1. Scott

CHAPTER 1

SCOTT

N inety-nine, one hundred,” Scott Dixon counted out loud as he checked two more failed job applications off his spreadsheet. He sighed and took a drink of his now cold coffee. “Maybe one hundred and one is the charm.”

Getting laid off from his job as a food reviewer for Taste of the Rainbow magazine, which specialized in reviewing LGBTQ-owned and friendly restaurants, was bad enough. Receiving the notice via text two weeks ago was doubly awful.

Dear Scott ? —

We regret to inform you that due to declining advertising revenue, your position as a full-time food reviewer has been cut. You are free to re-apply to submit work-for-hire articles on an ad hoc basis at our freelance rate. Your keycard and network access have been deactivated. The contents of your desk and cubicle will be boxed and mailed to you. If you had personal items elsewhere, please let us know, and we will include them in the box. Please do not return to the office as you will not be permitted to enter. We wish you well in your new endeavors.

Since Scott had been in charge of hiring freelancers, he knew how their rate compared to his salary. Even if I freelanced the whole damn magazine issue, it wouldn’t pay what I’ve been making. He muttered several extremely impolite descriptions of his former boss as he got up to refill his cup. “Text messaging toadie. ’Fraidy cat fucker. Anti-social asshole.”

To add insult to injury, his car needed repairs, putting a dent in his emergency stash. The unexpected expense of buying a new shirt and jacket for in-person interviews drained his funds further, even though he had found them at a consignment store.

Scott cut every subscription except his e-book and inventoried his cupboards and freezer for cheap meals so he could skip grocery shopping. Despite that, and even if he picked up some other freelance gigs to tide himself over, he couldn’t go more than a couple more weeks without a real job.

Scott didn’t want to sleep in his car or beg friends to let him couch surf, but that possibility loomed large unless something showed up real soon. He had less than thirty dollars in his wallet, and there wasn’t enough left on his credit card to pay rent.

A fast-food gig wouldn’t pay the rent, and it would eat up time I could use to job hunt. He hated the idea of pawning any of his gaming equipment—that was a last resort.

His phone rang, and he didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Scott Dixon? This is April from SPAM. We received your resume and are very impressed. I’m calling to offer you a full-time, salaried position with very generous health benefits and paid vacation. We’d like you to start immediately, and there’s a signing bonus to ease your relocation to Albany.” She named the salary and bonus. Scott nearly swooned at the amount, a hefty upgrade from his most recent salary.

“SPAM?” Scott’s mind whirled, trying to remember if he had sent a resume to Hormel. Even if he hadn’t, he had heard good things, and the offer had everything he needed. “Albany? I mean, yes, thank you. Sure. I just need to pack. Thank you.”

“How quickly can you come for orientation? We have a project we’d like you to head, and it needs someone to take over in a few weeks.”

“I can be in Albany in two days, just need to wrap up some things here in Rochester.” Scott was still reeling from the sudden reversal of fortune. “Can you please send me something in writing?” he remembered to ask, wary because he had heard about hiring scams.

“Of course,” April said. “I’ll have a confirmation letter out to you this afternoon. Congratulations, and welcome to SPAM.”

Scott stared at his phone for a few minutes after April hung up. I have a job—and a raise. I’m moving to Albany. Holy shit—I’ve got a job!

Only then did he realize that in his panic to keep his head above water, he had asked almost no questions—working hours, whether he had an office, how much vacation, and all the other things that he would have normally focused on. I’ll get the details when I arrive, and if it doesn’t work out at least I can keep a roof over my head while I look for something else.

Now that he thought about it, applying to SPAM did seem familiar. He had assumed it was the test kitchen for the processed meat product and given it his best shot. Scott knew that some people had definite opinions about the canned ham, but it was something his grandmother cooked for him when he stayed over, decorated with a slice of pineapple, which seemed exotic when he was a child.

Scott realized he didn’t just remember the dish—he could taste it clearly in his mouth, as if he had just taken a bite, not as a long-ago memory.

Scott got an unusual taste in his mouth that tied into something unexpected happening in his life more and more often lately. He had a strong tang of soap right before his washer overflowed last week. Before that, it had been the grit of ashes seconds before a pan on his stove caught fire. And then there was the time soy sauce completely overwhelmed his taste buds minutes before a semi packed with ramen noodles overturned on the highway in front of him, blocking both lanes.

At first, Scott had chalked it all up to a twisted cosmic sense of humor or pure coincidence. But as the incidents happened more often—random, unpredictable, but never wrong—he started to wonder if there was more to them than he originally thought.

He had mentioned the odd tastes to a couple of people, who agreed it was strange but didn’t have much else to add. His doctor assured him it wasn’t a stroke. When it occurred with increasing frequency, always with a strange link to things that hadn’t happened yet, Scott wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him.

Then he looked it up and learned a new word—clairgustance, the ability to taste something that wasn’t present. Scott had stayed up late reading articles that explained clairgustance as a psychic ability, being alerted to something unknown or yet to come through the sense of taste.

It seemed like a strange—and largely useless—psychic power, hardly likely to help him win the lottery, but Scott had shrugged and accepted the oddity, figuring it would never come in handy.

Curious about the job offer, Scott looked up the address online but only found a nondescript building that lacked signage.

“I bet it’s a test kitchen,” Scott said aloud as he stood in the middle of his apartment’s living room and tried to figure out how to pack. “I know I applied to a couple of those.”

Maybe they’re looking for ways to modernize the perception. I know they use SPAM in sushi in Hawaii. Maybe there are some new appetizers and cool snacks that could appeal to a younger audience.

Scott had always dreamed of working in a test kitchen, getting paid to invent recipes and update meals for modern tastes.

He didn’t even mind the move to Albany despite Rochester’s trendy food scene. I haven’t met the right person here—maybe they’ll be waiting for me in Albany.

Being a food reviewer for a popular magazine had its perks. Scott had a generous expense account—which included cab fare so he could try wine pairings with the meals. He ate at all the new restaurants and bars that offered unique menus and wrote about his experiences. That meant that once or twice a week, he didn’t have to pay for food and had classy leftovers for lunches.

He wasn’t a mystery diner, so restaurants recognized him and made sure he got great service. It wasn’t the same thing as being famous for real, but Scott enjoyed the perks as well as the notoriety. More than a few times, it had helped him impress a new date and gotten him laid.

Scott sighed. None of those dates had turned into anything solid, so there wasn’t anyone to consider when he made plans to move to Albany. At thirty, Scott was ready to meet his forever guy. He’d thrown himself into Rochester’s dating scene and concluded Mr. Right wasn’t in this ZIP code.

People in Albany need to stay warm. That’s more fun with two . Scott wasn’t a hardcore outdoor enthusiast, and he preferred fireplaces to ski slopes, but he could think of plenty of pleasant ways to spend a cold day with a hot partner.

“If I don’t find someone after a reasonable time, I can always move,” he told himself as he figured out how many boxes he needed to pack up his things. Please let me find someone.

Scott eyed the magazines piled on his bookshelf, each with one of his reviews. He had intended to make a portfolio but hadn’t taken the time.

Maybe that’s because I never really intended to be a food reviewer as a permanent gig.

When he had gone to culinary school, Scott wanted to open a trendy tapas restaurant with an extensive and quirky wine list, regional hard ciders and meads, and small-batch, locally brewed beers.

He hadn’t given up on that dream, but Scott quickly learned how much capital he’d need to make that a reality. He had tested the concept with rented food trucks and carts and found it went over great with tourists and young professionals. But he hadn’t been able to get a loan or find a partner he trusted—in business or personal ways—so Scott put the dream on hold.

The new job pays more. I could save up quicker. An online search reassured him that Albany had a small but energetic foodie scene. To the north, in the Adirondack region, plenty of lodges and ski towns catered to tourists who didn’t all want to rough it while they explored the great outdoors.

This could work. Get to know the area, meet the food notables through SPAM, maybe find investors, or get a chef’s position where I can do innovative small bites.

Since his childhood dream of becoming a superhero hadn’t panned out, Scott swore he would cling to his vision of shaking up the culinary world.

Back in the day, he daydreamed about being a chef who could use magic to make food that changed villains into good guys and brought warring factions to world peace. A few years in the reality of a busy commercial kitchen under temperamental chefs with a penchant for throwing meat cleavers led him to believe peace on earth would have to find a different route.

Then he developed his odd ability to predict the future by the taste in his mouth and occasionally imagined himself stopping spies from poisoning world leaders or deactivating a hidden bomb in the nick of time.

Since he’d gotten the reviewing job, putting him in the dining room instead of the kitchen, he had stopped imagining heroic exploits. His superhero alter-ego got put on the shelf along with his aspirations. I hung up my cape when I picked up an apron.

I might not get to be a superhero—predicting the future because I’ve got a funny taste in my mouth isn’t going to be the stuff of a blockbuster movie. But maybe I can reclaim my dreams and quit being a chump.

Scott walked around his apartment, figuring how to pack up his DVDs, video games, books, and electronics, as well as his keepsakes and souvenirs. The furniture belonged to the apartment, but he had nice linens and lots of chef-quality cooking equipment that he intended to take with him.

He looked at his shelf of customized pop culture figurines with big heads who looked like the hosts from that English baking show and who had become his erstwhile sounding board.

“You’re going to be proud of me,” he told them. “Maybe I’ll come up with some great new recipes worthy of a handshake. This could be the beginning of a whole new season for me.”

They remained stoic and silent, as always, but Scott got the taste of fig jam, which he took as approval.

I’ve been marking time, spinning my wheels as a food reviewer. I should have gotten into a test kitchen ages ago and seen what I could do. Maybe I’ll fall on my face—but at least I’ll know.

Scott packed up his apartment, paid the cleaning fee, rented a truck with a tow hitch for his Honda Pilot, and headed for Albany. When he realized that other than giving notice to his landlord and the magazine, he didn’t really have anyone to say goodbye to, Scott felt even more sure he’d made the right decision.

The taste of chocolate chip cookies out of nowhere seemed to confirm that choice.

Scott turned the music up as he drove and tried to enjoy the scenery. Albany was not far from the Adirondacks, an area Scott had always wanted to explore. There are a lot of classy lodges and hotels in the mountains. Maybe we can get our test kitchen food into them.

Scott realized that he had never lost his fascination with creating new recipes and testing them out, which he had gained as a culinary student and in his first few jobs with edgy, experimental restaurants. He wished he had parlayed that into more of the articles he wrote. But the editor wanted to highlight food and restaurants that would appeal to a broader audience, so cutting edge got replaced with expensive but predictable. Maybe getting fired will turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Now if I can just meet my forever guy while I’m cooking up a storm.

He turned up the volume louder on a favorite song and reached for his soda as he drove, trying to remember the last time he had been on a date. I was writing the review on that new taco-barbeque place, because we went there together. The food wasn’t good and the date fizzled.

After that, Scott kept himself so busy with article assignments for the magazine and expanded features for the website and social media pages that he had plenty of excuses for not going out on dates.

I went out to restaurants every week. Weekends were when I stayed home and enjoyed some peace and quiet. It was a good enough excuse to stop friends from pushing, but Scott knew he was dodging the issue.

This time last year, Scott thought his boyfriend Benji might be the one after he jumped back into the dating pool. They enjoyed going out to clubs, but they also had a good time with a quiet evening at home, which Scott actually preferred. One day, he came home to find Benji’s things packed in a moving van and learned he had only been a bed warmer until Benji found a better partner who could advance his career.

Devastated, Scott had again retreated into his work, only socializing with a few close friends and staying away from the clubs. Lately, he thought about putting himself out there, seeing if he could find someone special, but hadn’t found the nerve.

There hasn’t been anyone since Benji. I need to let go of that and move on. Maybe a change of luck will come with a change of scenery. This is exactly what I need: new town, fresh start, different job. Maybe I’ll meet someone who isn’t an asshole. Go back to creating recipes. Take a chance on a food truck. At least I can say I tried.

April from SPAM sent him the address for a temporary apartment they had rented for him until he could get his bearings. Two months of corporate-paid housing was included in the surprisingly generous relocation package April had emailed to him.

He couldn’t stay there permanently since the unit was owned by the company and used for new hires and short-term consultants, but it saved him from moving into a hotel and then having to move again. And if they planned to send him out on assignment right after his training, like the phone call suggested, it meant he didn’t have to worry about signing a lease of his own until he came back to Albany.

For now, Scott had a roof over his head and somewhere to dump his stuff while he met his new boss and got a feel for the requirements of the job. Once he knew more about where he would be working and what hours were expected—and got the lay of the land—he intended to look for a comfortable apartment of his own and check out the Albany social scene.

I needed a shakeup to get off my ass and start over. This is a stretch—and I haven’t had a real challenge in a long time. I think this could be the perfect way to start over.

Scott pulled into the apartment building and sat for a moment after he parked, getting a grip on how fast his life had changed. Capital Suites looked respectable enough that Scott wasn’t worried about having his car stolen. The sudden taste of strawberries—his favorite—seemed to confirm that he would be safe here. The taste cues came more often recently, and Scott realized that he now automatically weighed them into his decision-making, which oddly, didn’t seem strange at all.

Very literally a sixth sense. Let’s just hope warnings of bad stuff don’t taste like garbage or poop.

Scott picked up the key at the rental office front desk after showing his ID. The apartment SPAM set up for him was more like a hotel suite, which sounded fancier than the reality. That just meant instead of just a bedroom and bathroom, he had a small kitchenette, dining table, and a couch facing the TV. I guess it qualifies as an efficiency, maybe? he thought . Still, if it took a while to find an apartment it beat sitting on the bed for everything.

He hadn’t taken any time to search for a place to live, figuring it could wait until he could drive around Albany and see the city for himself. Scott hoped that SPAM would have relocation advice or perhaps arrangements with local apartment complexes for an employee discount. At the very least, he figured he could talk to some other people working at SPAM and get tips on everything from places to live to dry cleaners.

Scott left his knickknacks boxed and his artwork bubble-wrapped, focused on moving everything valuable or immediately necessary out of the rented moving trailer so he could return it before they charged him for another day. It depressed him that at this point in life, everything he owned fit in his SUV and a small trailer. He stacked the boxes of things he wouldn’t need right away against the apartment wall, figuring he could live out of suitcases until he got through orientation and his first assignment.

Once he had taken care of returning the trailer, it was nearly dinnertime. Scott spotted a deli that rated well and took home the most luscious Reuben he had ever seen, along with chips, pickle spears, and a bottle of soda. He breathed a sigh of relief when nothing in his apartment had been touched and spread out the butcher paper to feast on his sandwich.

This time, the taste of pickle and spicy mustard was anticipation, not a premonition.

After he finished dinner—and resolved to remember the name of the deli—Scott fired up his laptop.

He had read all about the history of canned meat and the company that made it, the market trends and popular perception, and scanned recipes. Now, he put in the address that April supplied in his welcome email along with half a dozen forms to complete and did a search so he knew where to go in the morning.

“Huh.” The building didn’t have any markings to suggest a relationship with the canned ham or its maker. The unremarkable, four-story building didn’t look like the kind of place for a commercial kitchen. If he had driven past it, Scott would have guessed it housed insurance agencies and white-collar offices for law firms or financial organizations.

He tried the search a couple of ways after checking April’s email and always got the same results. Since it was after hours, Scott decided to wait until morning to call so he could check directions and verify the address.

Oddly enough, neither the ham nor its company showed up as having any past or current presence in Albany. He checked for corporate partners, thinking the facility might be under another company name, and found nothing.

“Strange,” he muttered. He searched on test kitchens and found three cooking schools and a mobile caterer.

Would they have a secret location? Maybe they’re working on a major rebrand or pivoting their marketing direction and want to keep it quiet. That must be it. This is even more exciting than I thought.

Over the last two days, Scott had looked up what to expect from his new city. Albany had a reputation for coffee shops, fish fry, and cheesecake, as well as a local specialty known as Melba sauce. Thanks to several nearby colleges, music festivals, winter sports, and live theater provided plenty of things to do, and farmers’ markets were a hot ticket in good weather. Historic locations drew scholars and tourists since Albany was the state capital.

Even better, Albany rated as gay friendly and offered local organizations, bars, restaurants, and events that made getting to know people and finding community easier. Scott looked forward to exploring and hoped the city was as welcoming as its Chamber of Commerce promised.

Scott had already filled out some initial paperwork online, enough to get his direct deposit and health insurance set up. More documents surprised him, but he dug in hoping to make his first day go smoother.

Have you ever fomented revolution in a foreign country?

No.

Are you now, or have you ever been, on a watch list for revolutionaries?

No.

Have you ever been renditioned? If so, please explain.

No.

Have you died and been brought back to life more than once?

No.

Scott checked to make sure he hadn’t opened some sort of joke form by accident. They either have a really strange sense of humor or an exceptionally thorough human resources department.

Please list any personal experience with Weapons of Mass Destruction. Be sure to include poisons (solid, gas, liquid) and radioactive materials.

He quickly put N/A.

If you have attracted the ire of any covens, nests, or packs, please provide details.

Scott stared at the question for a moment. This is a joke, right? They want to see how well I react to strange situations. I can show them I go with the flow. Another N/A.

Please list any unusual abilities. If you have come to the attention of any governmental organization, public or secret, please make a note.

What the fuck?

Scott thought about his clairgustance and decided that was too odd. He certainly hadn’t attracted attention from any spy organizations. Would I know if I had? Erring on the side of caution, he mentioned the ability, but downplayed it. That should cover my ass.

Do you have any unusual allergies (sensitivity to silver, holy water, or salt, for example) that we should know about?

Scott generally thought he had a good sense of humor, but this was starting to weird him out.

None—not even garlic , he wrote, then backspaced over the last three words.

Do you require any special shielding materials to be in place to protect others’ safety or privacy from your talents?

Scott couldn’t help snickering like a twelve year-old. Regular condoms work just fine, he thought, but marked N/A.

Please name your next of kin, memorial service religious preferences (if any), and any dangers inherent in burial or cremation. If an alternative disposal is required, please note how and why.

Scott sat back and stared at the form. “Next of kin? Alternative disposal? Are they expecting me to fall in a radioactive frying vat?”

He filled out the answers, feeling sad that the best he could do for his next of kin was his sister, who like the rest of his family, was estranged after he came out. Julie might at least make arrangements long-distance. That’s the best I’ve got.

Any personal weapons brought onto the premises remain the responsibility of the owner. SPAM will not be responsible for damages or discharge.

I’ve been in plenty of hot kitchens, but never with anyone packing heat. Except for that one guy, Gino, at the pizza place in college. I’m still pretty sure he was delivering weed with the pizzas.

The stereotype of diva chefs with quick tempers exists for a reason. Letting them bring weapons doesn’t seem like a good idea. Maybe the test kitchen is in a bad part of town, but it didn’t look like it from the maps.

He had thought it odd that the SPAM headquarters hadn’t shown up on the satellite photos as if something obscured the building from view. Maybe there are power lines overhead. That can mess up images. Weird.

Scott finished the questionnaire and started on the medical form. It seemed more normal, although the allergy question came up again. Some questions made him give the laptop a boggled look.

Do you heal exceptionally fast or slow? Please explain.

That wasn’t too weird.

In the event that you are unconscious, do you require extra sedation to keep your abilities under control?

Like I’m going to sing karaoke or something? He marked No.

What is your kryptonite?

Scott had heard personal development trainers ask that question—metaphorically—but had never experienced it on a health questionnaire. Green chiles and andouille sausage give me indigestion , he finally wrote.

The rest of the form was fairly normal, and Scott wondered whether the strange questions were some sort of personality test to see how well he adapted to unexpected conditions. That seemed like a very avant-garde hiring approach for a test kitchen but figured maybe they were checking his inherent creativity.

Scott hit send and sat back with a relieved sigh. Paperwork was always the worst part of any job. He poured himself a couple of fingers of whiskey and realized that he had to unpack at least some of his clothes and necessities before he could go to bed.

Just for a moment, it struck him that he was alone in a city where he knew no one, living in a temporary apartment, far away from people who, if not his besties, knew him and were willing to lend a hand.

Did I do the right thing taking this job? I jumped at it because I was desperate, but I’ve uprooted my whole life after one phone conversation.

What if I don’t like the people? What if the work isn’t satisfying? How long will it take me to get to know my co-workers? And will I finally meet someone who can be more than just a weekend fling?

Worst case, I don’t last and end up freelancing for the magazine and seeing if I can pick up enough other gigs to keep body and soul together. I’ll find a way to make it work—somehow.

Scott had sent emails to the work colleagues he liked to let them know he had found a new job and was moving. Since his phone number and email address wouldn’t change, they didn’t need a street address if they wanted to keep in touch. Their friendship had been largely based on proximity, so he wondered how many of them would bother.

He didn’t need a large circle of friends, but Scott liked to hang out with people who shared the same interests in movies, shows, books, and games. There had been a couple of friends who enjoyed going to the same sort of movies or playing role-playing games. Scott knew he would miss them. But given how long he had lived in Rochester, it didn’t seem like he had left much of a footprint, which made him sad.

Spending time with people without anything in common took too much effort, and he didn’t care about gossip or personal drama.

Scott didn’t have any trouble starting a conversation when he spotted shared interests, including food. He often daydreamed about what Mr. Right would look like for him and had concluded his perfect match would probably be doing something food-related.

I’m tired of sleeping alone—and not just for sex. I want to come home to someone who loves me, someone who intends to stick around. Someone who will always be there for me, and we can protect each other.

He didn’t intend to get drunk the night before starting a new job, but all alone in a strange place, Scott wanted to take the edge off the loneliness.

The television carried enough channels for him to find a rerun of a favorite show and binge-watch a couple of episodes until the whiskey kicked in. Despite the alcohol, his mind still raced.

Maybe I should get a dog. It’s certainly not a substitute for meeting the right guy, but at least I wouldn’t feel quite as alone.

They say dogs are a great way to meet people. I could take him on walks, go to dog parks, and meet cute guys.

I should look at rescues once I get settled. Maybe we can give each other a fresh start.

Scott’s family had different types of dogs when he was growing up. His mom went through a small dog phase with Pomeranians and Pekingese, while his dad picked Labradors and German shepherds. Other family members had beagles and golden retrievers, poodles and mutts, and one infamous Yorkie who chased Scott’s grandfather up a tree.

Out of all of them, Scott’s favorites were the big dogs. He liked being able to tussle and appreciated their stamina for long walks and games of fetch. Many people were wary of guard dogs like shepherds, but Scott saw their goofy side and thought they were endearing.

Something to look forward to, he thought, and realized how much he had missed having a dog around. His last dog, a marvelous mixed breed named Flynn, had died of old age a year ago, and Scott had been so off-kilter from the changing environment at the magazine that he had postponed looking for a new companion until things settled down.

Anticipating finding a furry friend cheered him, lifting his heavy mood. This move might just turn out to be the right thing after all.