Page 3 of New Year

A feather of resistance and anger tried to float up inside Nat, but he was just too fucking tired. “I’m sorry I got the wrong cookies,” he said. “I won’t do it again.”

“Good.” Austin tossed the bag onto Nat’s lap and reached for the shifter. “Time to get going. We don’t want to be late.”

“No.”

Nat had been in the middle of contemplating his choice to buy the single packs of vanilla and chocolate cookies when Angelo approached him. Grabbing one of each, instead of admitting defeat that the duplex wasn’t in stock, had been Nat’s fault. He’d let himself be distracted by a kind voice he regretted ever letting go.

Austin sped away from the gas pump. Someone honked close by, and Nat instinctively braced for impact, but Austin swerved away from whoever he’d cut off. Nat tried to settle down and relax for the hour-long drive west, to mentally prepare himself to perform once they arrived. But Austin was constantly asking to be handed his snacks, open and ready, or for Nat to hand him his fancy insulated tumbler of fancy, hydrogen-infused water from his fancy, super-expensive filter.

Austin had tried to explain the fancy water thing to him once, as it had been sold to him, but Nat didn’t get it. He didn’t taste a difference from the bottled water he drank at work. Water was water. It already had hydrogen in it.

In between snack duty, Nat gazed out the window at the bland scenery, wishing like hell he could put his ear buds in and plug into his music. Music always helped take him away from the worst moments in his life, to disassociate from the worst of the pain and abuse. Yes, he always had the music in his heart and his head, but hearing it in his ears was more grounding. More immediate.

More real.

But Austin wanted Nat’s attention on him and on what they’d be doing once they arrived, not distracted by his phone, so Nat didn’t even try. The cookies had hurt enough; he was too tired and sore to risk an actual slap. So, he stared, tried to hear the music in his head, and existed as calmly as possible until Austin took an exit off the highway.

“Plug it in,” Austin said.

Nat snapped to attention and put the address into the GPS. The mechanical voice blared to life with the first direction to their destination in this somewhat small town.

Small towns hide the worst secrets.

Eventually, Austin pulled into the driveway of a two-story, white house with blue trim. Not so different from a dozen others they’d passed on this same street. Austin told him to bring the insulated cup, and they both walked up the path to the front door. Nat’s insides began trembling with nerves when Austin rang the doorbell.

The front door swung open, releasing a cloud of warm, vanilla-scented air scented that did nothing to settle Nat’s stomach. The man in front of him looked like a linebacker for the Tar Heels, all muscles and very little neck, and he was dressed in only a bathrobe.

“Right on time,” the behemoth said. “I respect that.” His roving leer passed over Austin and landed briefly on Nat. “Heard you had a week, kid. You up for this?”

No, I am not up for this, I don’t want to do this ever again.

Nat summoned from the reservoirs of his courage, straightened his spine, and replied, “I’m up for anything you think you can give me,” in his best sassy voice. The voice Austin liked him to play up for the camera.

Behemoth studied him silently for a long moment, as if testing the truth of that lie, and Nat refused to blink. If this guy changed his mind and turned them away, Austin would take his fury out on Nat the minute they got home.

Thankfully, Behemoth blinked first then nodded. “Come on inside. We go live in less than ten minutes.”

Fuck my fucking life.

CHAPTERONE

Zack Matteson never wanted to accuse an employee of theft without solid proof. False allegations could haunt someone for years, if not the rest of their lives. But the results of ignoring something, of not being vigilant, could result in the same. So, he paid attention to Shelton, his server handling the French Garden room, from his spot at the pass. He couldn’t be certain, but all the food brought back from the dining room didn’t seem to be making it into the trash can.

A new ticket slid across the pass, and Zack picked it up. Their last table. “Order in, table eleven, three-top. Apps, two spanakopita and one bacon scallops.”

His cooks repeated the order, never stopping their somewhat awkward dance around the slightly re-organized kitchen.

Tonight’s dinner service at River Bistro II was winding down. Their last reservation had been seated at nine-thirty, and they closed doors to guests at ten. The restaurant only had nineteen tables, and on a Wednesday night in June, they hadn’t been completely booked. That didn’t worry Zack at all. He had two new servers and three new line cooks on tonight, all of them less than a week at the Bistro, training to Zack’s more exacting standards of service.

Zack hadn’t opened and sold nine restaurants because he was a slouch on standards.

And he hadn’t taken over as general manager of both River Bistro locations because the previous manager was incompetent or failing at his duties. He’d done it as a favor to a very dear friend who’d asked in his time of need. Accepting the job offer and moving across three states to Reynolds, North Carolina, hadn’t even been a question.

He checked the time on his next expected entrée order. “Table four’s steak frites, time?”

“One minute, chef!” the lead cook replied.

It still tickled him when others called him “chef.” Zack wasn’t formally trained, and the restaurant’s actual head chef was off tonight, so Zack had taken over expediting. Which worked out fine, because Chase had been feeling up to handling front of house tonight, chatting with guests and being his usual, charming self.

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