St. Nacho's 4: The Book of Daniel

by Z. A. Maxfield

The waiter brought appetizers and with them beer for all of us. I shoved a lime into the neck of my bottle and sipped it slowly because I was already enjoying a really good buzz. Once JT and Cam arrived, smoking was out, but that was okay. Once the platter of nachos, taquitos, and chips with homemade guacamole came, there wasn’t much need for the emotional camouflage of tobacco.

  JT and Jake lived in a happy world all their own. Cam and I might as well be furniture for all we mattered.

  Big platters of fajitas arrived, steaming and sizzling on flat cast-iron skillets. Grilled chicken and beef for them and shrimp for me, along with soft, chewy homemade tortillas, caramelized vegetables, and fresh salsa. Nobody talks much while they’re eating at Nacho’s. The food is too damn good. But after we’d put away the better part of our meal, JT seemed on edge—more so than I’d seen in a while.

  “How’s work? Everything okay?”

  He blushed. “It’s fine. We had a long weekend, couple of bad wrecks on the highway.”

  “You seem a little tense.”

  “I’m just hungry I guess.” JT’s gaze fell to his food.

  I glanced at Jake, but he didn’t look up from his plate. I watched him nervously shovel beans into a tortilla. One thing you learn when you live in an unhappy home—and I had lived in those all my life—was when things have gone from sugar to shit, you have to find out why fast. Bad things happen when you don’t pay attention to subtext.

  “What’s going on?” I put down my fork.

  Cam and JT exchanged glances. All three pairs of eyes turned to me.

  Great. Everyone knew whatever it was except me.

  JT took Jake’s hand in his. “We were going to wait for dessert, but I guess we can say this now. I’ve asked Yasha to marry me, and he’s accepted.”

  Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t that, and I didn’t have time to school my face. I wish I could take that back, because whatever Jake—Yasha as people called him in St. Nacho’s—saw caused his eyes to cloud with sadness. I smoothed my napkin in my lap with both hands to stall for time, but when that ran out, I went after the conversational ball I’d dropped.

  “Congratulations. That’s great. I thought it wasn’t legal.”

  Jake swallowed hard, and JT answered for both of them. “It isn’t legal under the California constitution, but we’ll be having a commitment ceremony with our rabbi and that’s…”

  “It will be legal someday.” Cam spoke quietly. “But a commitment belongs to the people who make it.”

  I sat back in my chair and told my second lie of the night. “That’s…that’s just great, then. I’m happy for you. Have you decided when?”

  “June.”

  “That soon?”

  “Danilo. I need to know…will you be my best man?”

  There was an awkward, awful pause until JT said, “Cam’s going to be mine. You’re still on board, right?”

  Cam’s smile was genuine. “Yeah.” Cam clasped JT’s hand and pulled him in for a big bear hug. “You got it. Whatever you need. I don’t suppose you’ll let me throw you a huge, nasty bachelor party, ’cause that could—”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. We’re going to have an engagement party. Maybe you could help with that?”

  “You can count on me.” Cam’s grin was wide and guileless.

  I finally found my voice. “Me too.”

  Three gazes leveled at me, and they all communicated an appalling lack of faith.

  “Really.” I fiddled with the label on my beer and finally took a big swig. “Anything you need. It’s on me.”

  A muscle jumped in JT’s jaw, and Cam frowned.

  “I need to talk to my brother alone, if that’s okay,” Jake told them. “I’ll see you guys later, all right?”

  “Sure.” JT leaned over and kissed him. They smiled for one another, and then he turned to me. His chin shot up, and he said, “See you.”

  “Yeah,” I tried to keep a pleasant smile plastered on my face. “See you.”

  Cam left with JT. I think he must have winked or given Jake a wave, but he didn’t say anything.

  “What is it with that big—”

  “What the fuck is your problem?” Jake throttled his beer like he wanted to break it.

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “I’m not even going to talk about how you treat Cam, but can’t you find it in your heart to be happy that I’ve found someone?”

  “Of course I’m happy, but—”

  “But what? You think I can’t see your sarcasm? You think I’m too blind to see what you really think? It was written all over your face.”

  “What do I think?” I threw my napkin down. “If you know so much, tell me what I think.”

  “It’s obvious you were surprised. You have misgivings, and you probably don’t approve, but instead of talking to me about it, your response is to paste on a fake smile and throw money around. ‘It’s on me.’ Fuck you, Dan. If that’s all you have to offer anyone anymore, take care of our tab.”

  Jake pushed his chair back and left me sitting there alone.

  After he stalked away, our waiter came back, tentatively offering to-go boxes and asking if I wanted anything else in such a way that I figured I was right; I had taken him home at one point.

  “I see your arm is healing,” he offered, along with a really nice smile. I doubted he’d smile at me like that if I told him I couldn’t remember exactly who he was.

  “Yeah. I’ve been doing some physical therapy.”

  He hugged his tray to himself and rocked back on his heels. “How’s that going?”

  “Tough.” I shrugged. “But you do what you gotta do, right?”

  He nodded. “Listen, I’ll be getting off my shift at seven… Do you want to go somewhere? Or…”

  I looked him over; he was cute. A young Latino with a smile that held a spark of mischief. Ordinarily I’d have taken him up on it, whoever he was, because he was hot. But the look on Jake’s face when he left bothered me. It wasn’t there, what I’d grown to expect from him. What I’d grown to depend on. If I didn’t figure out why, the hole that seemed to be gnawing at my gut more and more lately would only get bigger.

  “That’s a great offer, but my hand hurts like fuck, and I think I need to ice it down, take some pain pills, and sleep. Maybe some other time.”

  Worried brown eyes surveyed the table. “Watch what you take. You did a lot of drinking, and mixing shit is bad.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Thank you. Good point.” I took out my wallet. “Look, if you could just get me the bill, then I’ll—”

  “Oh, no. Cam, you know? The firefighter? He paid already.”

  “Cam paid? Well, shit.” I stared at my wallet, wondering what to do next. “We weren’t even done.”

  “He took care of everything though, so it’s fine.”

  Maybe my head wasn’t as clear as I thought, because I pulled a twenty from my wallet and tried to give it to him. “I’m sure he did, but here you go. Thanks for everything. See you next time, all right?”

  He backed away from me, frowning, and when I was smart enough to look into his eyes, there was pain there. “No. I said Cam paid. He took care of everything. You can just go.”

  I’d hurt him, damn it. I hadn’t meant anything by the offer. The idea of leaving nothing felt wrong, since I had started the tab before anyone else came along. But then Jake and his friends came and left. And fuck, was that how it was going to be? Like I was the table and people came over and sat down and got up and left without even leaving the bill for me to pay so I felt like I was part of it?

  “Dan? Are you okay?”

  Marius. That was his name. “Marius.”

  Marius smiled. “That’s me. I thought for a minute maybe you didn’t remember me.”

  “How could I forget?” Third lie of the night. Was that commission, omission, or platitude? I should know that.

  I still had that twenty clutched in my good hand. “I meant no disrespect. Just wante
d to tip my waiter.”

  Almost reluctantly, Marius held his hand out, palm up. “As long as it’s on account of the job. You have my number.”

  Did I? I nodded. “Next time.”

  Chapter Three

  My physical therapist, Jordan, always looked away while he iced down my arm. I think it was because those first few times I fought a losing battle against crying or being sick. He’s a compassionate guy. He doesn’t share much, but I get the feeling he needs to take away my pain. It’s as if he’s atoning for something, so it’s rough on both of us.

  I’d spent nearly forty-five minutes working my hand that day. He warmed me with compresses and gradual movement, and we’d progressed to pronation. My range of movement—just turning my hand over at the wrist is gone for the most part. My bones had to be stabilized in such a way that the muscles don’t flex like they used to. Lifting my wrist, squeezing a soft rubber ball, picking up marbles, and using my fingers to grip a flexible web were all innocent-seeming tortures for me day in and day out.

  Inevitably pale and sweating, exhausted and depressed, I left Jordan and the Day-Use Ex Machina gym where he worked. I did that twice a week still, sometimes three times, and followed up with homework. Exercises with equipment and little finger-tapping routines—thumb, forefinger, and each other finger after—counting off twenty reps, before bed.

  I didn’t toss my cookies anymore after our sessions, something for which I’m sure we were both grateful.

  The pain was manageable, and even though I’d told more than one person I was on pain medication to get out of awkward situations, I hadn’t taken narcotics since the very beginning. I was killing my liver with alcohol and NSAIDs, but you wouldn’t find me in line to get hooked on narcoanalgesics. I’d seen one too many colleagues—bright, clever people—go down that road, and I for damn sure wasn’t going to let that be my destination.

  “I got you something.” Jordan was opening a UPS parcel. “I think you can probably start using this now. It’s one-and-a-half pounds in strength, the lowest this manufacturer makes, so the pressure shouldn’t hurt you, but as with anything, start slow.”

  What he pulled from the box was a yellow plastic and spring contraption that looked like part of a trumpet, with buttons for each of my fingers. Just looking at it hurt. When I finally accepted it, I felt my eyes burn, and it was a sign of how tired I was that I didn’t hide it. He demonstrated with a red one, pushing the little spring bar with his index, then his middle finger, his ring finger, and pinkie. He casually rippled them over the buttons, back and forth like a child would wave with little wiggly fingers.

  My heart sank when I realized I would never, ever have that kind of dexterity, the kind he took for granted, the kind that allowed him to move his fingers independently, that let him push buttons without the gut-clenching fear I felt just looking at my new toy.

  “I don’t expect you to do this with each of your fingers just yet. It’s simply another weapon in our arsenal.”

  I swallowed down the nausea that it made me feel. “Sure.”

  “This…” Jordan frowned. His optimism seldom wavered, but I could see how watching me suffer was taking its toll. “This isn’t easy, I know. I think you have a realistic outlook and you’re working really hard. If I could make this better, if I had a way to make it easier—”

  “It is what it is,” I said, and at the time I meant it. It’s amazing how far I’ll go out of my way to cheer someone up when they’re upset about my pain. “A couple of Advil, a blowjob. I’ll get my mind off it somehow.”

  Jordan was never shocked by what I said, but sometimes it made him color a little. “Whatever it takes. It is going to get easier. You’ll see.”

  “I know. Besides I have the hottest PT in town.” This is an old joke. Not only was he the only certified sports medicine PT in town, he was the son of my brother’s business partner, and she was a friend. “I’ll see you.”

  He nodded, then opened the door for me. When I looked back it was to see him unguarded. He was worried about me, maybe, and a little depressed that he couldn’t make things better. I’d seen that look on his face before.

  “You make it a lot easier to take, Jordan.”

  He nodded again, but put his hand on my shoulder. “I wish I could make it go away.”

  Would there have been any sense in my saying Me too? I didn’t think so. I just left to make my way across the gym, which as usual was chock-full of healthy athletes, first-rate bodies working like finely tuned machines, gripping, lifting, squeezing, and pumping iron with perfect hands and arms while I…

  It didn’t bear thinking about, so I put my head down and started walking. I held my new yellow torture device in my good hand, manipulating it with ridiculous ease while my injured arm rested in its special sling, when someone getting up from a weight bench tripped over his towel and hurtled into me on the right side, a mass of muscle and bone that smashed and flailed against my just-iced hand and caused such pain to explode inside my skin that fireworks of color burst behind my eyelids.

  “Fuck.” I doubled over to protect my hand even as my knees buckled from the pain. “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “Watch it!” a voice behind me barked. Warm hands drew me away from the collision and into another solid mass of muscle, this one tall, hot, and damp—I guessed from working out—but oh, so gentle and fuck, almighty, I turned into whoever’s touch that was and nearly passed out, savoring the warm embrace and the smell of a clean man’s honest sweat.

  “Are you all right?”

  I couldn’t open my eyes and still squeeze back tears, so I nodded.

  The man who tripped into me said, “It was an accident, man. I’m so sorry.”

  I nodded again. “’S’okay. Shit happens.”

  Jordan had apparently seen the collision, because soon he was standing right at my elbow. I recognized his distinctive, fresh cologne, and he and whoever had caught me were leading me back to the therapy room where I could sit down. A big hand stayed where it had landed on my shoulder, soothing me while I learned to breathe again.

  “I’ll get more ice.” Jordan hurried to the door. “I won’t be long.”

  That left me with my Good Samaritan, so I opened my eyes, prepared to thank him and tell him I would be fine.

  It was Cameron Rooney, and I had no words.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got you, Daniel.”

  I hadn’t recognized his voice because it was different, as unlike the voice of the firefighter who’d cut me out of my car as it was unlike the man who’d verbally sparred with me the night before at Nacho’s. Maybe that was the first time I realized that Cam Rooney had lots of different voices. That he suited what he said and did to the moment more perfectly than anyone I’d ever known. In a way, he was the ultimate chameleon. Later, when I thought about it, I realized that when we were alone, he called me Daniel.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He got up and moved to the wall on the other side of the room and struck a cowboy pose, hunched over with arms crossed, his leg bent at the knee and his foot braced against the wall. He was so beautiful I just stared at him.

  A long silence stretched out between us, and I figured that was because we usually took potshots at one another and he didn’t want to fire at me when I was already down.

  He surprised me again by saying, “I don’t get you.”

  I glanced up at his face. “What’s to get?”

  He shook his sweaty blond head, which had for some reason at one point resembled a buffalo head to me, and I never got tired of telling him that. “I figure we can agree that sometimes I see people at the worst moments of their lives. People are hardwired for survival, and a firefighter gets a front-row seat to the best and worst, you know?”

  “I never thought about it that way.”

  “I’ve seen nice people run from burning buildings and leave their kids and pets behind. I’ve seen men and women die trying to save someone they don’t even know. When
I pulled you and Yasha out of that wreck, he didn’t want to leave without you. I thought I’d have to knock him out. I would have too.”

  I had to smile at that. I had no doubt. My hand had been crushed between the seat and the door, and Jake refused to leave me, even though it was a massive pileup in the fog, with impact after impact. The worst night of my fucking life, and there was Cam to save the day.

  I’d tried to get my brother to go to safety, but he was stubborn as hell. In those awful, endless moments before rescue I thought we’d both die right there. Then Cam’s face appeared in the window on the driver’s side. His gauntleted hand shone a flashlight into the crushed passenger compartment of my once-beautiful Lexus, and he’d grinned at us like a blond angel.

  Did he think I wanted Jake to stay with me?

  “I tried to make him leave.”

  “I know you did,” Cam said in that quiet, soothing voice I’d never heard before. “It was obvious you were hiding how badly you were injured. You weren’t about to let him see the pain, so you joked it away. Lied like a damn rug. After he left, I saw what you didn’t have to hide anymore. Excruciating pain. Terror.”

  I had to clear my throat to talk above a whisper. “He’s my kid brother. I look after him. I always have.”

  “Then why’d you treat him like you did last night? Can’t you be happy for him? Can’t you hide your feelings when his happiness is at stake and not just his life?”

  I had no answer. I still didn’t know why I’d reacted the way I did. Part of me understood I’d become an accomplished liar. Why couldn’t I lie about that?

  I nodded again to let him know I’d heard him, and we both jumped a little when Jordan came back. I felt Cam’s eyes on me while Jordan iced me down again, and then I heard him leave.

  For a beat or two I was inexpressibly bereft. I wanted him to say my name again because it felt so damn good.

  “You’re swelling.” Jordan sounded concerned.

  “I’ll be all right. I’ll elevate it, and in the morning it will be fine.”

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t see a doctor?”

  “It’s okay, really.”