

The unexpected click of a phone camera made Locky turn back.

“Sorry,” said Benedict, coming around the counter and showing him the photo. “You just looked really fitting behind the counter. See?”

Locky almost gasped as broad fingers brushed against his back, the tip of one coming dangerously close to sliding under the waistband of his underwear.

Suddenly, Locky was aware of every inch of the man beside him. Of the soft chest against Locky’s shoulder. Of the strong chin by his forehead. Of the wide hip merging against his own belly.

Locky realized that Benedict wasn’t trying some sleazy move. He seemed totally unaware of the effect he was having, talking excitedly about social media strategies. And yet, the texture of the moment had changed for Locky. A few seconds earlier, he’d been relaxed. Now it felt like a gale roaring against a brushfire, stoking a dangerous and unwelcome flame.

Benedict smelled of cologne—sweet and pink and far more playful than Locky would have expected. He’d been too distracted to notice it the last time he’d burrowed into Benedict’s chest. Or the last times , Locky supposed, cursing how often he’d found himself in that pathetic position.

The scent didn’t project itself like some did, resting close to Benedict’s skin. That only made it more alluring, making Locky want to press his nose deeper into the man, taking in all of that sweet aroma. Just like it made Locky want to slide his own hand against Benedict’s lower back. To run the tip of his pinky along that point between shirt and belt. To burrow his fingers beneath both, finding bare flesh, hot and tactile.

Locky tried to avoid the imagery, but it came anyway, fiery and glowing. Images of Benedict’s shirt being ripped from his broad frame. Of Locky running his tongue along Benedict’s belly. Of taking Benedict’s enormous ass in both hands, gliding a thumb from the dimples above each cheek to the firm globes below—squeezing that flesh, warm and animal, with his tongue already extended.

Ready to taste the man.

Ready to prepare him.

Locky bit his cheek as the crackles collected in his groin. Because it wasn’t like Benedict was trying to cause this reaction. It was just Locky’s fucked-up mind, unable to control these thoughts and these feelings and these— Jesus, stay the fuck down!

No sooner had Locky registered how hard his cock was getting—stretching out his jeans in a slow, snaking growth—than he also realized just how bad a direction it was growing in. Because it was heading right toward Benedict’s hip, like a shark sneaking up on its prey.

Locky tried to pull away, to free himself of the slow-motion car crash.

But it was too late.

Locky felt a hard press against his cockhead, throbbing right against Benedict’s hip bone.

Benedict stopped talking mid-sentence, raising a confused eyebrow.

And then he looked down.

* * *

Benedict tapped on the walk-in fridge. “Are you okay in there?”

“Go away!” came a muffled voice from inside. “Let me die in peace.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about. The fridge isn’t running, and you’ve been sitting in a well-sealed room for the last fifteen minutes. When the police come, the first thing they’ll ask is why didn’t you open the door ?”

“Would anyone care if I ran out of air?”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” said Benedict. “Ready or not, here I come.”

He was met with a warm, antiseptic stillness. The fridge hadn’t been turned on in months, but it was well cleaned, with nothing left inside but empty wire racks and one defeated man, slumped in the corner.

Benedict sat beside him.

“I’m really fucking sorry,” said Locky, hiding his face.

Benedict gave a sad smile, even though Locky couldn’t see it. “You’ve said that about eighty times now.”

“And I’ll say it eighty more! I’m really, really fucking sorry.”

“You don’t need to do that, Locky,” said Benedict, reaching out a comforting hand but pausing before it made contact, hovering awkwardly in midair for a brief, shameful moment, before finally completing the journey.

Locky’s shirt was damp.

The skin around his neck was burning.

Locky looked up from the burrow between his knees, like Benedict had just pressed his hand into poison ivy. “Aren’t you worried I’ll go feral again?”

“I wouldn’t call getting a boner going feral .”

“It is when it happens just from hugging. Or putting a hand on my back. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I just...” Locky pinched his lips, the skin around his mouth going white against the blush. “Never mind. I’m just... I’m not like you, okay? I’m not perfect and put together and professional. I’m fucked up, and I’m damaged, and you’re welcome to just leave. You’ve already dealt with enough of my shit.”

A truck could have driven between Locky’s words and his body language. Because his words screamed for Benedict to leave—and Benedict knew that he could. That Locky wouldn’t blame him for driving away and losing his number and never seeing him again.

But Locky’s body said the opposite, curling in on itself like an injured animal. Desperate to be held.

Benedict knew that leaving was the logical option. He’d been so disciplined with himself for so many years. Kept his distance and blocked countless clients, no matter how loudly his instincts had pleaded with him to stop.

And yet, right now, Benedict couldn’t bring himself to do that. Because if he did, he’d always wonder what story was trapped behind those blue eyes.

And Locky wanted to talk about it—Benedict could see that. The words were like prisoners behind his tongue, bitten back and swallowed out of fear. The fear of spilling your guts onto a sea of blank stares, were no one understood your pain. Of not knowing how to explain the weird little walls you’d built around yourself over time, all to make it through the next day. The next hour.

How everything inside you wanted to scream and stay silent at the same time. Because speaking would get it all out, but it would also make everything too fucking real .

That complexity was something Benedict knew all too well.

Even in he’d never talked about it.

Not even to Tris.

Not even... to himself .

Because he’d never let himself dwell on all the shit he’d done. On all the ways he’d fucked up.

And here was Locky, thinking that Benedict was perfect ?

It was heartbreaking.

When Benedict spoke, it was like he was watching himself from a disbelieving distance. Because these words couldn’t be coming from him . After all these years of denial and deflection, he couldn’t be sharing something so intimate, so painful.

Not now?

Not here?

Not with this man of all people—a virtual stranger?

Benedict swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “Do you remember when we were looking at warehouses? And I made us turn around quickly and switch streets.”

Locky looked up. “Vaguely? I just thought we’d taken a wrong turn?”

“No,” said Benedict, his blood running cold. His tongue felt like a rusted fishhook, trying to catch the words before they left his mouth. “We were about to cross in front of a former client’s store. And I freaked out.”

And there it was. Spoken aloud for the first time.

Benedict expected some kind of condescending pity from Locky, and was shocked to feel fingers against his own, warm against the cold fridge floor. When Benedict turned back, he wasn’t met with the same man—shamed and shy. He was met with the man in the kitchen. The man with blue eyes that projected a certainty he probably never reserved for himself.

“Was it a bad experience with that client?” Locky asked, his voice steady.

“No! She was lovely. I just...” For a split second, Benedict thought about lying. About making himself seem slightly less pathetic. But the words had momentum now. Rushing out in a way he couldn’t stop. An avalanche of admission—all his fuck ups, all his failings. “I don’t visit my former clients. I block their numbers and pretend they don’t exist when we’re done. Because I can’t stand the thought of seeing them go bankrupt. Of knowing that I fucked things up for them.”

Benedict looked away, shamed by his admission, by his weakness and his stupidity. Because he knew what Locky would be thinking.

Is that it?

Because of course it wasn’t enough to cause the pain that it did! Thousands of businesses folded every damn day. It was the reality of the world. It wasn’t something that should cause him to fall to pieces like this. Only real trauma should do that. Real pain. All those people who’d suffered far worse and didn’t bat an eyelash.

And here was he, letting himself be so weak and so fucking selfish! Letting himself abandon all those clients without explanation.

Their faces washed around Benedict, like a dam wall seizing under the strain of a flood. How many had tried to contact him? How many thought it was their fault—that they’d done something wrong or offended him?

But Locky didn’t scoff. Whether out of mercy or just plain pity, he actually delved deeper. “I’d like to know more? If you’re okay talking about it?”

Locky’s voice was unexpectedly reassuring.

Like Benedict’s pain wasn’t ridiculous.

Like it was justified .

“I... I screwed up really badly in my first few years,” Benedict continued. “I got too close to my first set of clients and kept giving advice long past their stores’ opening. Helping them select new stock and expand locations and deal with unexpected issues. And it all just built up over time, one became five became thirty. There were too many people and too many stores and too many things to remember. I was giving each new client less and less time, just trying to keep up with all these former clients. And by the time Malcolm came along...”

The words seized in Benedict’s throat—just like he’d kept the man’s memory locked away in its plain white folder on his shelf.

But as much as he didn’t want to relive this memory, Locky’s warm grip spurred him on.

And so, through tears and awkward pauses, Benedict told Locky about Malcolm Robinson, his thirty-first client overall.

The one that he’d fucked over.

The one that he’d sent bankrupt .

Malcolm was an eccentric modern artist of the my five-year-old could paint this so why is it worth fifty thousand dollars school of painting. And unlike Locky, Malcolm had known exactly what he’d wanted—an expansive, impressive art space, with mazelike corridors and kooky installations and dramatic light shows. Benedict had helped as much as possible, but Malcolm’s mind moved at a million miles a minute, and Benedict was caught up giving advice to all his previous clients. And somewhere in that fray, Benedict had missed some crucial details—like Malcolm wanting to sign a five-year lease in luxurious Union Square, completely unaffordable and based on impossible profit assumptions.

But Malcolm rushed ahead. And by the time Benedict realized, it was too late. The ink was dry on the lease, and the bankruptcy notice soon followed.

Benedict suddenly remembered how badly all of this would play into Locky’s own fears. He scraped the tears from his cheeks, cursing himself for breaking down like this in front of a client. “You don’t need to worry. I only ever take on one client at a time now. Giving them all my focus. I won’t miss things like that again. I promise.”

“That’s not what I was worried about,” said Locky, squeezing his hand tighter. “I was worried about you.”

And in that strange moment, sitting in an empty fridge with a man he’d only known for a few days, Benedict believed him. Because there wasn’t a space in those eyes for selfishness.

“So,” said Benedict with a bitter laugh, gesturing broadly to Locky’s lower half and desperate to change the subject. “I’m assuming you got a few less sex is perfectly natural talks and a few more God is always watching lectures?”

To Benedict’s surprise, Locky shared the laugh. “No, that’s... well there was a bit of that. A lot of it, actually. But that’s not the issue. My mother was too much of a hypocrite for that stuff to stick.”

“So... why all the boners?”

Locky exhaled slowly. “That stuff . Sex . It was always part of my drinking. Going out and partying and taking someone home? If I was having sex, then I was drunk. And if I was drinking, then I was looking to fuck. I don’t even remember most of the sex I’ve had. I’m... I’m not sure I can remember any of it, actually.”

A familiar expression of shame washed over Locky, and Benedict squeezed his hand firmly, encouraging him, just as Locky had done.

“And when I finally made the decision a decade ago to stop drinking, I stopped doing all that other stuff too. I was so fucking afraid that it might be a kind of doorway. That one thing could lead to the other, you know? So I just stopped. I forced it back. I used bargaining and shame, and every single thing I could think of. Until I just didn’t do those kinds of things with other people. Or even with myself.”

Benedict let those words sink in—that this handsome, beefy, virile man hadn’t had sex or jerked off in almost a decade. “Wow,” he whispered, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Yeah, wow ,” snorted Locky, looking Benedict over like a newly discovered land. He laughed again, small and sad. “We’re a pretty messed-up pair, huh?”

“Maybe,” said Benedict, running his thumb across Locky’s palm. “But like I said—sometimes things are better when they’re a little messed up.”

* * *

Locky led them back through the restaurant in the glow of an odd kinship, two relative strangers who’d just shared something more intimate, more secret, than they’d ever told another person.

“I do like this place, you know,” he said as Benedict reached for the lights. “It’s such a random choice. But that makes me like it even more.”

“So I should pencil it in as a maybe?”

“I... I wasn’t lying when I said it’s not the right time for me. I’ve already applied for a bunch of jobs. Things have moved on.”

“And how long until the offers come in?”

“A few weeks, I guess? They want to have things in place by Thanksgiving. But I don’t want to waste your time when I’m never following through. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“Even if you never open the store, Locky, I’d still like to help you to dream about it. Because maybe, one day, the time will be right.”

Locky considered that, surveying this strange, special space with new eyes. And in that moment, he did wonder, for the very first time, what it might be like if all of this was his.

Even if only as a dream.

“Okay, fine ,” he said. “It’s not like I’m doing anything else for the next few weeks.”