Chapter 11 Fluffernutter

Two months ago...

Allie

I opened the door to the ladies' room and stepped inside, so irritated that I was ready to scream. This date was awful. Actually, that was an understatement. It was a disaster of Titanic proportions. And like the movie, if I were Rose, Doyle was Jack and this date was the door I was floating on, I wouldn't have made room for Jack either.

It had started out so promising. I'd met Doyle a week ago. He was the manager for a band who had started using the same studios as Storm Front. My guys were wrapping up rehearsals for their new album and would start recording soon. His band was just finishing up their first album. He was good looking, fit, charming and very interested in me. We had talked for quite a while and had a lot in common - both single parents, both loved to travel, and had the same interests in music, obviously.

Before I left for the day, Doyle had asked me to dinner. I'd agreed, pleased to be sticking to my plan to open myself to love, and get over my infatuation with all things Nico. I'd had a few - four to be exact - dates over the last few months. All perfectly nice men, with whom I'd had a perfectly nice time, who had each given me a perfectly nice kiss at the end of the evening. It was...nice.

I didn't want nice. I wanted sparks. I wanted pulse-racing, heart-pounding anticipation. I wanted kisses that would brand my soul and touches I would feel for days. I wanted to get laid, damn it. And I still wanted it to be with Nico. Double damn it. So, when I'd felt a slight spark of interest with Doyle, I had accepted his invitation to dinner.

Now, though, I found myself pacing in the ladies' room, trying to talk myself out marching back out there and dumping my glass of wine over his head. The date had been going really well, for the first ten minutes at least. We had met at the restaurant - a nice steakhouse not far from the studio - and were seated immediately at our reserved table. We'd exchanged small talk while we'd looked over our menus. Cue the arrival of the server, somewhere around minute eleven.

"I'll have a whiskey, neat, and a glass of your finest red for the lady," Doyle had said without even glancing her way. He also had not asked me what I wanted to drink. The red wine was fine, in fact it was probably what I would have ordered, but I would have liked to have been asked.

"Very well, sir. Would you care for any starters? We have a lovely - "

"The crab stuffed mushrooms will be fine," he'd interrupted without so much as a please or thank you to our server, or even asking me if that was what I wanted. Newsflash, I wasn't a huge fan of crab, and mushrooms tasted like dirt to me. I had flashed her a quick smile of apology before she walked away.

The server brought our drinks out quickly, along with a cutting board containing a variety of the artisanal breads the restaurant was known for. "Do you have any questions about our menu or are you ready to place your orders?" she'd asked me, smiling politely. I had absently noticed Doyle sliding the bread board off to the side of the table, just out of my reach, and hoped he didn't accidentally knock it onto the floor. I just loved their roasted garlic and rosemary focaccia.

"I'll take the ribeye, medium, with a baked potato - extra sour cream - and a side of broccoli, please," I'd said, making sure to offer her a friendly smile to make up for Doyle's lack of one.

"A potato with extra sour cream...are you sure? I mean, carbs aren't exactly the healthiest choice for you, and sour cream has a lot of calories." Doyle had stated patronizingly.

The server's eyes had widened at me, as she'd slowly panned to look at him.

"Yes, I'm sure," I had said with a light laugh, trying not to grit my teeth. I had given him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was one of those uber-conscious health nuts, and simply hadn't chosen his words wisely. Surely, he wasn't actually a sanctimonious asshat who'd meant to imply that I specifically shouldn't eat carbs or extra calories, but just that people in general should limit them. Still rather rude, but at least not outright insulting.

My attempt at being understanding had lasted just long enough for him to place his order, including said baked potato - topped with sour cream, shredded cheddar, and crumbled bacon. Before heading back to the kitchen, the server had paused to look at me for a moment, head tilted, one eyebrow cocked in a look that just screamed 'is he fucking serious with that shit?'

Doyle then sealed his fate when he'd reached for the largest slab of bread on the board, slathered it with their yummy, whipped butter, and stuffed a chunk in his mouth, scooting the bread board even farther from me in the process. As he chewed, I'd excused myself to the restroom that I was currently pacing.

I allowed myself a few more minutes to mentally rant, then exited the restroom with my head held high, and my vanity in tatters.

I strode to a stop next to the table, informed Doyle that I'd received a call that my daughter needed me and left him sputtering on his fucking breadcrumbs as I started to walk away. As a thought hit me, I stopped, turned, and reached for the bread board, snatching a big piece of the focaccia I'd been looking forward to. As I stalked toward the exit, bread in hand, I passed our server. "Bravo, beautiful, good for you" she murmured with a wink.

Since I had assumed I would have a glass or two of wine with dinner, I had taken an Uber to the restaurant. Outside on the sidewalk, I pulled up the app on my phone to order a car to take me home. Luckily, an available driver was only a couple minutes away, so I didn't have long to wait.

When I arrived back home, Hannah and her husband Dean, who were babysitting for me, were surprised to see me so early.

As Dean caught sight of me coming through the front door, he did a double take, looking at me with concern.

"What are you doing back so soon? Everything OK?"

The angry tears that had been just under the surface since I left the restaurant, now filled my eyes, and I blinked rapidly.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, moving toward me to give me a hug. "Hannah?" he called over his shoulder, "honey, uh, I need you in here please."

"Why, what's wron - " she stopped speaking as she rounded the corner from the kitchen and caught sight of me. "Oh God, Allie, are you OK. Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?" she asked, voice rising shrilly. She was clearly ready to kick someone's ass on my behalf.

I gave Dean a grateful squeeze and stepped back out of his arms. "No, nothing like that. I'm fine, just pissed off, and embarrassed and apparently in need of a low-carb, low fat diet. Oh, and better taste in men. I definitely need better taste in men."

"What did that goddamned motherfucker do?" Dean demanded, apparently ready to take over the ass kicking duties from my sister. They had married last year, and he took his new official role as my brother quite seriously.

"Shh...language! Gracie will hear you," Hannah reprimanded.

"OK, what did that...gosh-darned fluffernutter do to you? Is that better?" he turned to ask his wife in a snarky tone.

I snorted. "It loses something in the translation," I said teasingly.

I explained what had happened, and Hannah and Dean both wanted to hunt him down to kick his ass. I assured them that he wasn't worth the effort.

"Well, he's clearly a," Dean paused to shoot a pointed look at Hannah, "fluffernutting moron. What the hell kind of name is Doyle, anyway. It rhymes with oil, which should have been your first clue, Allie."

"Agreed. I think I'll refer to him as Doyle-slick from now on, or maybe Doyle the Douche. Maybe both" I said. "Oh, and by the way, we really need to come up with something other than 'fluffernutter' to replace that other word. It sounds like we're on a porn set."

Dean choked on a laugh and smirked at me. Hannah just looked confused.

"Huh? I don't understand."

Dean shot his wife a wicked smile. "I'll explain it to you later, baby. Don't worry, you're really good at it." He waggled his brows at her with a comical leer.

"Oh, God, Dean. Quit trying to sex up my little sister in the middle of my living room!" I yelled, running out of the room.

The sound of his laughter followed me into the kitchen, as I went to join my daughter at the table. She was eating a bedtime snack, coloring, and singing some of the words to The Beatles 'Twist and Shout'. Nico had taught her, using the songs off Alex's old playlist. She had the 'Baby, twist and shout' part down pat. The rest of it, not so much. I grabbed one of the apple slices off her plate. I was starving. I really should have grabbed another piece of that focaccia before I left the restaurant. Of course, ol' Doyle-slick probably would have had an apoplectic fit. I would have been willing to take that chance.

The next morning, I had to meet Michael at the office for a meeting with one of the other bands that he managed. Tony walked in shortly after I arrived, and I looked at him in surprise.

"What are you doing here. Aren't you guys supposed to be in final rehearsals at the studio today?" I asked.

He nodded, heading over to the coffee station in the corner of the room. Michael drank it by the gallon, and always started a pot as soon as he arrived every morning. "I have to grab some paperwork from Michael to change all of my banking info for the accountant. My debit card got hacked, and I had to open a new account," he said, clearly irritated.

He grabbed a mug out of the cabinet, one of my funny ones, and filled it to the brim. I read the message on it and laughed. He looked at me and said, "What's so funny?"

"I could have used that mug last night," I said, still chuckling.

He read the message on the side of the mug, "Lord, if you give me strength, I'm gonna need bail money to go with it!"

"Why? What happened last night?"

I told him about Doyle the Douche, able to find the humor in his epic level of assholery. Tony was not amused.

"He did what???" He roared. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me! Is he fucking blind?"

"Hey, it's OK. I mean, I was a little hurt and embarrassed last night, but I'm over it now. It's his loss."

"Goddamned right it is. Stupid motherfucker, what the fuck is his problem?" Tony was on a roll now, pacing the small room, completely caught up in the tirade he was delivering.

Michael poked his head around the door in alarm. "Uh, guys, is everything OK?

"No, everything is not fucking OK, Michael," he sniped. "Do you know Doyle, the stupid shitheaded prick who manages that new band that's been recording in studio C?"

Michael stepped fully into the room. "Yeah," he said warily. "What about him?"

"He's a stupid fucking dickwad, that's what a-fucking-bout him," he huffed, before pausing for another sip of coffee. Good, maybe the caffeine would soothe his temper. Good Lord, he was even madder than I had been last night.

Michael looked at me, clearly hoping for some clarification. "You want to tell me what he's pissed about, or do I need to wait for him to run out of curse words?"

"He is pretty inventive with them, isn't he?" I said with a wide smile. God, I loved Tony. He was usually pretty quiet and reserved, but when he went on a rant about something, he really let loose.

"Doyle asked me out for dinner last night, then was rude to the waitstaff and condescending to me, then topped it off by implying I was too fat to risk eating bread and potatoes," I said, summing things up for him.

His nostrils flared and he clenched his jaw, "He fucking said that to you? What a colossal dick!" he said angrily.

"That's what I said," Tony nodded in satisfaction, looking pleased that Michael agreed with him.

"Guys, really, it's OK. I'm not torn up about it. I was a little upset last night, but I'm over it. Just let it go, OK?" I shot a look of pure glee Tony's way and began to sing "Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back anymore..."

A look of horror crossed his face, and he waved his arms in front of him in a gesture of surrender. "OK, I'll drop it. Just stop, please," he whined. "Anything but that song! Your daughter made me watch that damned movie three times in a row the last time I came over. The military could use that shit to torture war criminals!"

Michael and I laughed at him. "Oh Tony, I love you. Don't ever change," I said to him with a wink.

The next day, I loved him even more when he called and invited me out for ice cream. Yeah, that's right, Doyle-slick, ice cream. Suck on that, ya big douchnozzle. I got a double scoop, too, just for the hell of it.

Tony and I strolled over to a nearby park, settling on a bench under a shade tree to finish our ice cream. "Have you heard from Doyle the Dick since your date?"

I wrinkled my nose at the memory of him, "Nope, and I don't imagine I will."

"Let me know if you do, and I'll be happy to deal with him," Tony said, still looking pissed off on my behalf.

"OK, change of subject, before this ice cream curdles at the mention of that guy," I said with a chuckle. "Anything new in your life...any special lady you have your eye on?"

He groaned, "God, you sound like my mother. I'll tell you the same thing I tell her - no special lady, sorry." He got quiet and stared at his cup of ice cream as if it would solve all of life's mysteries if he looked hard enough.

I nudged him with my shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be nosy."

"It's OK," he sighed. "It's not that, it's just..."

I waited for him to continue, but he just sat there as the last of his ice cream melted in the cup. "Tony?" I prompted hesitantly. He shot me a quick glance and looked away again.

"Is everything OK with you? You know, I'm always willing to listen if you need to talk."

He put the ice cream down on the bench next to him, and tossed his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close to his side. When he sighed again, and dropped his head to rest on mine, I knew something was going on. I wrapped my arm around his waist and gave him a squeeze, and he began to speak.

"There isn't a special lady. I hook up with them, have sex with them because it's expected, but I never feel anything for them."

I startled at the way he phrased that and pulled away to look at him. "What do you mean, you have sex because it's expected?" I questioned with alarm. "You shouldn't do anything sexual with anyone unless you want to, Tony. No one has the right to expect sex from you -"

"Calm down, Mama Bear," he interrupted with a wry grin. "That's not quite what I meant. Nobody is taking advantage of me, I promise. I just meant that people expect a man my age, in my position, to enjoy the buffet of beautiful women literally throwing their panties at him. It's expected, and it's not that I don't want to have sex with them, I am attracted to them physically, I just don't feel any kind of connection to them beyond that."

"OK, so you don't feel an emotional connection to the groupies you sleep with. I think that's probably pretty common. Maybe find a woman who isn't a groupie?" I suggested, still unclear on why this seemed to be troubling him so much.

He shifted on the bench, turning toward me. He looked at me for long moments, as if he was contemplating something. He dropped his gaze, heaved a big sigh, and looked up to face me again.

"I've only ever felt an emotional connection to the men I've..." he stopped and dropped his gaze again.

"To the men you've slept with?" I finished for him since he didn't seem able to say it.

His gaze snapped back to me so fast, I thought I'd gotten it wrong.

"I'm sorry, I just assumed that's what you were about to say," I quickly apologized.

He gave me a wavering smile, and I realized that he had tears shimmering in his eyes. "Yes, I've only felt an emotional connection to the men I've slept with, or wanted to sleep with anyway."

"I'm sorry, Tony, I shouldn't have just assumed when I asked about a special 'lady' in your life. I didn't realize you're bi," I said, a little stunned that I hadn't known that about a man I'd grown so close to over the years.

"Nobody does, doll. I didn't even fully realize it myself until a few years ago. My...encounters...with men have been very few and far between. I've been too afraid to be recognized, so I've kept anything sexual on the downlow. The guys I've been emotionally attracted to, I've avoided pursuing since they know who I am."

"So, you're not open about your bisexuality with anyone?" I asked.

"Nope, you're it, doll," he said with a small smile.

"But why? Why hide it? I mean, even if you aren't ready to share it with the world, why hide it from us? You have to know none of us would judge you."

"I know. I know you wouldn't. It's just...what am I supposed to do after all these years, just blurt out "Hey guys, I'm into dudes?" His bark of laughter had a bitter edge to it.

I shrugged. "Sure, why not? It's not like it has to be some big formal announcement for us. Hell, it doesn't have to be some big formal announcement if you decide to go public either."

"Uh, yeah, I kinda think it does if I go public. I mean, it's called 'coming out' for a reason. It's a whole thing."

"But does it really have to be? When's the last time a straight celebrity released a statement that they were straight? So why the hell would you need to release one stating that you're bi?" I shook my head at the absolute unfairness of that shit.

He shook his head with a little chuckle. "I don't think it's that easy."

"I'm not saying it would be easy. I'm just saying, if you appear in public with a guy who is clearly more than a friend, you just don't treat the situation any differently than if it were a woman. When the paparazzi or fans ask if that's your boyfriend, you say yes and move on. If they ask if you're gay, you say "nope, bi" and move on. There's your fucking statement. And yes, it will be a complete shit-show for a while, but then it will die down and you can live your life on your own terms, and anybody who doesn't like it can just fuck right the hell off!"

He looked at me for such a long time that I was sure I'd overstepped the bounds of our friendship. As I opened my mouth to give him a huge apology, he reached over and pulled me into his arms. He hugged me tight and whispered "thank you" in my ear. When he pulled away and sat back on the bench, he kept one arm around my shoulders.

"You think that would work?" he asked after another minute or so.

"I do, but what matters is if you think it would work for you. If you aren't ready, then you aren't ready, so don't let me or anyone else pressure you into it."

He dropped a kiss on my temple and squeezed my shoulder. "I'll think about it. I will tell the guys soon though, and Michael. Then, maybe my mom after that. I think she'll be cool with it. My cousin's gay, and she's always been accepting of him and his husband."

"Only if and when you're ready, Tony."

"Got it. So, when I tell the guys, will you be there for moral support?

I smiled. "Of course, I will. And Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for trusting me enough to share this with me. I'm so honored to be your friend."

He gave me another quick hug, and then got up to throw our ice cream cups in the trash can nearby. He took my hand as we walked back toward his car.

"So, let's start this conversation over. Anything new in your life...any special guy you have your eye on?" I asked with a grin.

He threw his head back and laughed. "No, Mom , no special guy, sorry."