6 Days to Valentine Read online

  Will 6 Days, 2 Men, and 1 bet be enough to change Nick's heart?

  6 Days To Valentine

  Any dreams bartender Nick Valentine had of 'Happily Ever Afters' were shredded long ago. In a perfect world, February 14th would be struck from the calendar—the last thing Nick and his customers need is a bunch of happy loving couples rubbing it in their faces.

  * * *

  Bouncer Davis 'FatBoy' Newman thinks he knows Nick's heart better than that. He's willing to wager it all he’ll change Nick's mind about romance—before the holiday strikes.

  * * *

  Too bad Nick's not going down without a fight.

  Praise for LE Franks

  “Ms. Franks has a way with words that just grabs me from the start and leaves me feeling happy and content with the ending of the story.”

  Jackie from The Novel Approach

  “This is [a] cute story with some interesting characters …” “There are some heart tugging moments, “I wanted you to have something from me….I wanted to watch you from across the room and know that some small part of me belonged to you.” An awesome sentiment.”

  Lucy from Hearts on Fire

  “Loved this novella. The story of Nick and FatBoy kept me enthralled until the end. LE Franks uses first person narrative so that the reader can feel the angst of Nick…”

  WS Long

  6 Days to Valentine

  A Nick & FatBoy Romance

  LE Franks

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Book One

  1. The Day After The Night Before

  2. Day One − Saturday

  3. Day Two – Sunday

  4. Day Three − Monday

  5. Day Four – Tuesday

  6. Day Five − Wednesday

  7. Day Six – Valentine’s Day

  Trademark Acknowledgement

  Coming Spring 2018 - 6 Days To Get Lucky

  Bio

  Also by LE Franks

  LE Franks Books

  http://www.lefranks.com

  6 Days To Valentine @ 2018 LE Franks

  Published in the US by LE Franks Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted un any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places, situations and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without express permission of the author.

  Published by LE Franks Books

  Cover art @ 2018 LE Franks Books

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  To the men in my life who were willing to wade into uncharted waters with me.

  Acknowledgments

  This is a second edition with only minor editing changes. If you’ve already read or purchased the Wilde City edition of 6 Days to Valentine, published in 2014, then you’ve read this one. Thank you for that.

  * * *

  A particular ‘Thank You’ also goes out to my Italian daughter, Caterina, who brought the words of my mad chef to life. Grazie mille.

  Book One

  1

  The Day After The Night Before

  The Man on the floor was hard to ignore. If I got up now, I’d be stepping on him—not that I planned on leaving anytime soon. It wasn’t every day a man fell at your feet, much less one of the pretty ones. I wasn’t complaining—I could use the distraction. February with its faux-holiday was always my own personal hell, and this week, with the tidal wave of red and pink already threatening to swamp me, things kept getting worse. Maybe my luck was finally changing. I hoped so.

  I squinted in the dim light of the bar to get a better look. His strawberry blond hair was disheveled, uncovered now that the ball cap he’d worn into the bar was resting against the chrome leg of my barstool. He stared up at me with eyes like some cartoon character from a Looney Tunes classic. Comically huge saucers of Arctic blue overwhelmed a nose too pert for a man; his rosy lips forming a perfect O of shock and surprise completed the picture as he lay stunned.

  I’d watched the cap spin merrily away as he landed face-first onto the industrial-grade carpet, and winced—not in sympathy for the blow to his face, per se. No, it was due to the knowledge that FatBoy Newman had thrown up on that exact spot the previous day. I groaned as unwelcome memories of FatBoy and the events of last night flooded my mind, distracting me from the blond.

  FatBoy was the newest addition to our little Frisson bar family. He’d been working the door for a couple of months, doing his job by lurking in the background and monitoring the crowds stirring each other up on weekends. One minute, he would be wallpaper, and the next, he’d be hanging out at my end of the bar, playing a nightly game of twenty questions.

  Last night it was a string of questions like “Marie Claire or Vogue?” and “Barbeque Beans or Pork & Beans” or, more disturbing, “Brad Pitt or Yoda?”

  Normally, I would have blown FatBoy off as I do every other asshole annoying me while I’m working; even the bouncers who like to lean on the bar and steal olives and fruit don’t linger if I’m there. FatBoy was different. He might look like a giant hick with the brains the size of a pea and a case of ’roid rage, but for all I knew, he had balls the size of an elephant. He’d need them. He’d been pressuring me for weeks to date his cousin, ever since he figured out that I’m gay, and I’d been equally absolute in my refusal. I don’t date, no matter how smoky blue your eyes are when you ask.

  Not that I tried to hide my orientation—it’s just none of your damn business and not a topic of conversation I usually led with. At six two with brown hair, green eyes, and a naturally muscled build, bar patrons just assumed I was straight; keeping things pleasant and light with our mixed crowd of tourists and local party boys and girls kept the mood fun and—most importantly—the tips pouring in.

  I also wasn’t such a megalomaniac that I thought everyone wanted to sleep with me—though working the bar, I got plenty of come-ons and come-hithers. Despite the occasional tumble with Juan, I hadn’t met anyone who inspired me to make the effort. If you want to know the truth, in my heart of hearts, I was a romantic; I dreamed of being swept off my feet by the “one”. In the meantime, I kept my head down, mixing my drinks and keeping my dreams and hands mostly to myself.

  Despite the nightly grilling, FatBoy wouldn’t have known any different if he hadn’t walked in on my attempt to bareback Juan, our bar-back, during a very slow Saturday afternoon. I’m kidding about the barebacking. Juan is a good kid, and I’d never risk him or myself that way, and our relationship was more about convenience than romance, but FatBoy did walk into the cold room just seconds after a collision had wrapped me around Juan’s wiry body, forcing our lips together. Fortunately, our tongues took the brunt of the accident, ensuring no lasting damage to our libidos.

  No, Mr. Newman can take the blame for that particular injury and the subsequent ‘failure to launch’ sequence that resulted from it. Instead of backing out like a normal person, he stayed—leaning against the frame of the door and watching us quietly until I pulled away from Juan.

  “Why the fuck are you still here? Can’t you see we’re busy?” I snapped in frustration.

  FatBoy didn’t respond beyond a little twitch at the corner of his mouth—though he did lean slightly out of the way as Juan slipped past him, buttoning his jeans as he went. I reached down and readjusted my own cock, sighing deeply and glaring at him while I waited.

  “Soooo, Nick. Boys, huh?” he drawled, settling back into his lean.

  “Not boys, men. I’m not a pedophile, asshole.” As I stomped back to the bar, I was running through a list of unpleasant scenarios I could subject the prick to before I had to see him again. I was contemplating his fall into an active volcano when I felt his eyes on my back, the same silent force field I’d felt ever since he started working here.

  I whirled around. “What? What! What? Did you need something, or did your calendar say it was ‘Be a dick at work day?’ ’Cuz I have to tell you, I’ve got a serious case of blue balls going on here, and unless you plan on dropping and giving me head right here and now, I’m pretty sure there is nothing you can say or do that I’m interested in.”

  I might have caught a slight glimmer in his eyes when I said that—but really, who cared? It was going to be long days of skittish looks before Juan settled down enough to overcome his exaggerated fear of discovery and be willing to risk spending more time with me in the back. Something about losing his job and making his disabled mother homeless if he got caught screwing around at work—like that would ever happen…

  “Blake was asking for you. I figured you’d rather I tracked you down myself instead of sending him into the icebox after you.” FatBoy smirked and pivoted, leaving me alone with the unhappy thought that I owed him one. With a silent apology to Juan’s fears, I wound my way back to the office to check on the latest from the boss.

  So best efforts of ignoring the
new bouncer aside, we were now out to the six five former linebacker from Tennessee—a Vol who’d majored in French poets of the seventeenth century. You haven’t lived until you’ve listened to FatBoy recite Molière in the original French, drunk off his ass, at four in the morning, in a thick southern drawl. Despite all of that, or maybe because of it, FatBoy was a bit of a prick—a trait I usually found entertaining when directed toward someone else, but after my fobbing off all the gentle nudges and hints about his cousin, he must have decided it was time to bring out the heavy artillery and press the issue once and for all.

  In this case, he used his prickdom to force me into the drinking contest. He was, after all, he said, a gentleman of the South and therefore felt obliged to offer me a game of chance rather than the outright blackmail he originally had in mind—not that I believed he’d actually risk anyone’s job. But it did make me curious.

  I still wasn’t sure what was so important about finding his cousin a date. I’d said no enough times that any other musclehead would have gotten a clue and dropped it long ago. FatBoy’s cousin must have been horribly disfigured or suffering from some social disease or on parole for unspeakable acts as a minor for him to be this relentlessly annoying.

  More likely, his aunt was nagging him to death—afraid her baby was going to meet a big bad leather daddy now that he liked cock; I’d heard stories. I was just lucky to be the first gay he’d met. Not that I ever had that problem with my own family—I’m not sure they noticed the last time the door hit me on my way out.

  All in all, I wasn’t surprised when he finally cornered me.

  Terms of the bet were simple. We would each drink at the same time until we stopped. First one to pass out or throw up lost. Winner named his prize.

  The reason I thought FatBoy might have been juicing—beyond the imposing build and lack of neck—was he’d overlooked the fact that I had total control over the very medium that would determine the outcome of the bet.

  I am the bartender. Not just a bartender—no, I am the bartender. If I were a prissy fuck, I’d leave stacks of business cards lying around trumpeting my skill as a master mixologist. I am an alchemist with alcohol. I can make your taste buds dance and your liver weep. I am a God with a bottle of Cachaça and an ebony muddler.

  My plan was simple. To win.

  To win with enough collateral damage that he would never, ever, ever mention any of his family members to me as long as he lived—possibly even longer. In this case, I was going to end him with a fresh batch of Blackberry Collins, one of the nastiest concoctions I’ve ever had the misfortune to taste.

  FatBoy blanched as I pulled out the gin, DeKuyper Blackberry Liqueur, fresh lemons, and the sugar syrup Juan had made earlier and left in the cold storage to chill. Ironic, eh? Eschewing my elegant monogrammed shaker set, I instead pulled down a silver champagne bucket to mix the quantities we were going to need. It felt good in my hands, and I grinned evilly at the big bastard while stroking my fingers up and down the shiny surface of the bucket, watching his eyes follow my motions.

  “Ya wanna back out? Now’d be the time ta do it.” I was purring. I could be such a fucker when I got into it, and this poor schmuck had no chance at all.

  “Nah, let’s get this show on the road. Bien?” FatBoy waved his hand disagreeably at the jumble of ingredients on the bar, wrinkling his nose as if he smelled something foul. The French syllables had writhed their way across his tongue. The “Bien” sounded more like “Bee-ing”. I shuddered. Madame Robertson would be having kittens by now—yes, two years of required college level-French, I’m not a totally illiterate fuckup.

  Since he wouldn’t back out, we quickly settled on the terms of the bet. If I lost, I’d agree to a blind date with the much-ballyhooed gay cousin, what-ever-his-name-was. If he lost, FatBoy would never, ever speak to me again about dating his cousin, his brother, or any other shirttail relation he could come up with. As an added bonus, he’d be my personal bitch for a day. I couldn’t wait. I had plans for FatBoy that had nothing to do with the selection of imported lubes currently displayed along the bathroom shelf in my apartment and everything to do with the grimy porcelain below it.

  I had him sign a release of liability waiver hastily penned in Cherry Jubilee lipstick on the back of a bar napkin, courtesy of Rachel M Renoir, Esq., who’d been sitting at the bar nursing her vodka for the last hour watching this unfold. If I killed him with the little trick I had planned, I certainly didn’t want to be sued by some red-necked relative fresh from the woods. Idly fingering the napkin, my thoughts were sharply derailed by Rachel as she slapped the back of my head. Hard.

  “Yow! What the fuck?”

  “I don’t want to know what you’re planning, but I think we can safely assume that you deserve to be slapped.” FatBoy’s interest perked way up at that point so I just shrugged in agreement and turned away to resume my preparations.

  Rachel was a regular of mine, an attorney specializing in family law, and one who had been busily slapping hands away from her gorgeous rack all night. The less-than-honorable Rachel only wanted to grant our cocktail server, Simone, that sort of access. Simone was still playing hard-to-get, while at the same time banking tips from Rachel at a rate that would make a madam blush. At some point, I was going to have to step in and tell Rachel that Simone was married and had a son in high school; Rachel was merely the latest contributor to the Charles Lopes college fund.

  The fact that he was a good kid pulling a four point GPA, was captain of the debate team, and had so far managed not to knock up his girlfriend of three years made the rest of us ignore Simone’s tricks. When it came to the happiness and safety of her boy, Simone would cut off body parts, hers or mine. I wasn’t about to risk my nuts as long as Simone kept it to harmless flirting. God knows I did enough of that myself, ogling the hot men and pretty boys from behind my bar. I might be many things, but a hypocrite, I am not.

  It was a rare slow Friday night at Frisson. There was an earlier ball game that pulled in the after-work crowd, and for the first three hours of the shift, I was rocking my way through orders—bottle caps flying, well drinks by the bucket, and the occasional Cosmo & ’tini for the suits. By nine thirty, it was dead. The kitchen had sent half their staff home twenty minutes prior, and Simone had cleared her last ticket and was lounging next to Rachel, nursing a rum and Coke. Rachel, for her part, was plenty bright-eyed and bushy-tailed despite my best efforts in dulling her awareness with my special concoctions. The one I’d slid in front of her before asking for the waiver still sat half-melted in a puddle of condensation on the bar—the impression of her lipstick barely marring the rim dusted in chili powder and sugar.

  “Don’t like it, Rach?” Grabbing the glass in a fluid motion and depositing it gently in the bar tub before wiping the oak top in front of her; I’d turned to consider the bottles on the wall for a replacement when she grabbed my arm instead.

  “Seriously, Nick, think about this a minute. You have that look on your face that tells me you’re about to do something stupid: stupid and possibly dangerous.” Her long red nail tapped the napkin with FatBoy’s X on it.

  I shook my head in dismissal of her concerns. “It’s all in fun. Don’t worry your head about it. It’s just my way of sayin’ ‘stay the fuck out of my life’.”

  “Everyone knows you don’t have a life, Nick. You think playing slap and tickle with some twink is going to satisfy you, but it won’t. You’re getting old, and you’re turning into one of those cranky, bitter old men. One morning, you’re going to wake up and realize that you’ve run to seed, and you’re drinking more than you’re making for your customers.” She was growling at me now, breasts pressed against the bar top, face jutting forward as if at any moment she was going to launch across the space between and tear into my throat.