by Jodi Payne
“Surely. It smells rich and good. I’d love to try.”
“It is.” He cut a ravioli in half so Sam could get a good taste and held out his fork.
“Thanks.” Sam took the fork, humming softly as he ate the bite. “Oh, that’s nice.”
He nodded. “It’s one of my favorites here. Earthy and creamy. It’s like comfort food.” He took his fork back and had another bite. “Oh. Thanksgiving is potluck. What should we bring? I usually bring a pie. I’m a horrible cook, but we should bring something else too.”
“Sure. I can bring whatever folks need—rolls or paper plates, Cokes, whatever. I live on peanut butter and cereal, as a rule. I haven’t turned the stove on since I got here.”
“You really need that job. Have you thought about…about moving?” He wouldn’t mind. It was getting easier, but he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to stand on the front stoop comfortably again.
“I’m gonna have to, and I know it. I don’t know how James did it. He must have had a buttload of savings. Right now, I just freeze at the idea of it. I’ve never—” Sam’s lips snapped shut, and Thomas got, “I bet I’ll figure it out after I get through the holidays.”
“Mhm.” He nodded. “After the holidays.” This season was going to be really hard on Sam. They’d be hard enough on him, but he’d made his peace with his family years ago. Dealing with all of that loss at once seemed so…cruel.
“Yeah. I’ll figure it. I’m a smart dog.”
He put his fork down and took his last sip of wine. “I am stuffed. That was delicious.”
“It was. Thank you for coming. I was in need of good company.”
“Me too.” He pulled out his wallet and waved the server over to hand her his credit card. “Thank you.”
“Wait. No, I invited you. It’s my treat. That’s only fair.” Sam handed over a card of his own. “Tell the nice man he’ll have to save his pennies, huh?”
Sam should have just let him get it. The man couldn’t buy a coat, but he wanted to pay for dinner and wine?
“We won’t drag you into an argument.” Thomas pulled his card away so as not to embarrass Sam, but he shot Sam a meaningful look.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Sam’s upper lip quirked. “Don’t look at me like that. I invited you, and I wouldn’t have if I couldn’t buy yours. I got a buddy that sold a bunch of my stuff for me back home, so I got a little bump coming. No worries.” Sam touched his wrist. “I needed to see you, huh? I was in a bad way.”
Thomas nodded and took Sam’s hand. “This will get…better.” Somehow he couldn’t promise easier. The server brought the check for Sam to sign and he stretched before standing up. He decided to help Sam with the coat. He could be looking at the damn thing until Christmas. He’d better get the hell over it.
17
Terrance and Rocket had both vouched for him, and Daddy Mike had interviewed him, and Darla had done everything but count his teeth and check him for an enlarged prostate.
So, barring his final interview, which Rocket had slipped up and called his initiation, he had a job at Mike’s, the tavern that he’d gone to fight at that first night. He’d been coming by a couple times a week, looking at his phone for want ads, having a single beer. They were good folks, rough, but familiar and welcoming. They saw one of their own, he reckoned.
Another blue-collar dipshit that had “no shit there I was” stories, ink and scars, and would wade in without a thought if a guy hit a lady.
God help them if they hit one of the bikini-clad bartenders in his sight. That shit pissed him off.
Barbacking seven to midnight. Bouncing midnight to four. One meal a night. Sundays off. Cash under the table. Free Wi-Fi after his shift if he agreed to stay with Darla while she did the deposit.
Like Darla needed protection. Shit. Call it what it was. He sat near the door so he took the first bullet and gave Darla time to hit the alarm.
It would be tough as shit, but it would pay bills.
He had to deal with shit. He had to get out of James’s apartment, find a way for Thomas to understand he wasn’t James.
He was his own man.
Thomas wasn’t ready to hear that, he didn’t think. Thomas was still hurting for James, maybe always would be. Sam didn’t know. Maybe he was the biggest fool that ever lived for hoping.
Nah.
He was the biggest fool that ever lived for sitting at the bar knowing he was fixin’ to have to stand still and get beat on to get a minimum wage job at a bar so he could stay in New York City and be close to the man that was in love with a ghost.
“Pour out a shot of Jager for little Sammy, Dave!” Terrance pulled out the stool next to him and slid it to the side but didn’t sit.
“Little painkiller, huh?” He took the shot without flinching. “Lay off the face, huh? I ain’t got money for dental work.”
“Fair enough. No head shots. We don’t want to kill you.”
“Y’all won’t kill me.” Hurt him, sure, but he’d been hurt before. He held out one hand to shake with Terrance.
Terrance’s eyes went wide. “Dude! What happened?”
He looked at his hand, rolled his eyes at the slash there. “Some dickhead thinks putting razors on doorknobs is so fucking funny. When I catch him, I’m going to feed him his own arm.”
Terrance grinned at him. “Call us. We’ll help you out. See you on the flip side. Rocket?” They shook hands; then Rocket knocked his knees out from under him, and he was grateful that he wasn’t wearing one of his two best shirts. He was fixin’ to eat pavement.
“Jesus, did you stomp on him?”
Sam heard the voices from a distance. He didn’t wince, but he would admit to praying that they thought he was out.
If they asked him to walk home now, he wouldn’t make it half a block before the vultures fell on him.
“Nah, Gabe. Just making sure he could take it. He took more than any of these assholes ever did. He can sleep it off here. Darla will bring him coffee in the morning.”
He felt hands on him, very lightly testing out the line of his ribs. “I’ll leave him something stronger to take with the coffee. When’s the last time one of you jokers heard him speak?”
“He never said a fucking word. Not one.”
He looked over, met Angel’s eyes. Okay. Well, this was probably good.
“Well, well. Good morning, sunshine. I knew I was going to be seeing you again. How many fingers?”
He saw six. “Three. How goes?”
“I never have a bad day.” Angel shook his head. “They were nice to you. Your face is still pretty. Deep breath.”
“Ask me for something easier, like moving the earth.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth, telling himself not to make a sound.
“Okay, let it out slow. Better?” Angel’s hands were all over his torso, moving quickly and gently, searching. “Good, good. Just want to look at your back. Can I roll you?”
“Yeah.”
He went over, and Angel grunted. “You took it, didn’t you? Damn. You have a core of steel. This needs aftercare, kiddo, not a night on a bar floor.”
But a night on a bar floor was what he was fixin’ to get, so why bitch? What was anyone going to do?
Angel sat up. “Clear everyone out, huh? Go. Out. Give us some privacy, please. That’s it. Thank you.”
He heard mumbling and boots scuffing on the floor, then quiet.
“I have to call him, you know.”
“He’ll understand.” Thomas got him, knew how bad he needed this job.
“Okay. Next dilemma. I can send him here to get you, you can leave with me, or you can try to haul your own ass out of here. But you’re not staying here. You need a little work, and I assume you’d rather this crew not see that.”
“I can walk. I can. Just give me a hand up.” If he didn’t die or throw up, he’d be fine.
Angel got him to his feet, and it was a close thing—both death and vomit—but he managed. “Good deal. Tell him I’ll
call him later, huh? When he wakes up?”
The whole world was soft, fuzzy on all the edges.
“Work on Monday, little Sammy. See you at seven.”
“Yessir. Work on Monday.”
He was pretty sure Angel ran a little interference for him on the way out. The man was, like, three feet wider and six feet taller or something. Huge. Really big. You could hide three of him behind the man’s back.
When they got outside, Angel apologized, pointing to his Harley. “I’ll get you home, but you’re gonna have to hold on.” Angel stuck his pack in one of the saddle bags and got on. “Come on, cowboy.”
“Hey! Wait!” Darla came running out into the cold in her bikini and someone’s humongous leather jacket, carrying his hat. “Can’t forget this, little Sammy.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He crawled onto the bike, his body screaming at him. For a wild second, he swore he saw James, out there on the street, and his whimper was hidden by the sound of Angel’s bike.
Angel looked over his shoulder. “You hang on like your momma’s life depends on it.”
They took off, not giving him a chance to reply.
He closed his eyes and rested his head on Angel’s broad back. Thomas trusted him. Daddy Mike trusted him. Sam would trust him.
“He’s still out. I fixed him up, tucked him in.…What?…Oh no, all his shit was on the couch, so I figured…yeah. No, he’s beat to hell and bruised but nothing dangerous. He’s good. He said to tell you he’d call you in the morning.…Would I say he was good if he wasn’t good, Tommy?” Angel laughed, the sound huge in James’s apartment. “I’m going to give him a couple pain pills. He’ll piss blood for a few days, probably. I have his back packed in ice now. He’s a fucking stud.”
The last thing he remembered was a red light somewhere on…somewhere. He heard Angel digging through his pack and the rattle of a medicine bottle.
“Well, I wouldn’t leave him alone long. He won’t be getting up or back down without help. And if you can convince him to use the bed, he’ll do better.…Yeah, I get it. So what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Angel’s voice drifted off in the direction of the kitchen.
Look at you, bubba. You look like hammered shit.
“Shut up, asshole. I need a job.”
I know. I know. Damn. You’re after Thomas.
He didn’t answer that, because James was dead; he wasn’t real. He was hallucinating from all the pain. It happened. Sometimes you had to accept that.
Love you, you little idiot. Next time, fight back.
“That wasn’t the job interview.”
“What?…No, not you, your boy here is talking. I’m gonna hop. Don’t panic if you don’t hear from him until tomorrow afternoon. I’m giving him the good shit.…Yep.…Yeah. Night.”
Angel cleared his throat. “You passed the interview, Sam. You’re home now.”
“Good deal. Thanks. That’s a long walk.”
Angel snorted. “You were on my bike, man. So, I talked to your Master. He’s going to keep an eye on you, I bet. What’s the deal with the razor blades on your counter?”
“Dunno.”
“Huh. Okay, take these. I’ll leave you four more—ten a.m. and four p.m. Repeat it.”
“Ten and four. Dr Pepper.”
“Water, pills, bottle if you need to pee. Bucket. Phone. If you need the bucket, the next thing you do is call 9-1-1. Clear? Stay put until Tommy comes over. He’ll bring more ice. I’m going to give him your key, okay?”
“I hear you. He had one before. Turn the stereo on? Please?” He needed noise.
“You got it, little Sammy. Music for the cowboy.”
“Thanks.” He should have asked James when he was here if he called Thomas “Tommy.”
Sam just couldn’t.
18
Thomas was going to be stepping around invisible police tape outside Sam’s apartment building for the rest of his life. It wasn’t even about James really anymore; it was just habit. Come up the sidewalk, grab the handrail, and climb the first two steps on the far left side. It was like walking under a ladder or putting shoes on the bed. He just didn’t walk over there. Superstition.
In recent years, Thanksgiving Day had become his favorite holiday. Good food, chosen family, some good music and conversation. No expectations, no gifts to shop for, no Thanksgiving “eve” to draw the holiday out longer than it needed to be. There were people he’d miss today, James at the top of that list, but many things to be grateful for as well.
He’d hoped to be grateful for the NYPD today, but that seemed to be at a standstill.
He pulled his key ring out of his pocket, careful not to drop his apple pie, and let himself in without a second thought. That was a new habit, actually using the key he’d been given, one of what he hoped would be a handful of things that made this Sam’s place. He’d rearranged his thinking. He was trying.
He rapped twice on the door and turned the deadbolt with his key but hesitated before reaching for the doorknob. Some practical joker in the building thought it was cute to leave razor blades out for unsuspecting tenants. Well, he’d made sure Sam contacted the landlord.
All clear today, so he let himself in.
“Hey, it’s me.” Sam really needed to get his buzzer fixed.
Sam was sitting with his legs up the wall doing crunches, one after another, like a machine.
For a moment, Thomas was captivated, and he froze in the doorway, halfway in and half out, watching Sam’s abdominal muscles work overtime. “You’re something else, O’Reilly.” Something else being code for ripped. Or scorching hot. Damn.
He came in and let the door close behind him, then set his pie down on the counter.
“I totally am. Happy turkey day, sir. How goes?”
There were two things he’d learned he could count on from Sam every time they saw each other. The first was a valiant attempt at a smile no matter what was actually going on in the boy’s life at the moment, and the other was “How goes?”
“Well, I’ve been to the gym and I made my pie, so I’d say I’m fairly well prepared for the day. You?” Other than the fact that you’re not in Texas and you’re doing crunches despite being black-and-blue everywhere.
“I’m…” Sam kept crunching, the oddest look on his face. “I’m excited.”
It was hard to believe he was looking at the same man who had alternated between sleeping, hallucinating, and swearing colorfully just last Saturday. They’d spoken on the phone on Tuesday, and sure enough, Sam had hauled that bruised body uptown and started work Monday night. Thomas was caught somewhere between awe, respect, and utter disbelief. “Excited? Ready for a party?”
“I am ready to just enjoy you. This. Us.” Sam was sweating, those abs rock-hard. “Twenty left. I bought three big bags of rolls.”
“Just twenty?” He dumped his jacket on a chair, sat on the floor against the wall next to Sam’s legs, and grinned at him. “Do ten extra, for me. I’m enjoying the view.”
“No problem.” Sam pumped them out, slowing down for the final ten, letting him watch.
“Very nice, thank you. You didn’t enjoy that at all I’m sure. Being watched?” One more thing to be grateful for.
“I work hard on my core. It doesn’t hurt my feelings that you see it.”
“I was being sarcastic. I noticed you slowed down for me.” Thomas stood and offered Sam a hand up.
“Oh. I thought you were paying me a compliment.” Sam snorted and hauled himself up. “Let me towel off. You want a coffee?”
“Sure. I got it. You want me to make you one while I’m at it?” He headed for the kitchen, but not before he got one more look at those abs.
“Please.” Sam took about two seconds to return, wearing a worn flannel that was huge.
“Where did you come up with that?”
“Daddy Mike gave me some winter shit he wasn’t using anymore. Mostly sweats and all.”
“Looks comfortable.” Thomas made an effort not to so
und like an asshole. Sam was scrambling, but he was making headway, and he hadn’t asked for help. For the moment his head was above water, and it wasn’t Thomas’s place to step in. Not yet.
Daddy Mike. Thomas had spoken with Angel at length about this bar where Sam was working. Angel knew it well and spoke fairly highly of this Daddy Mike fellow and the bar’s staff. He’d be the first to admit he was nosy, probably more than Sam would have liked, and asked Angel a handful of specific questions.
But he hadn’t heard much from Sam himself, other than this horrific beating he’d received was the final component to what was essentially…what? Orientation? On the job training? And he was absolutely torn in half about it.
He handed Sam the first cup of coffee. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. Tired. It’s new, being on my feet so long, but I’m learning the ropes.”
The part of him that was a friend to Sam, that tried to be supportive and understanding, was glad to hear that things were starting off well, even if the establishment itself was a bit dubious. What he was struggling with was the part of him that was far more protective, even possessive, the piece that wanted to stand between Sam and anyone who had thrown a punch that night.
It took more discipline than he’d expected to keep the Dominant in him at bay. “It’s not easy being new, right?”
“No, sir, but I am at peace with that. Easy isn’t my thing.” Sam settled on the sofa, curling in the corner. “It’s a job. I’ve been in a situation to get my ass kicked a lot, but that was…anyway they trust me, and I can do my freelance work at the office. I’ll just make a plan now—bills, moving, more work.”
More work?
Thomas knew he was light years ahead of Sam in terms of his hopes for their relationship. He was a Dom. He wanted a sub. He was forcing himself to slow down, to wait for the appropriate cues from Sam before he would even consider demanding Sam’s weekends. At the moment, Sam worked evenings and nights in nine-hour shifts plus freelance jobs and only had Sundays off. Thomas was essentially nine-to-five. That contrast in schedule would become unsustainable for them should Sam show earnest interest in working with him as a sub. Up to this point anything that had happened at the club had been at his initiative, his request, not Sam’s.