Strays

by Garrett Leigh

  The waiter disappeared, presumably to rectify the error, and Nero turned back to the grill, his expression an alarming combination of his volatile temper and an intense exhaustion Lenny had never seen in him before.

  Lenny stepped behind the line and put himself between Nero and the grill. “What are you doing down here? Where’s Cass?”

  “He had to leave. Something’s up with Jake.”

  “Jake?”

  “Yeah, he— Shit. Hang on.” Nero reached around Lenny and flipped some meat on the grill. “Damn it. This burner’s not fucking working right. Move over, will ya?”

  Lenny moved out of the way as Nero jiggled the temperature knobs under the chargrill. His face was lined with fatigue and stress, and it was clear he didn’t have time to explain himself to Lenny. Though still, Lenny couldn’t help asking, “Do you have to work all day?”

  “What?” Nero slammed the heel of his hand against the control panel. “Fucking thing. Yeah, probably. Can’t see Cass coming back. You gonna be okay?”

  “Are you? I can—”

  Nero waved Lenny away. “You ain’t getting lumbered with this shite too. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I promise, mate. I haven’t forgotten.”

  Their eyes locked, and Lenny’s world centred, but the moment was fleeting, broken by a mayday call from another harried waiter, and Lenny knew it was time to go.

  Reluctantly, he retreated from the kitchen and went back upstairs. In the flat, the walls seemed too close, but he couldn’t bear to go out and leave Nero behind. Instead of pacing, he spread out his work for the Vauxhall project on the living room floor. With Tom’s approval in place for the name and basic designs, Lenny had the go-ahead to work on the final art. The Stray Tiger title had originally come to Lenny’s mind for the eclectic pizzeria Nero had brought to life alongside the bakery, forgetting that it needed to encompass the whole project, but the more Lenny thought about it, the more it seemed to fit. Efe, the master baker charged with running the bakehouse, was much like Nero in temperament—fierce, strong, hardworking—and she’d wound up with Urban Soul after the breakdown of her marriage, a stray, of sorts, as much as the rest of them. The Stray Tiger—artisan bakehouse and pizzeria. Yeah. I like it.

  Lenny spent most of the day designing the sign that would also become the project’s logo. Jake had promised to help him paint it digitally, and when it was done, Lenny found himself itching to see it plastered all over the once-derelict warehouse. He retrieved Jake’s business card from his folder and tapped the number into his phone, remembering too late that Jake apparently had other things on his mind today.

  Jake answered with a low whistle.

  Lenny winced. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “Nah, mate, nah. I’m all good.”

  “Really? You sound fucked.”

  “I am. Cass gave me a Valium.”

  “For your tics?” It was none of Lenny’s business, but he’d never forgotten some of the case notes he’d read at uni before it had become obvious that he was in the wrong place, and the use of benzodiazepines to treat Tourette’s syndrome had been debated in one of his favourite textbooks.

  “Yeah. They . . . um, got all nasty and shit. Couldn’t stop.” Jake’s medicated drawl was pronounced enough for Lenny to know he’d called at a bad time, but Jake spoke again before he could bow out. “So . . . what ya got for me? Tom loves the name. I love the art. Wanna see how you’ve pulled it all together.”

  “I can send you a picture if you want?”

  “Can you send it now?”

  “Um . . . if you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. Text it over.”

  Lenny snapped a picture on his phone and sent it to Jake. Then waited, tapping his fingers on the coffee table while Jake studied it, absorbing Jake’s Valium-mellowed buzzing tics. “Well? Do you like it?”

  Jake popped, then laughed lazily. “I love it—fly him to the moon—I’d like you to paint the main sign by hand onto some reclaimed wood we’ve got, and then we can scan it and tweak it for the branding. Only trouble is we’re running out of time. How long do you need for painting?”

  Lenny considered the murals he’d already painted on the walls and tabletops. “A few days? I need more paint, though, and somewhere to work now the bakery is up and running.”

  “Uh-huh . . . um . . . Did Nero bring that rusty bus home yet?”

  “I don’t know.” Lenny drifted to the fire escape and looked out, by now used to Jake’s chaotic brand of conversation. “I can’t see it outside.”

  “If it’s anywhere, it’ll be in Cass’s old space by the launderette. There’s a shed out there Cass keeps car shit and tools in. Nero has a key . . . Oh and, actually, the wood is in there too. I chucked it in the other day.”

  Fair enough. Lenny absently checked his wallet for the company credit card he’d been given for expenses. If he shot out now to buy paint, he could get started this afternoon. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Hmm? Oh . . . no. I’m fine, mate. Gonna sleep for a bit. Call me if you need anything, and take care of Nero, yeah? He’s working too hard.”

  Lenny couldn’t argue with that. “I do try and look after him, but he’s shit at letting me.”

  “That’s because he’s Cass’s long-lost twin. It’s these East End boys. They think no one will ever love them like their nanas did, so they throw everything back in your face like you don’t love them to the moon and back. You just gotta keep on keeping on, mate. He’ll fall when he’s ready.”

  Lenny wondered if Jake had meant to be so poetic with his advice, but the lump in his throat kept him quiet as Jake said good-bye and hung up, and after a protracted staring contest with the city below, Lenny ditched the flat and went shopping.

  At the quirky art shop on the high street he bought paint and some new brushes, and across the road, a New Age shop caught his eye. He went inside and was immediately drawn to a pendant at the back. It was brushed silver, hanging on dark-brown leather, and a clever mix of a sugar skull and a grungy butterfly. Lenny didn’t know if Nero would wear it, but he bought it anyway, and the matching bracelet, and carried them home in a paper bag clutched close to his chest.

  The rest of the day was spent painting, locked in the shed. The sign was more complex than the murals, intricately layered, and wrapped around the bespoke typography that had seemed so simple when he’d drawn it in pencil—typography that definitely wasn’t based on Nero’s handwriting. Yeah right. Lenny lost himself in a cloud of denial, and only stopped working when the fading light forced his hand.

  He checked the time—9:45 p.m. Service had just finished, but Nero wouldn’t be done for a while. Still, Lenny couldn’t stop the invisible cord between them drawing him past the rusty bus that was parked in the yard, and into the kitchen. Eight hours without Nero was long enough, damn it.

  But Nero wasn’t in the kitchen. Steph was in his place, cleaning down the worktops.

  “I sent him up,” she said by way of explanation. “He’s ready to drop, and I don’t think it’s a hangover.”

  Lenny didn’t need to hear any more. He hurried upstairs and let himself into the flat to find Nero on the bathroom floor, pale and sweating. Lenny dropped down beside him and felt his forehead. “Whoa. You’re burning up.”

  “Chucking up, actually, though I don’t think I can puke again without losing my appendix.”

  Lenny grinned, though worry gnawed at his heart. “How long have you been feeling ill?”

  Nero shrugged. “All day. Thought it was the rum, but I ain’t never had a hangover like this.”

  “It’s not a hangover.” Lenny felt Nero’s swollen glands and counted his rapid heart rate. “It might be an infection—maybe viral. Got a headache?”

  “Like a bitch.”

  “Anything else? Joints? Bones?”

  “Yeah.” Nero tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I’m all right, though. Don’t go frowning that old-lady frown of yours. I just need some kip.”


  Lenny wasn’t anywhere close to being convinced, but there was little he could do but wait until Nero was ready to move, then help him up and into bed.

  Nero fell asleep almost immediately, face down and still dressed in last night’s clothes, minus the jeans that he’d dumped by the door. Lenny wrangled his T-shirt over his head, then pushed the duvet aside, searching for his socks. Nero’s heated skin scorched his palms, but there was something undeniably sensual about the idea of curving his hands around Nero’s strong calf muscles, tangling his fingers in the silky dusting of dark hair. And Nero’s feet were gorgeous—clean and perfectly shaped. How have I not noticed them before?

  Lenny had no idea, and the urge to kiss them, and suck Nero’s elegant toes into his mouth, was strong. Only worry for Nero’s fast-rising temperature reined him in. That, and the first good look he’d ever had of the pale scars lining the backs of Nero’s thighs.

  Jesus. Up close, they ran far deeper than Lenny had imagined, and there was no hiding from the fact that they’d been put there by deliberate force. The white lines carved into Nero’s flesh were clearly old, and it was heartbreakingly obvious that they were the mark of a belt—or worse.

  Lenny swallowed thickly. Nero had made no effort to hide the scars—why would he when his missing finger was there for all to see?—but it had gone unsaid that Nero wouldn’t talk about. Won’t or can’t? All this time Lenny had been so sure it was Nero’s choice to keep himself so hidden, but with the certainty the marks on Nero’s body hadn’t been caused by accident, came the possibility that Nero couldn’t articulate what had happened to him. That it was so awful he didn’t know how.

  And that Lenny’s insistence that they had no future without forcing Nero to try was so fucking selfish Lenny could hardly breathe.

  Horrified, he covered Nero’s legs with the thin summer duvet and left the room, guilt and shame prickling his skin with the worst kind of heat. Nero was running on empty after months spent looking after everyone else—Lenny, Cass, the business—and now he was sick in his bed after a sleepless night that was all Lenny’s fault. Add in the strain that had lined Nero’s chiselled features even before he’d fallen ill, and Lenny pretty much wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

  He paced the living room, periodically checking on Nero, but when it became clear that he wasn’t waking up anytime soon, he gave in and lay down beside him. Rest, baby. I’ve got you.

  A low groan woke Lenny sometime later. He sat up like he’d been burned, then realised he pretty much had been, if the blazing heat from Nero’s arm was anything to go by.

  Lenny leaned over Nero and felt the back of his neck. Damn. “Nero? Can you wake up a sec?”

  Nero grunted, his face in the pillow. “Piss off.”

  The words were muffled, but the sentiment clear. Lenny supressed a sigh and shook him anyway. “Just wake up, will you? I want to check something.”

  With a sigh of his own, Nero raised his head, squinting in the dark. He sat up slowly, like every muscle was torn, every joint broken, and fixed Lenny with a tired, long-suffering glare. “I’m up. What do you want?”

  “To check you’re not dying.” Lenny took Nero’s pulse and examined him as best he could remember from his days as a half-arsed medical student. “Does your neck hurt?”

  “Nope.”

  “Your chest?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you still feel sick?”

  “As in do I wanna puke my guts up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nope. Can I go back to sleep now?”

  “If you tell me what hurts.”

  Lenny half expected another monosyllabic response, but as they stared at each other, Nero’s belligerence seemed to crumble. He grasped Lenny’s hand, then raised it to his head. “It’s fucking killing me, Len. I need to sleep.”

  Len. It was a nickname Lenny despised, but uttered by Nero it suddenly held a certain magic. He relinquished his grip on Nero’s shoulders and let him lie down. “I’m going to get you some water. You can sleep when you’ve drunk it.”

  Nero grumbled, and obediently stayed awake until Lenny had poured a pint of water down him, but he was asleep again by the time Lenny returned from the kitchen a second time. The urge to lie down beside him and snooze away what was left of the night was strong. Even sick, Nero was the best bedmate a man—or woman—could ask for. But it was 5 a.m., which meant Nero was due back in the kitchen in a matter of hours, and if Lenny was going to step into his shoes, he had to start early.

  He left Nero sleeping and went downstairs to the kitchen, glad he’d paid attention when Nero had shown him how to set up the kitchen. Thankfully, it was Tuesday, a service he could maybe handle on his own if he did enough prep.

  His first port of call was the huge walk-in fridges. Meat products still made him want to hurl, but Nero had taught him well, and he knew just what to do with the trays of steaks, poultry, and chops. Next up, fish. There were scallops, but Lenny despised them. He picked haddock and new potatoes and made a summer fish pie that he could pre-portion and chuck in the oven when the orders came in.

  The veggie special was simple—the last few bags of gluten-free pasta, paired with courgettes and pecorino, and with all the ingredients laid out ready for prepping, Lenny allowed himself a cup of tea. He had a few hours to kill before the rest of the team filtered in, and he found himself enjoying the quiet. The only thing missing was Nero.

  I miss him. Pain squeezed Lenny’s heart as he realised how true his errant thought was. Nero wasn’t far away, but Lenny wanted more than anything to lie with him, rub his aching head, and kiss it all away.

  He had to settle for peeling courgettes and grating cheese. Pouring seasoned oil over meat and parboiling pasta. He was loading his prepared pies onto trays when a low chuckle startled him.

  Lenny whirled around, searching for Nero, though his heart knew it was Cass. “Jesus. You scared me.”

  “Ditto, mate. Thought we were being burgled.” Cass ventured forward and peered at the fruits of Lenny’s early start. “This looks good. Bit twatish of Nero to have you in here so early, though. What’s he doing? Cleaning some shit like a grumpy old woman?”

  “He’s in bed, actually. He’s sick.”

  “Sick?” Cass frowned. “What’s up with him?”

  Lenny shrugged. “I think it’s a virus, but he’s exhausted too. I’m gonna work for him today.”

  “You did all this on your own?” Cass’s frown faded a touch. “Wow. I’m impressed. You sure you wanna go back to front-of-house?”

  “I never agreed to that. I’d rather help Nero, or Jake.”

  “Jake? Ah, with the branding and shit?”

  “I think so.” Lenny wrapped the last of his trays in cling film and day-dotted each one. “He said he’d show me how to use the digital studio. If I can help him and work in the TST kitchen at the same time, I might be able to do something useful with my life.”

  “TST? Oh, you mean the Stray Tiger? Sorry, I’m still half-asleep.” Cass rubbed his face. “Lenny, mate. You can do whatever you want, and it will be useful to us. All you gotta do is find what makes you want to come to work in the morning. Figure out what that is and we’ll talk. Now, what do you want to do today? I’m here, so you can have the day off if you want?”

  “What about Jake? He’s not home alone, is he? He sounded pretty out of it when I spoke to him yesterday.”

  “Jake’s fine. He don’t like being mothered by me and Tom. Gets right on his tits, so we’ve left him to it. He’ll call if he needs us. He ain’t Nero.”

  “I should probably stay, then, in case you have to leave again. Is it okay if I go and check on Nero, though? I haven’t been up in a while.”

  “Course, mate. I’ll finish this lot. Come back at twelve.”

  Lenny didn’t need telling twice. He explained his menu plans, then left Cass to finish the prep and organise the rest of the kitchen, and dashed upstairs, ditching his chef whites at the door and padding into th
e bedroom sans trousers.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and lightly rubbed Nero’s forearm, expecting a disgruntled groan, but Nero shot bolt upright and gripped Lenny’s shoulders, nearly sending them both tumbling off the bed.

  Lenny steadied them. “Whoa. Easy, mate. What’s the matter?”

  “Fuck.” Nero released Lenny and scrambled unsteadily from the bed. “I’m late for work. Why didn’t you wake me? Bollocks. I’ve got shit loads to do today too.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Yes, I have. Where’s my fucking jeans?”

  “They’re on the chair, but you don’t need them. Cass is downstairs.”

  “Cass is—” Nero abruptly stopped spinning around. “What? Say all that again?”

  “Cass is downstairs. He’s going to work today.”

  “What about Jake?”

  The echo of his own thoughts warmed Lenny’s chest. “Cass says he’s fine, but I’m going to work too, so he can leave if he needs to.”

  It seemed to take Nero a few seconds to compute Lenny’s words. He rubbed the puzzled crease in his forehead. “How did Cass know to come in? Did you call him?”

  “No, he came in anyway. He didn’t say why. Does it matter?”

  Nero blinked. “What?”

  “Never mind. Look, Cass is here, I’m here. You don’t need to work. You don’t even need to be awake. Just go back to sleep, or at least rest, okay? The world isn’t going to end if you take a day off.”

  “It ain’t my day off.”

  “It bloody is now!” Lenny exploded. “Jesus. Why are you such an arse when it comes to taking care of yourself?”

  Nero’s eyebrows shot up, then a faint grin brightened his tired eyes. “Are you shouting at me?”

  “No.”

  “Sure about that? ’Cause I reckon they heard you in Pimlico.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Thought you wanted me to lie down?”