Strays
Page 1
Riptide Publishing
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Burnsville, NC 28714
www.riptidepublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.
Strays
Copyright © 2017 by Garrett Leigh
Cover art: Garrett Leigh, blackjazzdesign.com
Editor: Carole-ann Galloway
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.
ISBN: 978-1-62649-478-7
First edition
March, 2017
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-62649-479-4
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Work, sleep, work, repeat. Nero’s lonely life suits him just fine until his best friend, Cass, asks him to take on a new apprentice—a beautiful young man who’s never set foot in a professional kitchen. Despite his irritation and his lifelong ability to shut the world out, Nero is mesmerised by the vibrant stray, especially when he learns what drove him to seek sanctuary on Nero’s battered old couch.
Lenny Mitchell is living under a cloud of fear. Pursued by a stalker, he has nowhere left to run until Nero offers him a port in a storm—a job at the hottest restaurant in Shepherd’s Bush. Kitchen life proves heady and addictive, and it’s not long before he finds himself falling hard and fast for the man who has taken him in.
Fast-forward a month and a neither man can imagine life without the other, but one thing stands in their way: a lifetime of horrors Nero can’t bring himself to share with Lenny. Or can he? For the first time ever, happiness is there for the taking, and Nero must learn to embrace it before fate steps in and rips it away.
For foxes . . .
“You are my dreams. I just never knew it.”
About Strays
Lenny
Chapter 1
Nero
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Lenny
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Nero
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Lenny
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
Also by Garrett Leigh
About the Author
More like this
The policewoman slid a cup of grey tea across the interview table. “Tell me again, sir. How many times have you seen this man at your place of work?”
Lenny Mitchell sighed and dragged a hand through his electric-blue hair. “I told you. I don’t know exactly. He’s just there sometimes.”
“Standing across the road? At the bus stop?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” The policewoman made a note. “Have you considered the possibility that the man you’ve described is simply catching the bus?”
Lenny levelled the woman with an acid glare. Seriously? “Catching the bus to where? My flat? So he can loiter there too? Or the club where I used to work so he can tell everyone he’s my boyfriend like he did before?”
“Which club is that?”
“Shades, in Brent Cross.”
“The strip club?”
“No, the gay club.”
The policewoman jotted another note. “Okay, so you say this man has been present outside your home and your place of work, and that he’s written you letters, and contacted you on social media. Do you have evidence of this? Copies of the letters? Screen shots?”
I’m such a fucking idiot. Lenny shook his head. “I deleted my Facebook and Twitter when he started harassing me, and the letters were taken from my flat.”
“Taken?”
“Stolen, whatever.”
“Did you report it?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t received any since?”
“No.”
The policewoman’s left eyebrow twitched. “So you have no evidence to corroborate your story?”
“‘My story’? I’m not making it up.”
“I’m not saying you are, Mr. Mitchell, but without evidence there’s little we can do if we find this man and he denies your allegations. Have you reported him to your landlord or your employer?”
“I don’t know who my landlord is. I rent through an agency, and my tenancy is nearly up, anyway. And my previous employers at the club thought I was the fucking lunatic.”
“What about your current employer? At the restaurant?”
“At Misfits?”
“Yes.”
Lenny shrugged. “My bosses are really busy. I don’t want to bother them.”
The policewoman went back to her notes. “Okay, well . . . like I said before, without evidence and an ID for this man, there’s not much we can do except give you some advice on staying safe.”
Unbidden, the dull eyes that seemed to follow Lenny everywhere flashed into his mind, prickling his skin like tiny feather-drops of battery acid. “His name’s Gareth. He told the bouncers at Shades when he was pretending to be my boyfriend. I wrote it down for you.”
“Oh, yes, so you did.” The policewoman cast another disinterested glance at the notebook Lenny had handed over, pages filled with the incidents and sightings, and plain freaky shit that had driven him from Croydon to Camden in the first place. “Well, this is all very helpful, Mr. Mitchell, but as I said—”
“Yeah, yeah. Take a leaflet and fuck off. I heard you.”
The music in Misfits pumped a subtle, thudding beat, keeping time with Lenny’s pulse as he rushed from table to table, pouring champagne and delivering towering burgers from the sizzling chargrill. He’d worked in quieter restaurants, but even on his worst day—and today was definitely among them—he couldn’t deny that waiting tables at Camden’s hottest food spot was almost as good as dancing up a storm at the club. The place buzzed, vibrant and frenetic, and four months into the job, it felt as much like home as anything had of late.
And the free ice cream helped with that. Midway through his shift, he took a break and loaded up wi
th a bowl of Hackney-brown biscuit—a devilish mix of chocolate, caramel, and bourbon biscuits—and decamped to the bin yard to smoke a fag and catch some sun before the evening rush. He pulled out his phone and scanned the news website, but with no social media accounts to suck away the minutes, his cracked iPhone held little appeal.
He dropped it on the step beside him and finished up his ice cream, the last of his favourite flavour for a while, a fact that made his heart weep as he scraped the bowl clean. Misfits was famed for its burgers, but Lenny reckoned the ice cream—artisan-made at an East End dairy owned by the same company: Urban Soul—was its true gem. Where else could you get flavours like his beloved Hackney-brown biscuit, and Walthamstow’s marmalade cream?
Lenny ate every drop and moved on to the jellybeans he’d stashed in his pocket. Staff got a free burger on every shift, but Lenny stuck to the sweet stuff. Craved it. Let the sugar carry him until it was time to go—
A movement in Lenny’s peripheral vision cut his thoughts dead.
He’s here.
It was always the same: Lenny glanced around, almost forgetting what he might find, and then the sensation of being watched slammed into him, and drove his stomach to his knees.
He’s here.
Lenny stared hard at the vacant building behind the restaurant. The large bay window was now empty, but that didn’t matter. It wouldn’t be the next time he looked. Never was. His faithful tormentor always liked one last look before he scarpered back to whatever cave he’d crawled from.
This time was no different. Lenny forced himself to blink, holding his eyes shut for ten beats of his stampeding heart. Then he opened them and met the hollow gaze that had become his near-constant companion. Today, their encounter was brief. Another five beats and then the short, pasty man backed away from the window and disappeared into the depths of the empty shop.
And you still didn’t take a photo, dickhead.
Damn it. On the restaurant floor such a thing was impossible, but the few times Lenny had found himself face-to-face with his stalker, his phone in his hand, the moment had passed before he’d pressed the button, like he was the one hypnotised by what he was seeing.
The irony was beyond fucking annoying. Lenny stood, the ice cream he’d eaten for dinner curdling in his churning stomach. Reason told him he should be used to this shit by now—ten months after it had first invaded his life—but it hadn’t got any easier.
With weighted legs, Lenny trudged back inside and reclaimed his section twenty minutes early. The evening rush filled Misfits to the brim, turning every table ten times over, giving heart to the eclectic restaurant’s reputation. But the buzz that had carried Lenny through lunchtime was long gone, replaced by jittery hands and a dry mouth. He made mistakes, took his orders wrong, and forgot the side dishes that earned him a bonus at the end of each month.
Eventually, his shift manager lost patience with him and ended his shift prematurely. For the first time ever, he was the team’s weakest link. And despite the humiliation, he couldn’t even go home, at least not sober. A bucket of rum and Coke was the only way he could face the dark alleyway that led to his Chalk Farm studio flat.
Lenny took a seat at the bar and drank through the tips he’d managed to make before his day had gone to shit. His fourth Sailor Jerry’s was sliding down a treat when Ricky, the barman, set an envelope down in front of him. Lenny tilted his already booze-heavy head to one side. “What’s this?”
“Dunno. Tash found it in the staff room with your name on. Figured you’d left it there.”
Ricky went back to his work. Lenny stared at the envelope, the unease the rum had dulled reigniting with a vengeance. It was brown—he usually left white ones—but the writing was unmistakable. Perfect, like always, curved and script-like. With trepidation roiling in his gut, Lenny drew the envelope towards him. Experience told him he wouldn’t find anything pleasant inside, but the masochist in him had to look.
He tore it open. At first glance, it appeared empty, but then a single nail clipping fell onto the bar—clean and neat, with tracings of the blue polish Lenny had worn on his toes until yesterday.
Fuck. Lenny’s heart skipped a beat, and he spun around so fast he toppled from his stool, barely righting himself before he crashed to the floor. He scanned the restaurant, studying the yuppies, students, and tourists. There was no sign of a stained anorak and grubby jeans, but that did little to calm the panic fast rising in Lenny’s chest.
He kicked his stool away. It clattered into the bar, and Ricky shot him a quizzical glance. His gaze was one Lenny knew well, but as his brain imploded—terror and rum melding in a sickening mix—all Lenny could see was another set of eyes.
He’s here.
Lenny stumbled out of the restaurant and into the muggy night air. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but where would he go? His pockets were stuffed with the leaflets the police had given him, but what good were they now?
Despair washed over him. He dropped the leaflets onto a nearby bench and sat down. His back hit the dented metal with a thud that should’ve rattled his bones, but he felt nothing beyond the hopeless dread he’d lived with for so long. His trip to Kentish Town police station replayed in a loop in his head. “We need evidence, Mr. Mitchell.” Lenny had some now—but did he? What use was a clipping of his own fucking toenail? There might be fingerprints on the envelope. But Lenny was too far gone to catch the rationale before it slipped through his fingers. Too drunk, too scared, it didn’t matter, because whichever way he turned, he was fucked.
He’s never going to stop.
Lenny leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands. The world around him spun. His heart beat an ominous tattoo, and only the rum still swirling in his veins gave him any reprieve.
A car stopped in front of him. A door slammed. Familiar voices echoed in his head, but he didn’t look up. Couldn’t, even when someone called his name. The bench shifted as someone sat down beside him. Lenny’s pulse raced impossibly faster, and he braced himself for those dirty fucking hands finally touching his skin.
But they never came. Instead, warm fingers closed around his wrist, and a rough voice he’d heard somewhere before gently spoke his name.
“Lenny, mate? Do you need some help?”
Prep, cook, clean, sleep. Prep, cook, clean, sleep. Rinse and repeat. The process was as natural as breathing, but as Nero Fierro moved from kitchen to kitchen within the Urban Soul empire, no two days were ever the same.
Today—a humid Tuesday morning in mid-July—found him holed up at the Stew Shack, an old pub in Greenwich that had been converted into a stew-and-ale bar, and wondering what the fuck he was going to cook for the evening rush. He studied the shelves in the dry store, half a mind on the pork shoulder and spicy chorizo he’d stashed in the walk-in fridge, the other half on the steamy day brewing outside. Summer at the Stew Shack meant heady, spicy stews cooked over the fire pit in the cobbled garden, a task he enjoyed, even if it did expose him to the curious eyes of the yuppies and hipsters he cooked for. Because that was what you found in Greenwich these days: yuppies, hipsters, and bloody tourists. Fuck it. Let’s blow their heads off.
Nero grabbed paprika, chillies, and fennel seeds, and chucked them in the prep box under his arm, then went to the fridge and retrieved pork, chorizo, and peppers. He was bashing the shit out of a bulb of garlic when he sensed a presence behind him, felt a tingle on the back of his neck, and heard a chuckle he’d recognise anywhere on earth.
Cass.
Sure enough, Nero spun around and there he was—all lean, mean, six foot of Cass Pearson, Nero’s boss and co-owner of the many restaurants Nero cooked in. He was also the closest thing to a best mate Nero had ever had. First bloke you ever fancied too—but Nero silenced that devil for today. He didn’t see Cass that way anymore . . . at least, not often. Besides, Cass was taken not once, but twice, sharing his life with the two other men Nero happened to work for. Lucky them.
Nero turned back to his pe
stle and mortar. “What the fuck do you want?”
Cass rounded the counter and hopped up on the clean side opposite Nero. “Nice to see you too, mate.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nero scowled. It was good to see Cass, though his surprise appearance was bound to mean a royal pain in Nero’s arse. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
“Course you ’ave. Let me guess, you want me to go to Dagenham or some shit and set up a vegan cupcake shop?”
“Close. It’s a bakery in Vauxhall—artisan, organic sourdough, all that hipster stuff you love.”
“This is your idea?”
Cass snorted. “As if. I ain’t the ideas man, you know that, but Tom and Jake are busy, so it’s up to me to get it off the ground until they come along and change everything.”
Sounds about right. Nero finished up the garlic and moved on to hacking up meat with his cleaver. “This what you’ve been doing with yourself lately? ’Cause I ain’t seen you in the kitchen.”
“I’ve been around.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Miss me?”
Nero turned away, because truth be told he did miss Cass, and the years of working long nights side by side seemed a lifetime ago. “What do you need me to do for this wanky bakery?”
Cass chuckled, unfazed as ever by Nero’s lack of enthusiasm. “Help me build the kitchen, source the ovens, find a team. Maybe some menu development too?”
“What kind of menu?”
“Artisan sandwich shop by day, jazz café by night.”
“Seriously?” Nero rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you lot do one thing at a time?”
“Because it don’t pay to leave a premises idle at night when it’s working anyway. It’s gonna be a twenty-four-hour operation once we get the bakery set up. Speaking of which, do you think you could nick some of the sourdough starter from here and brew a new one?”
“You want me to take a bucket of yeast home with me?” Cass’s smirk said it all. Nero sighed. “Anything else?”
Cass’s expression sobered. “Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you.”