Either customers were getting stupider as the years wore on, or Zane was losing what little patience he had. With the sheer amount of menu modifications Jessica kept reporting, these idiotic diners should have stayed home and cooked their own damn meals. The temptation to serve them a bowl full of water rose to the forefront, but he quashed the urge down.

“Order up,” he called, sliding to the counter the mush that once constituted a meal before the five thousand substitutions. Last table of the day.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, and he mopped the slick sheen with his ratty-ass undershirt, though it did little to help. He packed away open containers, cleaning up his station with the rehearsed quickness of years of practice. The scents of butter and steak roasting, of freshly-warmed rolls, and asiago cheese permeated the air and his skin at this point. His heart beat with the steady tap-tap-tap of the constant rush in the kitchens, the exact type of distraction he needed. His Friday night shift kicked off the weekend rush, and Sunday couldn’t come soon enough.

The undercurrent prickling through him at all times, the tug he couldn’t completely banish on the best of days, had made an ugly resurgence as of late. The weight in his pocket sometimes became the one thing that kept him from slipping behind the bar here and drinking straight from the bottle.

Paolo, the dishwasher, kept the back door opened a crack, the faint scent of cigarette smoke trickling in with the fresh air. That would have to do for now. Cigarette and a shower, and he’d be feeling shipshape.

Zane tugged the pack of Marlboros from his pocket, turning for the door. Even with his shoulder length hair pulled back, tendrils stuck to his temples, and he grimaced at the feel of the grease clinging to his beard. One hell of a long shower.

A manicured hand rested on his arm.

“Z, why don’t you come back to my place for a drink?” Chloe asked, a smoky glow in her chocolate eyes, her pink lips pursed with sensual promise. Even the husky way she asked left little to the imagination. The girl had started working at La Rouge a couple months ago and eyed him like a choice cut of prime rib every chance she got. Not that she wasn’t a looker — most of the guys in the back, or hell, even the ones lining the barstools as she doled them drinks — would give their left nut to take her for a test drive.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He flashed his teeth with a smile, pulling a cigarette from his pack as he made his way to the back door. “I don’t shit where I eat—personal practice of mine. I’m not good company anyway.”

The brisk air coated his skin the second he stepped outside, and his shirt glued to his chest. The thump-thump-thump scratched at his veins, an insistence he needed to sate, however necessary. He couldn’t help but eye the way Chloe pouted behind him, charming enough to not throw a tantrum over the rejection.

“Keep telling yourself that, Zane Parata,” she called to him. “Can’t keep rejecting everyone forever. Some day someone’s going to pierce through your rough and tough shell.”

Paolo snorted as Zane passed him, tapping the end of his cigarette to ash onto the asphalt. The guy kept his dishtowel slung over his shoulder. “Yeah, Cuddles,” he called over.

Zane withheld his smirk. Smartass. Instead he lifted his middle finger in response. “Both of you can shove it. I’m comfortable in my Fortress of Solitude.” What both of them didn’t know was that ship had sailed for good. Zane was closed for business in the relationship department, and he didn’t bother trying to re-open.

Before his co-workers could continue to comment, Zane cut down the brick-lined alley and headed in the direction of his apartment. His Zippo snapped with flame, and he lit his cigarette. Nicotine flooded his veins at the first, blissful drag, and the calm circulating through him became a drug all on its own. Folks avoided him on the sidewalk, even the bigger guys taking a step or two away and almost stumbling into the street. The six foot three shadow he cast might have a little to do with it, but the amount of time he spent at the gym didn’t hurt either. Yet another way to burn the cravings that rode him even on the good days.

As small as the blue chip in his pocket was, he could feel the weight slap against his thigh with every stride, the constant reminder of how far he’d come and the effort he exercised to get there.

He ran a hand through his tied-back hair, the sweaty strands gluing together as he heaved a sigh. On a different night, with a different girl, maybe they could’ve tangoed until they were sore, but not a coworker. He didn’t leave any chance for anything but no-strings-attached—not like they’d stay on their own accord after hearing the whole story. The ex-con label tended to scare them away first, and if that didn’t, the rest would for sure.

Ash tumbled from the end of his cigarette as he ripped through it faster and faster with each step closer to his place. Slice of Heaven had turned off their neons at this point, but he’d know the chintzy sign and the brick building with those extra-wide windows from anywhere on Bardstown. The fact that the couple who owned this pizza joint rented to him was a near miracle, but Mr. and Mrs. Papadopolis were some of the sweetest human beings on the planet, and happened to be friends with his sponsor.

Zane swung by the mail slot on the side of the building and flipped open the copper flap. Inside lay a couple old bills and a bright red envelope, the sort that puked Valentine’s Day all over the page. He ripped the letter open and scanned the contents, the dirt and grease on his fingertips marring the creamy invitation. This was the most roundabout proposition he’d gotten, but he had to admit, it piqued his curiosity. And he needed a distraction real bad as of late.

His heartbeat picked up a couple paces as he gripped the invitation tight in one hand, making his way up the creaky aluminum steps to his upstairs apartment.

Tomorrow promised to be interesting.