Page 17 of New Year

“Ha ha, and no, he’s in his twenties.” Zack picked up his mug and took it with him to sit beside Chase. The stools here were too unstable for Chase now. He gave his friend a condensed version of meeting Nat and their arrangement, glossing over most of the personal things Nat had told Zack.

Chase groaned and flopped back onto the bed in a familiar, dramatic way. “You’re not going to try and make up for Brett, are you? By saving this kid and hoping he turns out differently?”

Zack glanced at his bedroom door, but Nat was nowhere in sight. Hopefully, he was being respectful of his host and not eavesdropping. Two months ago, when Chase got back in touch with Zack after a decade of silence, Zack hadn’t told Chase why he was on the road, traveling from city to city, why he was seekingsomething.It had taken three weeks of living here for Zack to finally admit to his greatest failures and shames, and the incident that had fueled his flight from Wilmington.

“Nathaniel is nothing like the guy Brett was when we first met,” Zack replied softly. “Brett was angry, eager to prove himself and to please me. Nat is just…broken.” The only thing Nat and young Brett had in common was being homeless, desperate, and young. “Nat doesn’t have the cruelty in him that I should have seen in Brett, but I was just…”

“Infatuated with a new sub?”

“Yes, and I’m out of that lifestyle. I don’t want or need another sub ever again. But damn it, Chase, I think I can help Nat, I really do.”

“So, if it’s not about sex or submission, what’s it about? Pride? Your ego?”

“A little, I guess.” This was one of the things he’d both loved and hated about Chase: his ability to read Zack, as if Zack’s entire life had subtitles that only Chase could see. It gave him an advantage, and it had also helped tear them apart. Maybe Zack could help steer Nat toward a better life. “I know this is your place, and I should have asked first. If you don’t want him to stay, I’ll work something else out for him.”

Chase held up a hand, which Zack grasped and pulled, helping Chase sit back up. Chase kept hold of that hand and squeezed. “If you tell me you trust him, then he can stay. Just be careful.”

“I do, and thank you.”

“He’s cute. Think he’d grant a dying man one last wish?”

Zack grunted. “Fuck off, and please, don’t make him uncomfortable.”

“I’m joking. I haven’t gotten it up in weeks, not even for my favorite porn.” Chase tapped his cane on the floor. “So, any ideas on a job for him? Other than his night job, of course?”

“I’m not sure yet. I know he’d prefer something under the table, so he doesn’t have to give his social security number or get a W-2. But I don’t want to risk the Bistro getting in trouble if someone finds out we’re having him bus tables for cash.”

“I appreciate that, thank you. If you wish to run my restaurants into the ground after I’m dead, feel free.”

He pinched Chase hard on the thigh. “Will you stop saying shit like that, please? It’s too early in the morning to deal with your morbid musings.”

“Morbid musings. I should write a book of poetry and name it that.”

“What the fuck do you know about writing poetry?”

“Not a damned thing, but it’s never too late to learn until you’re dead.”

Zack had walked right into that one. “You’re impossible. If you come up with any good job ideas, run them by me. Mostly, he’s limited by transportation, I think. Seems bright enough to learn most things that can be taught on the job.”

“Duly noted.”

“And speaking of jobs,” Zack said as he stood to refill his coffee, “did you look at the applications for daytime assistance yet?”

Chase blew an epic raspberry at him. “No. I hate you for even suggesting it.”

“As if your doctor hasn’t been suggesting it since your fall back in April. You know, when you called me to help with the restaurants?”

“And I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

Same stubborn old Chase Sampson, independent to the core, putting off doctor visits, duct taping bad cuts, ignoring fresh burns until a new one covered the old. Chase said working through the pain was part of being a great chef. Zack thought he was a masochist of the non-BDSM sort.

Maybe if Chase had taken his worsening symptoms seriously years ago, instead of brushing them off and explaining them away, he could have gotten on medication sooner. Slowed down the progression of his disease. Instead, he’d played fast and loose, until he’d fallen down an escalator eighteen months ago and broken his left arm. He’d finally allowed tests. And he’d gotten a diagnosis. He’d worked and adapted until he’d needed help.

Zack was forever grateful Chase had trusted him enough to be the person Chase asked for help. He knew it hadn’t been easy for Chase. He also hated Chase a little bit, deep down, for making Zack a witness to the final phases of Chase’s life. It would have been easier to get that eventual phone call informing him of Chase’s death, likely from Chase’s mother, who lived in Oregon and worried from afar.

But this had also given Zack a precious gift: the chance to fix things with the first love of his life, and to give them both closure.

“Yes, you’ve got me, you jackass,” Zack said gently. “But to run your restaurants and be close by at night. You can’t manage full shifts anymore, which means you’re going to start needing someone available during the day to help you. I can’t be that person.”

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