Paul had left the beer where it was, and when he left his apartment the next morning, he discovered it was still there. So maybe Nick wasn’t spying on him that closely. Either that or he was still hoping Paul would take it. Screw him. Paul didn’t need apology beer. He had a fish to pick up.
“The menus, great,” his waiter said when opening came around and Paul hauled down the stack—minus those that still smelled like Nick—and passed them over.
“New policy—have a look at the menus every morning before you hand them out,” Paul said.
“Yeah, sure,” the waiter said, and moved to go seat the people who just entered.
“I’ll have a look if he won’t,” Erica said from the kitchen.
Paul thanked her and then ducked out the back. The lake trout was sitting in his car, and he knew he only had a small window of time to get in and out of Paul’s Restaurant if he wanted his plan to have the full effect.
It was a bit of a thrill, Paul realized, sneaking about with schemes. Probably why Nick couldn’t seem to quit. Paul imagined sneaking into the café and swapping the menus had been exciting—well, he was about to get a little excitement of his own. Paul had observed Nick’s staff’s movements and figured he had enough time to duck in, sneak into the basement, and place his fish before Nick showed up.
Paul waited until one of the cooks went out into the snow for a smoke break, walking halfway across the parking lot like normal and turning his back on the door. Then Paul sneaked in the back entrance, located the door to the basement, and darted down it as quietly as possible. It took one glance to locate the heating unit. Once he’d place his lake trout in there, the fish would do the rest. By night the air in Nick’s Restaurant would be reeking and Nick wouldn’t know why.
He half expected to be caught—for the cook to come back, maybe, or the blue-haired dishwasher to show up, or even Nick himself to appear at the top of the stairs—but Paul deposited his fish and made his way back outside unnoticed. He felt a rush that couldn’t just be the shock of the cold air, and smiled a little to himself. That was a bit exhilarating. And strangely, he almost felt bad for Nick.
He snorted at the thought. Feel bad for the asshole who was trying to ruin his café? It had to be the thrill of the game they were playing. It was like a petty chess match, and Paul secretly enjoyed it. But he had to give nothing away, so he straightened his sweater and returned to his café to wait and see how the lake trout situation developed.
By noon customers were abandoning Nick’s for Paul’s. A few people mentioned the smell when they came in, and Paul imagined Nick rushing about, frantically searching for the source of the terrible aroma of warm fish. If he could last the day, Paul decided he’d go over and right the situation for him. He wasn’t a complete bastard, after all, and Nick had returned his menus.
“Uh,” said a waitress at about five. “There’s a guy glaring through the window. I think he’s from next door.”
Paul looked up from where he was running a credit card and saw Nick in the front window, silhouetted against the streetlights and the rapidly declining winter sun. He felt a jolt in his stomach and didn’t know whether it was guilt or fear, or something entirely different.
“Thanks, I’ll handle it,” Paul said, and headed over once he returned the card to the correct table. When it became clear Nick wasn’t coming in, Paul went out.
Nick stood on the sidewalk without a coat, his glare as cold as he must have been.
Paul put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. “How long you been out here?”
“Not long enough to cool down,” Nick said, but his white face was flushed red from cold. “Not long enough to stop smelling it either. There’s no customers.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Nick said. He did not seem amused.
Paul wished briefly he could return one of Nick’s cocky asshole grins to him, but he felt shitty seeing Nick this way. He sighed. “Nick, I—”
“Just tell me where you put it. In the ceiling?” Nick looked him in the eye, but Paul refused to back away. “I gave you back your menus and left apology beer. I thought we were done with this shit.”
“Apology beer,” Paul said, not caring that he sounded angry about it.
“I would have apologized in person if you’d have answered your fucking door.”
“What makes you think I wanted an apology from you?” Paul asked. He didn’t care that he was supposed to be telling Nick where he’d put the fish—he was getting pissed about past grievances. Nick had a lot of nerve thinking a few beers would set right the shit that kept piling up between them.
“What makes you think I wanted this to keep going?”
“I don’t know, Nick, maybe the way you gave me the most fucked-up grin when I confronted you. Or how you didn’t just give me the menus back immediately. Or—”
“Am I interrupting anything?” asked Nick’s dishwasher, the woman with the blue hair. She was standing just outside the door to Nick’s, examining them.
Paul turned to fix her with a hard look, but Nick deflated.
“If you prefer to tell Sammie instead where the fish is—are?—I’m not stopping you,” said Nick.
“Just one lake trout,” Paul said. “And I want it back.”
“So you can shove it somewhere else tomorrow?” Nick asked.
Paul glared at him. “So I make sure you won’t.”
Paul followed Sammie inside and immediately started gagging. The smell was terrible—a hot, scaly fish sure was potent. He actually felt guilty he’d done this. Maybe this was a bit far. He glanced at Nick, wondering if he’d try to make a police report about this. Paul hoped not.
They both trailed him as he descended into the basement and used a plastic bag to remove the lake trout from the heating unit. Nick motioned for Sammie to clean the stinking liquid under the fish and then marched Paul up the stairs. The back door was already open, letting in cold air to flush some of the smell out, and Paul noticed there were presents under the tree in the window now as Nick led him to the front door.
Outside, Paul turned to apologize to Nick, only to find him shutting the door in his face.
“WHAT DAY are you getting in?” Nick asked, pacing across his apartment and back again.
After Paul had removed the fish and he and Sammie had opened everything that could possibly let in a little air, Nick had gone up to his apartment to see how bad the smell was there. His nose was so full of the terrible fish that he couldn’t tell, so he’d opened up his windows anyway. Then he’d called Brandon. At the moment Nick wasn’t sure what he wanted more—to break something or to fuck someone.
“Didn’t I just talk to you like a day ago?”
“And now you’re talking to me again,” Nick said. “When are you getting in?”
“You sound pissed. What’s up?” Brandon asked, and Nick clenched his free hand into a fist.
“I need to know when I have to clean my apartment,” he said, cringing as Brandon laughed.
“You never clean. We’ll use my room. You make a pass at that guy?”
Nick gritted his teeth. This was not helping. “No,” he said. “He put a fish in my heating system.” At the pause he added, “It’s not a euphemism, Brandon. He fucked with my restaurant. Drove away my customers.”
Brandon whistled low. “Going to report him to the cops or something?”
“No,” Nick said. As angry as he’d been a moment ago, he felt spent now. Maybe it was being in the cold air for so long. He flopped onto his couch and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to take it that far. But I am frustrated as hell right now—”
A knock on his door frame made him look up. Sammie stood there, holding the six-pack Paul apparently still hadn’t accepted and wearing her matching blue coat. When Nick looked over, she hoisted the six-pack higher.
“You know, Brandon, I think I’ll call you back,” Nick said, and Brandon spluttered. “Nothing you can do about it until you’re here anyway. Hav
e a nice night.”
He hung up, and Sammie crossed to him, set the beer on his messy coffee table, and fell onto the cushions next to him. She had a bottle opener as a keychain and pulled it out now.
“Sammie—”
“You gave him these, right? Well, he’s not going to drink them,” she said.
Nick didn’t care to argue further, so he accepted the stout and took a drink.
“Not wearing your coat?”
“Winter air is good for you,” said Nick.
Sammie rolled her eyes. “Keep telling yourself that. The cook and waitress you didn’t send home are still in the restaurant in case someone comes in, but I’m guessing no one’s going to be eating here the rest of the night. You looked like you could use a drink.”
Nick certainly could. He drank, not responding, wondering whether he should do something to get back at Paul. He could only see it escalating from here, though, until one of them really did have to report to the police.
“This has to end.”
“Don’t retaliate, then,” Sammie said. It sounded so simple coming from her, Nick snorted. “I’m serious. It’s about time you two made up and moved on with your lives.”
“We’re not a children’s special.”
“I get it, I do—you’re in competition. And really, you pay me, so fuck Paul’s. But someone’s going to get hurt if you keep this up. If you’re not a children’s special, you can act like an adult, Nick.”
Nick finished his beer and used her keychain to open another. “You know, I was just thinking things could get out of hand.”
“Be the bigger person, Christmas spirit, blah blah blah,” Sammie said. She took another drink. “I’m really helpful, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Nice place,” Sammie said, gesturing with the bottle around the apartment. Nick had turned a couple lamps on, too annoyed to be bothered with much light when he’d gone around opening windows, and the result was vaguely like mood lighting. The richness of the blue-gray paint on the walls was highlighted, but most of his other shit was buried under random crap. “Too bad you’re a slob.”
“I don’t have time to clean.”
“Uh-huh. What color’s the bathroom?”
Maybe Sammie was finished with the Paul-related conversation, but Nick wasn’t. His mind was still turning everything over, trying to make sense of all that had happened, how it had escalated so fast. They’d been one-upping each other in nastiness. If only—
“Green? Yellow? No—pink!”
“Why don’t you go look?” Nick asked.
Sammie shrugged, finished her beer, and got up. Nick opened another for her, trying to grasp whatever thought she’d just interrupted and failing. It frustrated him, which, if he was honest with himself, was just what Paul was doing to him right now.
Brandon was right, of course. Nick did want to fuck him. Paul was so put together, professional, and Nick—well—Nick wanted to show him a good enough time that he cracked and grinned. Showed off genuine happiness, a real smile, a hearty laugh. The fact that Paul was smart and quick enough to keep up with Nick, too, was more than he could tolerate. If they were lovers outdoing each other, Nick could imagine that would get pleasurably intense.
He swallowed as Sammie returned. Maybe he should confront Paul. No—that was too much. He had to find another angle. Getting along without trying to put each other out of business was the place to start.
“Tan,” Sammie said, flopping onto the couch and picking up her fresh beer.
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“Don’t get me wrong—it’s nice. All coordinated with the cream and green towels. Not so much nice with the hair all over the toilet and sink. I refilled your hand soap for you, but it’s up to you to get that dangly crusty thing off the pump.” She shook her head and took another drink. “You’re disgusting, Nick.”
“But coordinated.”
“Yeah, that would count for more if you cleaned.”
“What’s the point?” Nick asked, and Sammie groaned.
“No,” she said. “We’re not having that conversation.”
“What conversation?”
“The Sammie-help-I’m-single conversation. I don’t want to hear about it, and I don’t want to help with it.”
“It’s Paul,” Nick said, then grinned when Sammie turned to glare at him. “What if I said please?”
“You’re seriously interested in the guy you’ve been trying to screw over for the past month?” When Nick’s grin widened, she sighed and took another drink. “You are. You haven’t learned by now messing with people is a shitty way to get them to go out with you?”
Nick blinked.
“You just want to sleep with him?”
“No, I… I’m not sure, actually,” Nick said. “I never really thought about it until now.”
“Well, you’re shit out of luck, whatever the case.”
“What if I—”
“Doubt it. And I’m not talking about this with you, remember?” She tilted the bottle back and finished the beer. “Nope. You think I can go early?”
Nick set his beer down as she grabbed her keys and took out her phone. Now that she mentioned it, he should really let everyone go home and just close the restaurant for the night. It was hours from closing time, but Sammie was right—no one was going to be eating at a place that reeked of lake trout. He might as well give the restaurant a chance to clear up—and himself a chance to clear his head. Figure out where to go from here with Paul. He almost had an idea.
“Might as well. You’re already drinking. You have a ride?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Sammie said, standing and moving toward the door as she texted. “Thanks for the beer.”
HE HADN’T expected to feel so shitty for putting the fish in Nick’s, but Paul did. He tossed the lake trout in the dumpster and went back to work, but the guilt gnawed at him all night. When he closed up, he walked past the restaurant only to find it too was closed, and he didn’t want to think about how much business he’d lost Nick, maybe even taken from him.
Paul’s eyes fell on the Christmas tree in Nick’s window. He didn’t want to be such an asshole, and certainly not at this time of year. By the time he was climbing the stairs up to his apartment, he decided he’d give in and invite Nick over to drink those beers after all. But when he reached his door, he found that Nick had taken them back.
It stung more than it should. Paul told himself Nick had every right to take the beer, but it sent a strong message. Paul had really fucked up.
And he realized now he wanted to make that right.
He debated on how to do that for a few days, while business picked up as everyone rushed to get their last-minute shopping done. Snow fell again, and the cold stayed, and there were no more incidents in his café. He did nothing to bother Nick either, and they settled into some kind of unspoken truce that only made Paul feel worse. He realized now that he had kind of liked clashing with Nick. But not enough to risk starting everything up again.
He’d been stupid to turn down that beer with Nick all those weeks ago. Still, Paul figured the holiday afforded him the opportunity to apologize without necessarily having to talk to Nick, and without it being too weird—all he had to do was find a small something to give him. He raked his brain and went out before work a few times until he had it. The last day Paul’s Café and Nick’s Restaurant were open before Christmas, Paul brought his wrapped present down from his apartment and waited for the appropriate time to sneak it over.
“What’s that?” Erica asked as he set it down and took a glance at the menus. Nothing wrong with them, which was good, but also meant Nick was avoiding him.
“Present,” Paul said, then, when she wouldn’t stop staring at him, added, “A cookbook.”
She kept staring until he explained it in more detail, then smiled and rolled her eyes. “I’ll let you know if I see him leave,” she said.
Paul passed a nervous few hours waiting, th
e cookbook lingering underneath the stack of menus. Erica was as good as her word, though, appearing midafternoon to pull him aside and say Nick had run up to his apartment. Paul used the front entrances, out his place and into Nick’s, and darted to the tree before anyone could tell him to take a seat.
The wrapping paper on his book was entirely different than the red and gold stuff Nick had used on the items under the tree. Well, if the green stood out, then it would only mean Nick would find it sooner. He wasn’t going to stick around and wait to get caught. Paul darted back into his café and did the rounds on the three tables currently full, asking whether everything was all right.
He didn’t notice his stockings were stuffed until closing.
“What is this?” Paul asked, but the waiter only shrugged and wished him a good vacation. He clearly didn’t want to stick around.
Most of the other staff left too, but Erica came out of the kitchen with a whole pizza loaded with toppings. She slid it on the counter, grabbed plates and forks, and served. “Food?” she asked. “I used a bunch of stuff that wasn’t going to last. Bacon, curds, chicken, fries, onions….”
“Sure, thanks,” Paul said, then reached his hand into a stocking and pulled out a small giftwrapped rectangle. “Do you know anything about this?”
Erica shoved a forkful of pizza in her mouth.
Paul sighed and unwrapped it, finding a chocolate bar underneath. Seventy percent cocoa. Not bad. Although damned suspicious. “You think it’s poisoned?”
Erica motioned to him. “Sit, eat while it’s hot.”
Paul relented, but only after pulling out the other items in his stockings, all also wrapped. There was something that seemed to be a small jar, another rectangle, something soft and squishy, and what had to be a bottle of wine. He left them on the counter and ate. “This is delicious, thanks. Now come on. What’s with the presents? It’s not you?”
Erica shook her head. “No, and I don’t want to get involved,” she said. “Judging by this, though, I’d say you have an admirer. One who maybe wants to stuff your stocking?”
Paul decided to drop the subject. He and Erica chatted about families and pizza and holiday traditions for a little while, and then Erica took off, leaving half the pizza for Paul. It would make a decent couple of lunches over his vacation.
Wreck the Halls Page 4