Chapter Two

 

 

The place I lived had been advertised as a ‘single’ apartment, but however you spin it, it’s a fucking room. On the fourth floor of an old brick building in Jamaica Plain, I had one window overlooking a busy street, a sad kitchenette that looked like it belonged in a popup camper, and barely enough space for my bed and a small sofa. There was a group bathroom down the hall, but I’d opted to pay extra for a unit with my own shower and toilet, because no matter how poor I am, I refuse to take a dump with other people around.

The only saving grace was a set of slanted skylights, a worthy tradeoff for having to trudge up three flights of stairs. There was a claustrophobic elevator in the building the size of a broom closet, but after taking it once I determined to never do so again. It was rickety, made unsettling groaning noises, and smelled like cabbage and beer farts.

I set my free weights under the skylights and did my morning strength training, small window open because though it was barely summer, we were already experiencing a heat wave. There was no air conditioning, but the super told me I wouldn’t be charged extra if I wanted to get my own, like he was doing me a big solid. Morning sounds drifted in from the street below, the city coming alive with cars and voices and barking dogs.

Sweat poured from my skin as I worked through my routine. My life may have fallen to shambles recently, but I refused to neglect my health—it was the one thing I could still control. After this I’d head out and jog down to Jamaica Pond to run a few laps. I’d taken to doing so early in the morning even when I didn’t have to bartend nights, a habit formed when I’d been trying to avoid literally running into Corey after we broke up. Corey was an evening runner, and he didn’t live far from the pond. At least last I knew. He could have moved in with Angelo by now.

The few friends I still talked with—the ones who hadn’t started avoiding me when my obsession with Corey made me an embarrassment—kept reminding me I could always leave Boston and live somewhere less expensive. But I couldn’t even think about leaving Boston without sinking into a depression. Maybe in the past I would have. But since moving to the Jamaica Plain area several years ago, I’d felt like I was home, like I belonged for the first time in my life. Now I was like one of those homing pigeons or something, got anxiety when I was away for too long. Last year, before falling out with my mom, she’d taken me to Florida during my spring break from school. It was enjoyable, but by the end of the week I was done with palm trees. I wanted my traffic and bagel shops and crowded sidewalks back, and didn’t fully relax until the airplane tilted toward Logan and I saw the curve of the harbor below through the window.

Finishing my weight work, I headed out for my run. As I jogged along the water’s edge, I calculated how much money I could save each week if I kept working at Mythic, subtracting rent and bills and food and having any semblance of a social life. The equation kept telling me a social life was out of the question, which I was kind of okay with. My right hand had become my only lover while I was trying to focus on school, and the hand and I were still monogamous.

I told myself I was saving up so I could go back to school, but the truth was I was merely going through the motions now. My intent had been to get a business degree, but I’d chosen the major simply because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I figured business was generic enough that it would give me some wiggle room while I decided. I knew I should have goals and dreams at this point in my life, but found myself woefully devoid of passion. Nothing seemed to make me happy anymore.

But I was trying. Trying to stop moping around about my bad luck. It was just money. I could make more. Sure, my mother had disappointed me, hurt my feelings, and pulled the rug out from under me. But I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was still a couple years from thirty, but I could see it glimmering in the distance like a nasty, taunting goal post. I was supposed to be doing something with my life by now. I was supposed to care about something. I hoped if I went through the motions, the answers to these questions would magically appear at some point. Fake it ‘til you make it and all that.

After finishing my laps, I used one of the park benches edging the pond to stretch my legs, barely noticing the guy who sat at the next one down, lacing up his running shoes. But once I’d finished stretching out, I gave a cursory glance, because he had nice legs and was wearing shorts. I got caught looking as he glanced my way, brunette, big dark brown eyes, nice build. Shit. It was Doug Crandall—one of Corey’s best friends. A man who’d patted my back while I sobbed uncontrollably on his front porch the night Corey and I split for good.

I tried to duck away, but no such luck.

“Hey, Zach!”

Why? Why were Corey and his friends and relatives haunting me suddenly?

Wincing, I turned back around. “Hey, Doug.”

“This is so weird,” he said, approaching with a smile. “We were just talking about you last night.”

“Let me guess. Corey mentioned he saw me.”

Doug’s smile wilted, probably because of my tone. “Well…yeah. Stewart and I had a late dinner with them for Angelo’s birthday. He said they saw you at happy hour. You’re working at Mythic?”

“I am.”

Doug’s grin reappeared. “And you didn’t know Corey’s uncle owned it.”

“I see you lot still like to gossip.”

“Come on. It’s kind of funny, Zach.”

In spite of myself, I laughed. “I guess it is.”

“Are you gonna quit?”

Quit? The thought hadn’t occurred to me. Should I quit? Did Corey think I should quit? “What do you mean? Just because the owner’s related to Corey?”

“Did I say the wrong thing?” Doug winced. “It’s just I haven’t seen you in so long I figured you’ve been going out of your way to avoid Corey. Figured you wouldn’t want any connection to him.”

“Why? Does Corey go to Mythic a lot? I’ve been there three weeks and that was the first time I’d seen him. Or his uncle. Doesn’t strike me as his scene.”

“No, he only went because he was with Duncan. He doesn’t hang out there.”

“So…did Corey say I should quit?”

“No!” Doug’s eyes widened. “Shit, I’m getting myself in trouble here, aren’t I?”

“Don’t look so scared, Doug. I no longer worship at the altar of Corey’s penis and I don’t fly off the handle like I used to.”

“Corey didn’t say you should quit. He said he thought you probably would quit because you treated him like a communicable disease when he sat down at the bar. And Duncan is his uncle, so diseased by association.”

I tried not to smile, but did anyway, shaking my head. “His presence took me by surprise, what can I say?”

Chuckling, Doug nodded. “If it’s any consolation, he was just as surprised to see you. He and Angelo both mentioned you look good though. You do. Been working out?”

“Yes.” I rolled my eyes. “Guess that’s the big news, huh? That I’ve aged out of my boyish charm.”

“Zach, it was a ten-minute conversation, we didn’t sit around gossiping about you all night. You seeing anyone?”

“Why, so you can report back to Corey?”

“No, asshole. I was going to ask if you wanted to come by and have dinner sometime. And bring a guest if you wanted.”

“Gimme a break. Stewart hates me.”

Stewart was Doug’s boyfriend. He’d also been Corey’s boyfriend when I started dating him. They were in an open relationship at the time—and Stewart had begun seeing Doug on the side already—but I suspected Stewart viewed my liaison with Corey as cheating, open relationship or not. Stewart and I had many verbal, sometimes edging on physical brawls back then, usually when too much alcohol was involved. Corey and I started getting ‘serious’ before he and Stewart split, and that broke one of their open relationship rules. They were allowed to have sex outside the relationship, but not to date someone else.

“Stewart doesn’t hate you. You’re not the only one who’s moved past things. Stewart has too.” Doug smiled. “He’s got a whole list of new people to hate now, and you’re not on it.”

I liked Doug, he was an okay guy and had always been nice to me, but our pasts were too overlapping, separated by only two degrees of ex-boyfriend cock. And that aside, I’d once shoved Doug into a parked car while in a rage over Corey, and injured him pretty badly. Doug, it seemed, was more forgiving than most people.

“That’s nice of you,” I said. “But I think it’d be too awkward.”

“Okay. Well, invitation stands. I gotta get my run in now. Nice to see you, Zach.”

“Yeah, you too.”

I watched Doug jog off down the path, a twinge of envy sinking my mood. For a second I’d actually considered accepting his invitation, but it was no doubt an act of pity on his part, and I had my pride. I missed being part of that group. Before things went south, there was always fun and laughter. That Doug and Corey and Stewart could all move past their shit and play happy couples with Angelo now irritated me. Because I could never be part of that. I was Zach—the bad guy. My past actions had created trouble for all of them. All this ‘water under the bridge’ talk was nice in theory, but my memory of being a pariah in that group of friends was still fresh.

I stopped at the farmer’s market on the way home and picked up some groceries. Showered, ate lunch, read for a while, then tried to take a nap. It was Saturday, and I was on the schedule at Mythic later, so I wanted to be fresh and frisky and make lots of tips. But the nap idea didn’t pan out, my brain working overtime regurgitating my interaction with Corey last night. I’d probably have had better luck putting it out of my mind had I not run into Doug at the pond.

Two years spent purging Corey Stengel from my system. Two years nursing my wounded dignity and working on my self-confidence. Now suddenly it was all being thrown in my face again. Doug’s question about me possibly quitting Mythic edged into my thoughts. But it wasn’t one of Corey’s hangouts, him being there was an anomaly because he’d been out with his uncle. I’d likely not have to see him again. Shit, I’d worked there three weeks and hadn’t even known who owned the place, and based on Barry’s nerves the night Duncan was there, he didn’t show up often either.

Besides, quitting would make me look like a flouncy baby who actually gave a shit. I refused to let it affect me. And going back to Immunity? Working in that dance club setting where every other guy I served a drink tried to get in my pants? No. That’s how I’d gotten into trouble in the first place. I determined to tolerate the makeup and fairy wings for as long as I was able. It was about making money, and the fact that a Stengel owned the place didn’t have to matter if I didn’t let it.

At least that’s what I told myself until I went into work later that evening. It was still pretty early, so while fairy lights twinkled in trees and fountains streamed and dragonflies flitted around serving drinks, the club was far from full yet, so I easily spotted Duncan Stengel seated at a cocktail table with Barry as I headed for the back room. The sight of Duncan took me by surprise, even startled me, and the backpack I’d brought slipped off my shoulder and thumped on the floor as I passed by his table.

Duncan and Barry had been hunched over discussing something, but they both looked up at the sound of my grand entrance. Barry was in his motorcycle boots and a black tee with an American Flag on the front. Corey’s uncle looked just as handsome even though he wasn’t wearing a suit this night. In dark jeans and a gauzy white shirt that reminded me of something Corey would wear, light brown hair a bit less neatly styled, Duncan stared at me with those pretty eyes of his, though his amused smirk of last night was missing. His brows were raised in surprise, probably because of the loud bang my pack made hitting the floor.

Despite the more casual presentation, I again thought Duncan exuded elegance. Something about his posture, the way he moved—a sharp contrast to my clumsy entrance and current fumbling as I scooped my pack up off the floor.

“Hi, Zach,” Barry said.

Mumbling a greeting, I speed-walked to the back of the bar, feeling eyes on me as I fled.

In the back room, several of the wait staff were getting suited up in their costumes. I opened my locker and went about changing out of my street clothes. After squeezing into my leafy leotard suit, I sat on a bench and drank a bottled water while I waited for Richelle to finish painting glittery scales onto the face and chest of a young woman. Reptilian wings sat on the floor beside the dragon lady, as yet unattached. I saw my brown and gold wings behind them, and the twigs for my crown next to the makeup box.

Wings of all variety seemed a constant in most of the costumes, even though I was pretty sure wood nymphs didn’t need to have them. I pondered asking if I could go wingless for the evening, but decided I shouldn’t brand myself the token complainer, especially after calling Mythic a dump in front of Duncan. Suck it up. The money’s good.

“You’re next, Zach,” Richelle said as she dusted the dragon lady’s arms with green glitter. “Don’t go far.”

“I’m panting with excitement, Richelle,” I said.

That got me a smirk and cocked eyebrow from Richelle, but I felt safe sassing her a bit. When someone’s been spreading paint all over your naked skin for three weeks, a bond is forged. She had a good sense of humor, crazy green pixie hair, and vine tattoos on her arms. When we first met I’d thought the vines were painted-on so she’d blend in with the scenery, but they remained constant so I guessed they were permanent. I wondered where Duncan had found her. Or Barry. Or anyone. I wondered what Corey’s uncle’s story was, and why he’d opened this ridiculous club in Boston when he was from Long Island.

“Hello, Zachary.”

Speak of the devil. Duncan had entered the back room, and was looking down at me. “Hey, Duncan.”

“Can I borrow you for a moment?”

Richelle glanced over, frowning. I wondered if I was going to get fired after all. I got up from the bench. “Sure.”

“Follow me, please.”

I trailed Duncan out of the back room and into the club. He led me to the cocktail table he’d been sitting at when I arrived, but Barry was no longer there. Duncan sat and neatened the papers on the table, then glanced up at me. “Have a seat.”

Taking the chair across from him, I eyed him expectantly. “What’s up?”

He gave me that amused look again, and I wasn’t sure if it was his normal expression or if something about me brought it out. Corey had a similar look when he was about to verbally eviscerate someone, and maybe that was why Duncan made me nervous. He wasn’t blond, he was older than Corey, and the resemblance was only minimal. But something about him gave me that same nervous tickle in my gut. “So,” he said. “This is what your face looks like without makeup.”

“This is it,” I said. “Not nearly as pretty.”

He cocked an eyebrow and looked me over, like he might argue, but said only, “I thought we should be properly introduced, first of all. I understand you didn’t expect to be accosted by your past when we came in after the opera.”

“I’m sure Corey gave you just a great opinion of me,” I said, already defensive.

“My nephew had nothing but nice things to say about you.”

“Oh.”

“Why would you think he’d speak ill of you?”

I shrugged. “We dated.”

Duncan chuckled and sipped a club soda. “Of course. But my understanding is my nephew has dated a lot of men. He’s congenial enough with Stewart. Is that not the case with you?”

“Come on,” I said. “He didn’t tell you I’m the devil?”

“He did not. Is that what you are, Zachary?”

“I’d prefer if you’d call me Zach. And I guess it doesn’t matter what Corey thinks. I’m a good bartender. Why, you have a problem with me already?”

Duncan stared at me, looking puzzled. I probably shouldn’t be snippy with the owner, but that thing about him that reminded me of Corey activated something weird and defensive inside.

“I don’t care who you did or didn’t date, Zach, including my nephew. I wanted to ask you about your idea.”

“My idea?”

“Barry said you think we should include some vegetarian items on the menu.”

“He…he did?”

“Yes. This comes on the heels of Jamil telling me customers often ask for lower calorie versions of our cocktails, so it’s gotten me thinking about making some changes to the menu among other things.”

“Barry blew me off when I brought that up. I got the impression he thought it was a dumb idea.”

“He does.” Duncan smiled. “When you passed by us, I asked what he thought of you, and he went on about you being a twig-eater. You’re a vegetarian?”

“Yeah. Mostly vegan for about a year now.”

“Do you cook?”

“Sure, all the time, for myself and friends. But I’m not a chef or anything. Never worked in a kitchen. Booze is my forte.”

“But you do have ideas, Barry said. For vegetarian tapas?”

“Sure. I’ve got a lot of ideas. I tried to tell Barry some of them but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Would you be willing to give me a presentation sometime?”

“Oh. Like…cook for you?”

Duncan nodded.

“Ah…I’m pretty sure the staff in the kitchen doesn’t like me. I took the chef’s parking spot on my first night and he screamed at me like I’d pissed in his soup.”

Laughing, Duncan said, “Emerson is an acquired taste, pun intended, and he really likes his parking space. I wouldn’t risk using the kitchen here. I was thinking outside of work hours. But I’d still pay you for your time, of course.”

“Oh.” Panic, and a touch of shame rose up as I thought about my crappy little apartment. I made do with the lame kitchenette, but there was no way I could do what Duncan was asking at my place. I didn’t even have a table, usually ate on the sofa.

“This idea doesn’t appeal to you?”

“No, it does, it’s just…my place is…small.”

“I wouldn’t put you out like that. You can come to my place. Give me a list of the ingredients you’ll need and I’ll purchase them for you.”

“I um…” Something tingled inside, a flutter of warning. It was unlikely my new boss was hitting on me. Just because Corey was gay didn’t mean his uncle was.

“That a problem?”

“No, it’s just, that would kind of ruin it, right?”

Duncan shook his head. “Ruin what?”

“Well, half the fun cooking for someone is letting them guess the ingredients. If you already know what I’m putting in the food, it ruins the objectivity.”

Duncan leaned back in his seat, reaching into his jeans pocket. My gaze traveled over his strong neck and bit of sparse chest hair showing above his shirt. My eyes snapped back to his face when he offered me a credit card. “Use this, then. Buy what you need. Then you can come to my place and show me what you’ve got.”

My fingers paused before taking the credit card, trepidation rising again. I’d seen this movie before. Older, successful guy handing money to the dumb pretty-boy, feigning interest like I was someone special. I wasn’t special. Years of conditioning and poor treatment had convinced me that everyone saw me as just a hot piece of ass. That was my value, aside from being able to mix a mean drink. I was trying to stop believing that was all people saw in me, trying to be more open and trusting, but it was some tough conditioning to shake.

I had no right to judge Duncan based on my past experiences. I didn’t know him. But I’d been working in bars since I was twenty-one, and I’d been lured in before with smiles and promises, only to find out what they really wanted was a whore. I had nothing against sex workers, even knew a few. But I wasn’t one, and the occasions where I’d been treated as such, the intent had been to diminish me. To make me feel like my body was my only worth. I’d managed to make it this far in life, even a life working in seedy bars and pickup joints, without becoming anyone’s whore. There was no way in hell I was going to start now, not when I’d spent the last two years trying to rebuild my shattered sense of self.

“Zachary.”

“Zach. Please.”

“Zach. Why are you looking at me that way?”

“What way?”

“Like you think I’m trying to fuck you.”

Heat rushed up my neck, flooding my cheeks. “I wasn’t thinking that.”

“No?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Just the same, I assure you. I’m not trying to screw you, literally or figuratively. I simply like the idea of vegetarian tapas at Mythic, and Emerson wants nothing to do with it. It’s actually given me an idea for what to do with the outdoor patio area I’m planning to make presentable soon. If you think you can cook well enough, I’d like to try some of your ideas. Food, Zach. Not sex.”

I accepted the credit card. “I’m sorry.” I winced. “I’ve had a lot of people…”

“Try to use you?”

Sighing, I nodded. “Yeah. In other jobs I’ve had. Again, I’m sorry. Just an inherent caution, learned behavior.”

“I’m not surprised. You’re extraordinarily attractive. But I’m not trying to get in your pants. If you’re not comfortable, though, I’ll find someone else to help me out with this. I don’t know much about vegetarian cooking, but I’d like to learn.” He grinned. “You’d have to give me back my credit card if you refuse, of course.”

Reassured, I held up his card. “I’ll keep it.”

“Good. Barry has your number. I’ll be in touch. You can go finish getting ready.”

“Thanks.” I stood.

“My pleasure.”

“Oh, ah, how much can I spend?”

“As much as you need to give me a variety of choices.”

I nodded. “Okay. I’ll start thinking about what to make. See you later.”

“Have a good night, Zach.”

I left the table and headed toward the back room. I wanted to do this, I realized. Since going veg, I’d gotten very inventive with my cooking, and it gave me a charge, coming up with new ideas and recipes. Last month I’d spent the weekend with Sarah and Yvonne, who Corey used to refer to as my ‘hippie lesbian friends’ because they were both strict vegans, and I’d made them a bunch of appetizers that they went nuts for.

The idea of showing off for Duncan was appealing, and my mind was already making calculations and spinning over what I might put together. Suddenly I found myself challenged, wanting to impress Duncan. Maybe because in the space of one quick conversation, he’d made me realize maybe I did have a few passions left in my depressed zombie brain. I liked making interesting food. It was a tiny, insignificant thing, but maybe it meant I wasn’t completely dead inside.

I also liked the way Duncan called me out on my ‘I hope you’re not a creeper’ moment back there at the table. Not only that he sensed my discomfort, but that he was so straightforward and professional about it. It was entirely possible that Corey’s uncle was an okay guy. I even liked the way he’d called me extraordinarily attractive. Usually comments about my looks made me uncomfortable when coming from a stranger. But Duncan had treated it like just a small detail. He hadn’t pretended not to notice, but his comment sounded far more respectful than what I was used to hearing. That I was cute or hot or sexy, or other less savory things not to be repeated in polite company.

By the time Richelle finished painting me up and I started my shift behind the bar, Duncan was gone. As I served drinks in my ridiculous crown of twigs, I found myself humming along with the music piping through the sound system, and realized I was experiencing my first good mood in a very, very long time.