In the garage, he found a stack of debt collection letters and a bowl of rigatoni ready for him to chuck in the microwave. It was about as close to an apology as his mother ever got, but he couldn’t stomach it. He tossed it in the bin with the letters, bowl and all, and went to bed.
The next morning, Dylan was waiting for him on the street with the morning papers.
“Wow. Okay. Maybe you are a stalker after all.” Angelo unlocked the deli and waved Dylan inside. “Did you want something? Or are you just checking I haven’t topped myself?”
“Why would I think you’d do that?”
Angelo shrugged and started pulling stools from the tables. “You’ve got that look that social workers give you when your school tells them you’re depressed, and I haven’t exactly shown you my happy side.”
“Do you have one?”
“I did once.”
Dylan lifted a stool from the table. “Where did it go?”
“Dunno. But I do want to know why you’re here.” He gestured at Dylan’s metal tee and jeans combo. “You’re clearly not working, so why are you even awake?”
“I like early mornings.”
“Freak.”
“Yup. But you already knew that.”
It was true, but what little Angelo knew about Dylan had nothing to do with daylight. “Seriously. Why are you here?”
Dylan took the last stool from the last table. “I don’t know, to be honest. You looked like shit yesterday—”
“Thanks.”
“—so I was worried that Saturday wasn’t as good for you as it was for me. And then I realised how fucking self-absorbed that was and figured there might be something actually wrong . . . you know, something real.”
This rambling version of Dylan was nothing like the poised professional Angelo had met in the debt interview, and he was glad of it. The brief, random moments he’d spent with him outside of the club were like another world, and the bullshit that had brought them together seemed a lifetime away. Angelo smiled and drifted to the kitchen, trusting that Dylan would follow.
He couldn’t describe how he felt when Dylan trailed him and hopped up on the counter, lounging there like he’d done it a thousand times over. Christ, I could fuck him right now. And the sensation briefly won the battle raging in his treacherous body.
But Dylan’s fast sobering expression ruined it all. “So . . . ,” he pressed. “Are you okay? We’re not supposed to discuss your financial stuff anymore, but I can listen if you want to talk?”
Angelo scowled. Despite Dylan’s assurances that he could get his personal debt wiped, a phone call from the shitty Romford office had fucked it all up, and the looming prospect of bankruptcy was the last thing he wanted to talk about. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Okay.”
The defeat in Dylan’s voice did odd things to Angelo’s gut. He paused in the process of retrieving ciabatta loaves from the freezer and went to him, positioning himself between Dylan’s thighs with little conscious thought. “I don’t want to talk about it because I’m not in the headspace right now. Maybe we can another time?”
“If you want to. We can pretend it’s not happening if it makes you feel better. I’m not your advisor anymore.”
“And you only were for about five minutes, right?”
“Right.” Dylan licked his lips as Angelo leaned closer. “Now I’m just a playmate.”
Playmate. In recent years, they’d been the closest relationships Angelo had forged, but something—everything—was different about Dylan. The man who’d waited for him in the club wasn’t the same man who gazed at him now, and Angelo had no idea what to do next. His heart screamed at him to kiss Dylan, to wrap his arms around him and chase down the warmth Dylan’s presence had teased him with so far, but then what? Dylan was the sun, but Angelo was dead inside.
A delivery driver pounding on the back door broke the spell. Angelo drew back as Dylan stared holes in him, unable to look away until he wrenched the door open.
A stack of fresh fruit and vegetables awaited him. He signed the invoice, mentally calculating how much he’d need to take today to honour it, and shut the door.
Dylan appeared at his side. “What do you do with all this?”
“Wash it. Cut it. Put it on the plates and in the bags.”
“With the paninis?”
Angelo cut a glance at Dylan. “Yes. Why?”
“Because you open in half an hour, and I’m guessing that you don’t have time to prepare all this and do everything else by yourself unless you have someone coming in to help you?”
Angelo rolled his eyes. “Like who? I’ve pretty much banished my mum, and you know we can’t afford to pay any extra staff.”
“That’s what I thought.” Dylan took his wallet, keys, and phone from his pocket and set them on a nearby shelf. “Pass me an apron. I’ll give you a hand.”
Angelo would’ve been less surprised if Dylan had suggested they fuck in the freezer, but shock could be a wonderful thing, and he passed Dylan an apron before he’d truly comprehended what was happening.
For the next half hour, they worked in companionable silence. Well, Dylan worked. Angelo meandered around the deli, completing jobs he rarely had time for, all the while watching Dylan move around the kitchen like he was some kind of angelic apparition.
“You’ve worked in a kitchen before.”
It wasn’t a question, but Dylan nodded anyway. “I’ve helped my mate at his café in Vauxhall before. Spent all summer there when I was a student.”
“Is this the mate whose calls you won’t answer?”
A guilty flush crept up Dylan’s neck. “For your information, I called him back, but it seems he doesn’t want to talk to me now.”
Angelo couldn’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to talk to Dylan, but he kept quiet as he claimed the cured meats Dylan had prepared and took them out to the service counter. After all, he barely knew the man. Perhaps he was as much of an arsehole as Angelo.
Right. Like that’s even possible.
Angelo started the coffee machine, checked the milk supplies, and unlocked the front door. He went back to the kitchen, expecting to find Dylan getting ready to leave, but found him scrutinising the ancient recipe cards tacked to the walls. “Are these still current?”
“Um, I suppose? Can’t say I’ve looked at them since I was about six.”
“But your menu is the same, right? That’s your hook . . . that it’s been the same for fifty years?”
“Something like that, though we upgraded the panini press about a decade ago.”
If Dylan heard the bitterness lacing Angelo’s words, it didn’t show. He took a last look at the recipes and then retied his apron. “Good, then I should be able to help you serve. You’ll have to teach me the coffee machine later, but I can handle a panini press.”
“Are you serious?”
Dylan shrugged. “As serious as I am about anything when I’m not at work or getting my dick sucked at Lovato’s. You need help, and I’m free. If we’re going to be friends, it stands to reason that I should do you a solid.”
“Who said we were going to be friends?”
Dylan picked up the last tray of tomatoes and swept past Angelo into the deli. “I did, sunshine. Now come and show me how to turn this thing on.”
* * *
It was probably the most bizarre Monday Angelo had ever lived through. Dylan moved like a whirlwind, working the panini press, clearing tables, and washing up things that hadn’t been washed in months, while Angelo looked on. Working with Theresa drove him up the wall, but with Dylan’s help, the day was like a holiday.
It was gone three by the time Angelo forced himself to make Dylan go home. “You’ve rocked my world, but I can’t let you work for free. That shit ain’t right.”
Dylan smiled. “I enjoyed it. Being stuck in an office all day is making me old.”
“Spend a week here, then talk to me about feeling old.”
>
“Would that help?”
“Fuck no.” Angelo shook his head before Dylan could start getting any ideas. “It might get me home before seven, but my conscience would kill me. Thanks, mate, but you’ve done enough.”
Dylan let it go and took his apron off. He folded it into a complicated triangle that looked like it belonged in a hotel and set it on the counter. Angelo passed him his wallet, phone, and keys, and Dylan pocketed them absently, his gaze distant as he chewed on his lip.
Angelo pinched Dylan’s cheek, his thumb lingering for longer than was entirely necessary. “What are you scowling about?”
“I’m not scowling.”
“No?” Angelo gave in and let his fingers ease the frown lines from Dylan’s usually sunny face. “Why do you look like a Chihuahua chewing a wasp then?”
“It’s bulldog chewing a wasp, dickhead.”
Angelo grinned. “Yeah, but you’re too small to be a bulldog.”
Dylan’s arms gently circled Angelo’s waist. “Says you.”
It was Angelo’s turn to glower. He was taller than Dylan by a mere inch, and they were evenly matched in weight, though Angelo’s muscles were more defined . . . for now. Until that moment, he hadn’t given much thought to the aesthetic consequences his inactivity would have on his body, but with Dylan so close, and so fucking beautiful, vanity kicked him square in the gut.
He let his hands drop and stepped out of Dylan’s personal space. “Thanks for today. Not having to play nice with customers has done me a world of good.”
“Yeah, I can see that peopling gets on your nerves.”
Angelo snorted. “You’re being kind. It’s a wonder I’ve never decked anyone during the lunchtime rush. Hungry yuppies get on my tits.”
“Hmm, well, your people skills work just fine with me.”
The vague innuendo nearly sent Angelo straight back to the hypnotic haven of Dylan’s loose embrace, but the sound of the front door opening brought him to his senses. He left Dylan alone and mechanically brewed cappuccinos while Dylan waited in the kitchen, but on the fourth jug of frothy milk, he sensed Dylan leaving. The backdoor closing was another kick to his gut, and it wasn’t until he found Dylan’s note on the fridge that an alien thrill of another impromptu encounter returned.
Here’s my number. Call me.
Chapter Five
Dylan switched his phone to silent and set it face down on the beer-slick table. Logic told him to jam it in his pocket and forget about it, but he wasn’t quite there yet. His phone had been ringing all day . . . and he’d been ignoring it all day. The party line was that he was at work and unable to take personal calls, but the truth was that he had no desire to speak to his dad, his landlord, Sam, or, indeed, anyone that wasn’t Angelo. Fuck that noise.
And of course Angelo hadn’t called since they’d spent the day together at the deli on Monday, and given that it was Friday now, it didn’t seem likely that he would. Which had left Dylan in the worst mood ever—an unfortunate thing for his long list of clients. And for his bank balance when he’d ditched a solitary train ride home in favour of hitting the pub. A few Friday night pints had seemed like a good idea then, but by the time eight o’clock had rolled past, taking the last bastion of his sobriety with it, he’d changed his fucking mind.
Shame he couldn’t undrink four pints and an ill-advised round of Sambuca shots, though he was kind of glad for the booze buffer when a familiar hand closed around his shoulder some time between should’ve gone home o’clock and fuck it, let’s get wasted hour. “Go away, Sam,” Dylan slurred.
“Right. ’Cause that’s how it fucking works.”
Sam’s trademark growl had nothing on Angelo’s perfect contradiction of smoothness and grit, but it compelled odd feelings in Dylan all the same. He allowed Sam to tow him outside and dump him on a nearby bench and then looked up with a sneer that Sam would be proud of. “What brings you here, sweet friend?”
“What do you think?” Sam’s expression was hard. “You’ve been playing cat and mouse with me for weeks, and I needed to make sure you were okay.”
“You couldn’t just stalk my Facebook like a normal person?”
“I’m not a teenage girl. You could’ve just answered the phone.”
“I called you back.”
“Once. At nine o’clock in the morning when you knew I’d be at work.”
Dylan rolled his eyes, aware that he was being a prick but somehow unable to stop. “What’s your point?”
Sam’s glare burned nuclear. “Are you taking the piss?”
“No, mate. I’m deadly serious about this fucking ridiculous conversation. It’s not like I haven’t told you that I want some space.”
“You didn’t tell me shit. You told Eddie.”
“Same thing.”
“Is it? Last time I checked, we were still individuals, and it ain’t Eddie you’ve been best mates with for all these years.”
Reality began to creep into Dylan’s drunken haze. In the rare moments when he hadn’t been obsessing over Angelo, he’d felt guilty for explaining himself to Sam through his girlfriend, but not enough to do anything about it—like pick up the phone.
He stared at Sam, suddenly hit by all that they’d shared, good and bad. They’d worked together at Sam’s grandfather’s greasy spoon and cried together when Sam’s beloved grandmother had finally died. They’d partied all over London—Sam keeping Dylan company on the many, many nights he just couldn’t sleep—and survived the times Dylan had scraped Sam off the kitchen floor and nursed him out of a diabetic coma. Didn’t Sam deserve better than a second-hand phone call? “I’m sorry.”
Some of the fight left Sam and he sank onto the bench beside Dylan. “I don’t want you to be sorry, I want you to be okay. You know I’d never hurt you, don’t you?”
“Of course.” It was true. Sam had never lied to Dylan or led him on. Dylan had walked into everything that had happened between them with his eyes open. “I’m just not as okay with it as I used to be.”
“Why not?”
Now there was a question. Dylan wrestled with his beer-addled brain and tried to verbalise a coherent answer. “I guess seeing you and Eddie so happy reminds me of what I don’t have.”
“You want a girlfriend?”
Dylan shrugged. “I’m more into lads at the moment, but I do know that I’m pretty tired of sleeping alone.”
“Then stop banging people in sex clubs and get out into the real world—”
“Hey—”
“Don’t.” Sam held up his hand. “You always end up going mad in that place when you’ve got a cob on about shit, so don’t even try to deny it.”
“You sound mad northern right now.”
“I’m from Leeds. Deal with it.” Sam ditched the fierceness he’d arrived with. “Look, I get what you’re saying, okay? And you know there’s been times when I’ve wished things were different, but I can’t change who I am.”
“I know that. I’ve never asked you to.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Dylan shrugged again. “Well, I suppose I could go for some pierogi next time Pops is making some.”
Sam’s glower returned like it had never been gone. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, but it’s all I have right now, and I’m hungry, so . . .”
Sam sighed, defeat seeping out of him like smoke from a dying fire. “If I buy you a kebab, will you promise to stop dodging my calls? I respect that you need to take a step back, but I can’t handle worrying about you. You’re my best mate, and I miss you.”
“I miss you too.” Another inconvenient truth. It would’ve been easier if Sam had rejected him, turned him down that first time they’d shared a drunken kiss, and they’d never spoken of it again. But it hadn’t played out that way. Sam was the best friend Dylan had ever had, and life without him was hard. “Can we get battered sausages inst
ead?”
Sam finally smiled. “Sure.”
* * *
It was the wanker side of midnight by the time Dylan made it home from Stratford. After a sneaky fried dinner with Sam, they’d taken the scenic route to the station via a few more pubs. At moments, it had felt like old times—like nothing had changed—but when they’d parted ways, they’d both seemed to know that it would be longer than two weeks before they saw each other again.
At home, Dylan threw himself onto his bed. His night had taken an unexpected turn, and despite sinking even more beer after Sam had tracked him down in his favourite Stratford haunt, he felt surprisingly sober. Fuck my life.
Restless, he rolled over and pulled his phone from his pocket to stop it digging into his hip. That he’d remembered to grab it from the wet table before Sam had yanked him out of the pub was a miracle, and he hadn’t looked at it since. If he had, he’d have seen the three missed calls from Sam and one from an unknown number.
Dylan sat up, his heart turning a sudden, drunken cartwheel in his chest. He’d used his phone for business when he’d worked at the bank and still got calls from random overseas numbers, but this was a UK mobile number. Angelo? Dylan didn’t fancy the disappointment if it turned out to be Nanna pocket dialling him from an ancient handset she’d bought on eBay, but hope still started a rave in his veins.
He swiped at his phone and brought up the call log. The number taunted him and his thumb pressed CALL of its own accord. Stomach in his mouth, Dylan activated the speaker and stretched out on his front, his chin on his folded arms. It occurred to him far too late that it was after midnight, and the line crackled to life before he could correct his mistake.
“Yeah?”
Dylan’s breath escaped him in a whoosh. “Angelo? Is that you?”
“Um . . . yeah, I think so. I just woke up, so it’s hard to tell.”
“Shit. Sorry.” Dylan cringed and grabbed his phone. “I can ring back tomorrow—”
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