Geekspeak: DoS

Definition: Denial of Service; a malicious disruption of service, frequently executed by flooding a network with traffic, thereby blocking legitimate users’ access to websites or email.

On Thanksgiving morning, Alex whistled as he opened the curtains in his dad’s bedroom. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you ready to party.”

“Bah. Foolishness. Never been a party guy.”

“That’s what you always say. But it’s Thanksgiving. This shindig you can totally get into—food and football, my man.”

Ned perked up, his eyebrows peaked like little angle irons. “Football? I like football.”

“We’ll park you in front of the TV and bring you a whole barrel of snacks. But first, we need to get you cleaned up.” Alex guided his father to the armchair next to the bed. “How about a clean shirt?” He dug in the closet and pulled out one in soft blue flannel. “Here. This is nice. Think you can manage?”

“I can dress myself,” Ned grumbled. “Not helpless, you know. Do I need a tie for this party?”

“Not with flannel, dude. Besides, we’re going all-out casual.”

Ned raised his chin and took a deep breath through his nose, his barrel chest expanding as he shrugged into his shirt. “What smells so good? Is that turkey? I haven’t had turkey in . . .” A gust of wind rattled the window above the bed, and he frowned. “Windows need weatherizing. We’d better take care of that today, Alex.”

Alex froze, breath stalling out, and grabbed the closet door. “Dad? Did you just—”

The doorbell rang, and Alex cursed under his breath.

“That’ll be Harold,” Ned said, tucking his shirt into his pants. “Get the door, will you, Hank?”

The bubble of hope that had swelled in Alex’s chest didn’t entirely deflate. The aroma of turkey had triggered a memory, if only for a moment. If it happened once, it could happen again.

He settled his dad in his La-Z-Boy, one of the interminable pregame shows blaring away on the TV, and answered the door.

The wind nearly wrenched it out of his grasp. Toshiko stood on the porch, holding a foil-covered dish in both hands, a New Seasons Market shopping bag looped over her arm and a big-ass leather tote on her other shoulder. As tiny as she was, she probably needed the ballast to anchor her to the ground in all this wind.

“Hey, Tosh. Come on in. Let me take that.” Alex lifted the casserole in one hand and grabbed the shopping bag with the other. The contents of the bag shifted and clinked. “Jesus. What have you got in here?”

“Wine in graduated degrees of dryness. The parameters for turkey specify a dry white, but frequently people follow liquor consumption preferences rather than prescribed food pairings.”

Alex had an urge to chuckle. The way Toshiko spoke—so literal and precise—cracked him up. He resisted though, because he still wasn’t sure if she was doing it on purpose, and he didn’t want to insult her. “Uh. Right. The dish?”

“Ratatouille. It’s a recipe from Cooking for Engineers and requires thirteen minutes at two hundred degrees Celsius prior to serving.”

“Of course it does. I’d take your coat but . . .” He lifted his occupied hands.

“I know the location of the coat closet.”

“Okay. Everyone’s in the kitchen.”

Toshiko paused with her dark wool coat half on a hanger. She pinned him with a sharp gaze from her almost-black eyes. “Is your father in the kitchen as well?”

At the thought of what his father might do in the chaos of the kitchen, Alex nearly bobbled the casserole dish. “God no.”

She nodded and finished hanging up her coat. “You never struck me as a foolish man. I’m gratified my assessment was correct.”

“I aim to please.”

“Is Gideon in the kitchen?”

His face heated instantly. Thank God he didn’t blush, but from the tilt of Toshiko’s head, she probably got the picture anyway. For all I know, she can detect changes in dermal temperature. “Yeah. He’s there.”

“Then I’ll sit with Ned. You may return to the kitchen.” She pulled an oversize binder out of her leather tote.

“What’s that?”

“Something I brought for Ned.” She cut her gaze to the left, not focusing her laser-beam attention on his face for the first time since her arrival.

“He doesn’t like new stuff, and I’d rather he didn’t get agitated. We want today to be good for all of us.”

“It’s not precisely new.”

Alex set the dish and the wine bag on an end table. The last thing he wanted was for the day to explode around them. “Show me.”

Toshiko didn’t even blink at his terse order. She opened the binder and stood next to him to show him the contents. Each page was a larger-than-scale representation of an electrical diagram. Alex turned the laminated pages, which were heavier than normal paper stock.

“The purpose is to help him manage his sensory input with something to which he’s accustomed.”

“If you’re trying to show him something familiar, you need to work on your notation. You’ve got mistakes.” He pointed at the oversized diagram. “Here and here. A couple on each page.”

“The mistakes are the purpose. He can trace the diagrams. When he discovers the errors, he will feel a sense of accomplishment, which in turn will trigger a dopamine response.”

How often did his dad feel accomplishment these days? Or anything else that made him feel good? If Toshiko were the type to invite personal contact with him, he’d have hugged her, if only to hide his swimming eyes. “Thanks,” he croaked. “For thinking of him.”

“It was no hardship.” Toshiko disappeared down the hall. Alex heard her greeting Ned. The amazing thing was that Ned’s response sounded pleased. Happy. Like he was welcoming a friend. Alex had to try not to feel resentful that his father was happy to see a relative stranger when his own family rated nothing but hostility and suspicion.

But Gideon was in the kitchen, and Alex was done keeping his distance. He looked too good today—more delicious than anything on the menu. Alex might as well enjoy the feast while it lasted.

Gideon stuck his dwindling to-do list to the refrigerator with a magnet that featured Alex as a high school football player. Adorable. Magnet-Alex hadn’t grown into his ears yet, but he had a ginormous smile on his face and cradled his helmet in one elbow like an infant. The warm-fuzzy awww reaction so prized by the advertisers of every oversweetened holiday special curled up and purred in Gideon’s chest.

God, Alex was turning him into a hopeless romantic. Well, maybe not hopeless. More like hopeful, and that wasn’t a bad thing, was it?

He slapped the menu under the companion magnet—cheerleader Lindsay at her perky, pony-tailed best—and allowed the bustle of the kitchen, the aromas of roasting turkey, pumpkin pie, and cinnamon-infused mulled cider to fill his hope cup to the brim.

This could work: Him. Alex. Thanksgiving.

See? He could believe in a relationship. He could acknowledge the dreaded holiday, even participate in the pomp and food hoopla.

Maybe what it took to lay the curse of hideous Thanksgivings past to rest was orchestrating a totally awesome one in the present, with superlative trimmings, including a loving family and a superhot boyfriend.

Gideon hummed the theme from Mission: Impossible and bent over to collect his prepared garnishes from the refrigerator crisper drawer. He stood up and bumped into a wall of warm, solid muscle again. Mmm. Another return engagement by the superhot boyfriend in question. Excellent.

Alex reached over Gideon’s shoulder and nudged the refrigerator door shut. “Smells great in here.”

“Absolutely. The turkey turned out perfectly.”

“Not the turkey.” Alex nuzzled beneath Gideon’s ear. “You.”

Gideon chuckled. He’d dabbed on his Odin 01 cologne today, his “pulling” fragrance. Thank God and little green aliens, it seemed to be working; Alex was finally getting close again. Since Toshiko had arrived, he’d spent more time in the kitchen than out, never more than touching distance away. Whatever the reason for their disconnect since storage-closet sex, Gideon was sooo glad it was over.

“Have I told you how hot you look in an apron?” Alex’s voice, that deep, velvet rumble, sent a thrill down Gideon’s spine that landed square in his groin.

He wriggled, attempting to readjust his pants without the benefit of his hands. “Good thing I’m wearing one. This is a family show.”

“I like the tool belt better. Easier access to the good stuff.” Alex’s wicked fingers sneaked under the apron and toward Gideon’s crotch.

“Alex. I’m engaged in critical turkey presentation here.”

“I know. Your hands are busy, so you can’t stop me. It’s almost as good as the belt.”

Lindsay poked her head in the door. “G, did you see where— Oh, lord.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Alex, tell me you’re not feeling up your boyfriend with our mother in the next room.”

“You won’t hear it from me.” Alex chuckled and gave Gideon’s thigh a squeeze before he removed his hands from the danger zone. None too soon, because Ruth returned from setting the table, a blue-patterned china gravy boat in her hands.

“Will this do, Gideon? I have a larger one if you need it.”

“That’s perfect, angel. Thank you. Set it on the counter next to the stove, please.”

Gideon arranged a few curly kale leaves around the bird, sprinkled them with pomegranate seeds, and arranged clusters of whole cranberries in strategic thirds around the circumference of the platter. Presentation, damn it. I own it. On the web or on the table, he so knew his shit.

Ruth paused to admire Gideon’s magazine-perfect turkey. “That’s gorgeous. The bay leaves under the skin make a lovely pattern. It’s almost too pretty to eat.”

“Nonsense.” Gideon tweaked one kale leaf into a more pleasing angle. “Just because something is decorative, doesn’t mean it can’t also be functional. Or in this case,” he popped the child-proof latch on the cutlery drawer and pulled out the carving knife, “dinner.”

Ruth laughed and picked up the pot of potatoes from the stove.

“Here, Ruthie. Let me take that.” Gideon laid the knife next to the turkey platter and took the pot from her.

“You don’t need to coddle me, Gideon. I’m stronger than I look.”

“I know that, my darling, but when you have all these handsome men around to do your bidding, you need to take advantage of it and break out your princess attitude.”

“Right,” Alex said. “Gideon can’t be the only princess in the room.”

“I’ve abdicated.” He marched to the sink with his nose in the air and drained the water from the pot. “I’m only the Jack of Hearts today.”

“Jack-off hearts?” Alex murmured.

“Shut up.” Gideon elbowed Alex in his admirably firm abs. “Make yourself useful and let Tosh and your dad know we’ll be ready to eat soon. And see if she needs a potty break—the poor woman’s had six cups of cider. She’s probably awash.”

When Alex checked in with Ned and Toshiko, she was perfectly serene as usual, but Ned was shifting in his chair. Yep. Too much cider all around.

“Hey, big guy. Need to use the men’s room?”

Ned nodded and let Alex help him up. He grimaced and jerked his head in Toshiko’s direction. “Didn’t want to say anything,” he whispered.

“Gotcha. Come on, I’ll stand guard.” As Ned shuffled into the bathroom, Alex held back. “Need a break yourself, Tosh? I’ll hang here, and you can grab some appetizers.”

“No, thank you. I have no immediate needs.”

“Holler if you change your mind.” He walked down the hall and leaned on the wall outside the bathroom. A burst of laughter and the smell of singed marshmallows wafting through the air caught his attention.

Gideon peeked out of the kitchen and beckoned, wheezing with laughter. “Alex, you have got to see this.” He ducked back inside.

“I can’t—” Alex glanced from the bathroom door to the den, judging his window of opportunity. His dad never spent less than ten minutes in the bathroom. Maybe just for a couple of minutes.

He hurried through the dining room and checked out the scene in the kitchen.

His sister was standing in front of misshapen lumps of marshmallow, gumdrops, and graham crackers, a crème brûlée torch in her hand, giggling as she hadn’t since Ned’s diagnosis. “I think I made these better when I was eight.”

Gideon peered at them over the top of his glasses—red frames today, that matched his sweater. “Darling, what exactly are those supposed to be?”

“Turkeys. See, the gumdrops are their tails and the graham cracker is their roost.”

Gideon’s eyebrows popped up. “So what does the chocolate under their butts signify? Or don’t I want to know?”

She giggled harder. “Shut up. Alex, did their heads slide off sideways back then too?”

“Yeah. They always looked like they’d been at the cooking wine.” Alex picked one up, propping the marshmallow head in place with his fingers, and held it out for Gideon. “Here. Try.”

Gideon retreated, hands behind his back. “Oh, no. Not for me. It’s like a mutant albino zombie vulture in the final stages of decomposition.”

“Come on.” Alex crowded Gideon against the sink. “Open.” He ducked his head and rumbled in Gideon’s ear. “Do I have to ask you twice? Open. For me.”

Gideon held Alex’s gaze, opened his mouth, and engulfed the squishy head, swirling his tongue around Alex’s fingers. “Mmm. I may need seconds.”

“Anytime.”

“You two cut it out.” Lindsay smacked both of them on the shoulder. “Save that for later.”

“Where is she?” Ned’s voice, loud and harsh, froze everyone in place.

“Shit,” Alex muttered. He grabbed a napkin and tried to wipe the sticky marshmallow residue off his fingers.

“Where’s who, Daddy?” Although Lindsay spoke softly, as she always did, Ned flinched as if she’d sworn at him.

“Don’t call me that. Who are you? What have you done with my little girl?”

“Daddy—”

“I know she was here.” He pointed at the tray of pitiful marshmallow birds. “She always makes these for me. What have you done with her?”

Lindsay took a shuddering breath and stepped forward. Alex tried to catch her arm, pull her back, but Gideon was in the way. “I’m right here, Daddy. I made those just for you.”

“No. My little girl. She’s only eight. If you’ve hurt her . . .” Ned glanced around wildly, his gaze pinging from face to face with no recognition whatsoever. He stilled, focused on something on the sideboard.

“Oh no,” Gideon breathed. “Alex—”

Ned lunged, then straightened up with the carving knife in his hand. He waved it at Lindsay. “You give her back to me. Whatever you’ve done, wherever you put her, you give her back.”

“Daddy, please—” Lindsay’s voice broke on a muffled sob.

“Don’t call me that,” Ned roared. “Do you think I’m stupid? Give me back my girl.”