Darius yanked open the door of Ivan’s Bagels, and they stepped inside.
“Darius, it’s been too long,” the man behind the counter called.
“Good to see you, Ivan.”
“Who’s your young friend?”
Darius frowned. Marc bet he didn’t like Ivan pointing out how much younger he was.
“This is Marc, my new assistant.”
Ivan sniffed, tossing his head back. “I hope you treat him better than the others.”
“Why does everyone think it’s my fault those lazy sons of bitches didn’t stick with me?”
“Because they’ve met you,” Marc said.
Ivan laughed. “I like this one. I think maybe he will stick.”
Darius glared at Marc. “Don’t be so sure.”
“You want your usual?”
“Of course.”
“What is his usual?” Marc asked.
Ivan answered before Darius had a chance. “Reuben on an everything bagel with salt-and-vinegar chips and a drink.”
“That sounds fantastic. I’ll have that too.”
“And a dozen to-go as well?” Ivan asked Darius.
“Um…” Darius frowned.
“I won’t tell the carbs police,” Marc said.
“Carbs-smarbs. Ridiculous. People should eat what they like, and everyone likes my bagels.”
“Amen to that,” Darius said.
If they were really that good, Marc would have to bring Riley here.
Ivan handed them cups and bags of chips. “Take these, and go sit. I’ll bring your sandwiches out in a few minutes.”
Marc followed Darius to the drink dispenser. Marc got Dr Pepper, his soda of choice, and Darius filled his cup with sweet tea.
“So you do drink something other than coffee?”
“Ha!” Darius smirked.
Marc had begun to wonder. Darius downed at least a pot every morning. The shop had a Keurig for the customers and a twelve-cup drip coffeemaker in the workroom that saw a crazy amount of use.
Darius started to sit at a table close to the counter, but Marc tilted his head toward the side door. “Let’s sit outside.”
“We’ll be accosted by flies and these irritating little birds that are almost too fat to fly. They think they own the place.”
Marc rolled his eyes. “You need fresh air. Come on.”
Four tables with umbrellas sat in a small courtyard. Marc chose one.
“At least the chair is warm,” Darius grumbled to himself as he sat.
“See? Sunshine is good for something.”
Darius took a sip of his drink, and Marc busied himself opening his chips, not wanting to be caught staring at Darius’s mouth. But when Marc popped a chip in his mouth, it was Darius who was caught. He was looking at Marc like he wanted to eat him for lunch. If only.
Talk to him.
Marc had this crazy idea of them getting to know one another better. Other than his magical suit-making skills, all Marc knew about Darius was his sexual tastes.
“Did you always want to make clothes?”
“What?”
Was that actually a flustered look on his face? Marc grinned.
Darius ignored Marc’s reaction. “My grandfather was a tailor, and his father before him, and his father before that.”
“But not your father?”
Darius’s mouth tightened. “No. Not my father.”
There was a story there, but it was very clear Darius was not going to tell it. Curious as he was, it was none of Marc’s business. He sure as hell didn’t want to talk about his own parents. As far as he was concerned, Riley was the only family he had.
“So you learned from your grandfather. Was he as good as you?”
“Better.”
Marc raised his brows. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“He did what I do with no technology, cheap, cranky equipment, and a fuck lot more working against him as a black man in the 1950s.”
“Did he have his own shop?”
Darius nodded. “Eventually. He started out as an errand boy, then an assistant, and after years, he took over the business. When I was ten, I started showing up every day after school. Slowly he let me take on more and more responsibilities. I was making clothes all by myself by the time I was fifteen.”
“Did you take over from him before you came to the States?”
Darius’s expression darkened. “No. My father moved us to Atlanta my last year of high school. Yes, that was as much fun as it sounds.”
“I bet.” No one wanted to move senior year.
“He didn’t want me to be a tailor, but I refused to consider anything else, so he insisted I had to go to business school.”
Marc couldn’t imagine Darius in business school. “Did you?”
“Oh, yes, at Chapel Hill.”
“Wow. It’s not easy to get in there.” Marc was seriously impressed.
Darius shrugged. “I did well in school. My father was thrilled, but I hated business classes just like I’d known I would. After a semester, I switched to majoring in English, took some awesome classes, took a lot more about boring dead white men, argued a lot in class, and dropped out after two years. It all seemed so fruitless. I like creating, not just talking about creating.”
Marc could understand that. He’d felt much the same way in design school. If he was honest, that was part of the reason he never went back. “Did you go work with your grandfather then?”