Page 5 of New Year

After the final entrée went out, the kitchen began to break down and clean. No one ordered dessert, which were simple preps anyway, so they were going to finish the night a bit early. Which they did. Chase was waiting at the kitchen door, and after the last of the staff left, Chase locked up.

Zack kept pace with Chase as they walked down the alley to the street. The restaurant had a small, private parking lot, but Chase refused to reserve himself a spot in it, even now, so they parked wherever possible. Chase wasn’t struggling for breath, was barely limping along with his cane, so Zack just watched. When they arrived at the car, he opened the passenger door for Chase, and then got into the driver’s side.

Chase didn’t drive anymore.

Home was a mid-century, single-story brick home in the kind of neighborhood Zack used to avoid after dark. But he’d also grown up in rich, gated communities, and he thought anything that didn’t have high security systems and a pool was poor. Chase’s life here had been comfortable, manageable. Kind. Everything Zack was trying to find for himself now.

They walked together to the small side porch facing the driveway, the June heat a thick blanket all around them, even at this time of night. Zack rearranged his keys so his door key was in his hand. Chase reached into his slacks pocket and produced his own front door key.

“Thanks for the ride,” Chase said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They unlocked their separate front doors, which stood opposite each other. Zack waited until Chase had gone inside the main house before going inside the in-law suite Chase had offered to him. The suite was basically a single-bedroom apartment with its own bathroom and galley kitchen, physically connected to the main house but with a private entrance via the side porch. Chase had rented it out when he first bought the house, as a secondary income source while he opened his restaurant, but it had been empty for about a year before Zack moved in.

Chase had told him to make it his home, to decorate however he wanted, add his own personality, but Zack wasn’t entirely sure who he was anymore. He’d been searching for himself ever since selling his tricked-out apartment in Wilmington, Delaware, giving up his life in the BDSM world, and divesting his interests in his old restaurants.

So far, his newest home was as unfinished as Zack himself: livable but colorless.

He passed through his simple living area to his bedroom so he could strip and take a shower. He couldn’t sleep with kitchen odors clinging to his skin. Or most odors, for that matter. For all he could work up a good sweat and enjoy all sorts of bodily fluids on his skin (and occasionally inside his body), he needed to clean up before he could rest. Mess and imperfection were not tolerated, not even if you were exhausted.

Stop, that’s your father’s voice. Shut it up.

He’d been telling himself to do that for twenty years, and it still hadn’t stuck. Alfred Matteson’s voice was imbedded in his head, dug in like a sliver of broken glass beneath his skin, a constant irritation he’d never been able to remove. He’d tried to extract that sliver his entire adult life, using every method he could think of, even going to extremes with his own body and the bodies of others, and nothing had worked.

Zack was forty-two-years-old, and he hadn’t seen his father in more than two decades, but he still couldn’t shake the man’s influence on his life.

Hot water sluiced over his skin. He grabbed his bar soap and went to work washing his body, starting with his face and working his way down. Methodically. Washed his hair last. Dried off and wrapped himself up in his summer robe, a red silk one he’d had for years. It wasn’t the first red silk robe he’d bought himself, but a red silk robe had been the first truly indulgent thing he’d purchased when he finally had a steady income. When his life was bigger than hot dogs, and rice and beans, and working himself to exhaustion. The robe had been a staple of his private wardrobe ever since.

Physically exhausted but mentally wide-awake, Zack fetched a bottle of sparkling water to sip while he settled in bed to read. He kept a small stack of library books on his side table, different genres to match his reading mood. Tonight, he continued reading the memoir of a young woman’s battle with chronic Lyme disease. He hadn’t given much thought to the disease until Chase filled him in on some gossip in the local restauranteur community, involving a renowned chef-owner whose son was dating a man with chronic Lyme, and the pair was trying to run a successful food truck.

Or something

Chase had told him about it while Zack was cooking them dinner one night, and when Zack was cooking, his attention was laser focused on what his hands were doing. He’d only half-listened to the story, but he’d filed away the name Neighborhood Shindig as something to investigate later.

Sleep avoided him for a long time, and when he did finally nod off, his alarm woke him far too soon to feel rested. Didn’t matter. He had a schedule to keep, and his preferred meeting began at eight o’clock. Skipping was not an option.

* * *

Friday night was always busy at both River Bistro locations, and River Bistro II’s reservation book was full. With Chef at the pass, Zack worked the floor, greeting guests, chatting with tables, answering questions, and being the face of the restaurant. The fast-pace of the weekends were too much for Chase now, and he’d had a spell that afternoon, so even if it had been a scheduled weeknight, Zack would have insisted Chase stay home and rest.

Shelton was on, working the Italian Veranda room, and Zack did his best to watch plates, but he couldn’t be in the kitchen as often. Sometimes, he wondered if he’d imagined that missing roll from the other night. But his gut insisted something was off, and he’d survived this long by trusting his instincts.

A little after nine, Zack took a brief break in the rear of the kitchen to drink a fountain Coke and eat a protein bar to get him through the night. He wasn’t spying, and he hadn’t chosen a quiet corner on purpose, but he had a good view of the kitchen door, so he saw Shelton slip outside with something tucked up in his left hand and nearly hidden by his apron.

Zack’s spine snapped straight. He put his Coke down on the nearest flat surface and followed. The security door stood open, just the screen door in place to keep out bugs and allow air flow. He slowly pushed the screen door forward so it didn’t squeal and poked his head outside. Down the alley, toward the designated smoking area, he spotted two figures standing close together in the shadows.

Shelton’s back was to him, his tall, bulky body hiding most of the other person. All he could see was the dark outline of what might be a sweatshirt (strange for the summer heat), and light jeans with a dark stain on the left shin. Curiosity and alarm clashed in Zack’s head. He didn’t like rushing to judgement, but Shelton was clearly meeting his person, in the dark, for some sort of trade. Shelton untucked the thing under his apron and his arm moved forward, giving whatever it was to this person.

Zack’s right hand jerked, reaching for his phone so he could record whatever this was. He jostled the door, which squeaked loud enough to startle both people. The stranger, face hidden by a dark hoodie, seemed to look right at Zack before turning and running to the end of the alley. Temper tweaking, Zack stepped fully into the alley and crossed his arms.

Shelton walked toward him, hands in his apron pockets, expression reserved. “Something you need, boss?” Perfectly casual, as if he’d been standing there alone, smoking.

“What did you give him?” Zack asked.

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb, Shelton. It won’t save your job if you’ve been stealing from Chase.”

---