Spices (FIRST DRAFT) ~ An Alejandro and Alfred Story

𝓞𝓷𝓮

I storm down the sidewalk of 1970 Louisiana. The sound of cars honking, pedestrians chatting, and my shoes hitting the pavement irritated me more each passing second. I just got rejected for a brilliant proposal to expand my company with the help of another. How dare they reject me? Alfred Brookstone, CEO of a soon-to-be, most wealthy company in Kentucky. I'm not used to being told no. My irresistible looks and charm should have grabbed the manager's attention instantly. Shit.

Needing to let off steam, I storm into a nearby building that seemed close enough to a bar. Red tinted dark wood framed the entrance doors. Inside, it was cozy and warm. The brown, orange, and red theme gave the restaurant a feeling of home.

I sit myself down at a booth, harshly picking up the menu and scanning over it. What were these mockery of words anyway?! My hands glide into my hair, gently, not to ruin the slick backed style I so beautifully crafted.

Minutes pass, and a man approaches. my eyes immediately fall on a tall tan man with deep brown eyes. His hair is messy, dark brown, and full of tight curls that rest on his shoulders. I find myself staring at him while his mouth gently glides with words.

"Hello, welcome to Casa Vallarta. What would you like, sir?" He said in a toneless, heavy American accent, the R gently rolls off his tongue, giving his sentence flare.

Then it clicks. This is a Mexican restaurant. I scoff and rest my head on my chin. How did I end up entering a place like this?

"Hel- lo... sir..." I look at the menu, and slowly ask, my southern accent loud and clear, "may... I... get... takos.."

The man sighs loudly, running his hand down his face. He looks me dead in the eye, his eyebags making his eyes look threatening. "It's tacos."

"Huh?"

"It's pronounced tacos."

"Oh." How dare he try and correct me?! Does this border-hopper not know who I am?

"Is that all you'd like?" He asks, a hint of annoyance rising in his voice.

I look up at him, rolling my eyes. "Some American wine would work, surprise me with something."

The tan man simply nods and walks off, mumbling to himself as he makes his way to the back.

Taking the opportunity to get a better look around the small restaurant, I get up and simply stroll around. The place was empty, the sound of the soothing music making the place more homey. A small window cut-out in the wall shows inside the kitchen, and the mystery man working inside.

He ties up his hair into a tiny man bun before walking to the grill. I watch as he softly hums to himself as he works, the sizzling of the grill drowning out most of it. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with a rag. I walk back to my table, judging the man's every movement.

Moments pass, and he walks out holding a plate of food that is supposedly tacos while holding the wine bottle in his other hand. He sets it down and pours the glass of wine for me and mumbles, "Enjoy," before attempting to walk off.

Without thinking, I take his arm. "Wait." He hummed, looking at me with a confused and almost disgusted look. "Have a drink with me. My treat, for being so rude earlier."

The man looked at the kitchen, then at me. After a couple of seconds, one word comes out. "Alright." No change in his eyes or tone. Just a word with barely any meaning given to it. He grabs an empty glass from another booth and pours himself some wine.

His leg bounces as he sips the wine, unbothered. I stared down at his knee and put my hand on his leg.

"You okay?"

"Huh?"

"Your leg," I look up at him. "It was bouncing, so I just thought something was wrong."

"Oh. It's nothing. it just happens, I guess."

I nod, taking savory sips of the wine. I have to admit, it tasted divine; but there's no way in hell I'm telling him that. I watched as he swished around his wine, his eyes piercing my soul. He looks at my food and smirks gently. "So are you gonna eat it, or was that just an excuse to invite me to drink?"

"No!" I quickly jumped to protest. "Just-" I give an annoyed expression, "taking my time."

He nods as I grab the fork and knife. I began to cut a piece, but I was interrupted by the chef snorting. A noise more like a growl coming from his throat. He stands up and sits on my side of the booth. "What's wrong?" I ask, arching my eyebrow.

He silently wraps his arm around my body, his arm overlapping mine. He quietly says, "Watch and learn, white boy." The man grabs my hand and makes me set down the fork and knife. He glides my hand to the taco, making me pick it up. His hands move it to my mouth. I stop him, putting down the taco. He pulls away.

"I'm not going to eat like a savage!" I blurt out, staring at him.

"No, you're gonna eat like a Mexican." He says as he stands to sit back down in his side of the booth. I shoot him a glare and pick up the food. "I've never tried Mexican food before."

"It shows," he said, waiting for me to try the food. He looked like a kid waiting for his mother to tell him if his drawing looked good. I take a bite and look down at the food. It was absolutely delicious.

I look up at him, I beam a smile. "It's amazing- uh- your name?"

"It's Alvarez, Alejandro Alvarez. And you?" Something flips in my stomach when he perfectly rolled his R's.

I reply, "Alfred Brookstone."

He snaps his fingers. "From that Noeia company?"

"That's the one."

He nods. "I knew I recognized you. I've seen your billboards."

"Finally some recognition," I snort, sipping my drink.

I take another bite of the taco. This time, it tastes off. And then the tingling feeling takes over. Pain spread across my tongue, and my breath is stolen away. "Jesus!" I shout in a panic. "That- that burns, oh my God!" He throws his head back, erupting into booming laugh. He slides down his seat, shaking his head, and I watch his curls rest on his forehead.

I panic, as his deep voice soothingly says, "Yeah? What's the matter?" He sits up and gets close to my face, mumbling. "Can't take a bit of spice?"

It might be the spices in my food, but my face turns hot. Definitely the spices. Right?

I take a large sip of my water. "Wow. Well, that was definitely interesting," I say with a tight-lipped smile.

We share a moment of silence as I struggle to finish my food. I've calmed down since entering the restaurant, and now the realization of how shitty I was hit.

I push my plate forward and rest my elbows on the table. "Look, Alejandro, it was nothing personal... what I said before, I mean. Just... no hard feelings?" I cringe of embarrassment. No way I'm in the mood to apologize to someone like him, but I can't afford enemies at the moment. Not if my business is going to grow and make me the richest man in America.

He blinks slowly, seeming half asleep. "No worries, man, glad I could help." With that, he got up, picked up my plate, and carried it into the kitchen.

I must have sat for around ten minutes at my table, unsure what to do. I haven't paid yet or said goodbye. I stare at the chefs window a little longer, hoping to maybe see the man again. After another minute, I reluctantly pull out my wallet, pay for the food, and leave my card next to the paper bills, with my number circled in pen.

Again, I look back. When I only hear plates clashing in the back, I exit.
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A/N: Short first chapter, trust me when I say this shit gets good.