Nero laughed again, harder this time, a sensation he barely recognised. “She must’ve loved you a bit, then. I read somewhere that white bread is killing off the human race.”
“Oh, it is. But I didn’t give a shit when I was eight, I just wanted to fit in.”
“And now?” Nero burned with curiosity. Lenny was like no one else he’d ever met, and he didn’t strike Nero as a man who bothered much about conforming.
But the sudden shadows in Lenny’s gaze made Nero wish he’d kept his bonehead questions to himself. Even Lenny’s whisper-light sigh felt like a punch to the gut.
“I kinda found myself at uni,” Lenny said. “All those years I’d wasted with my head in the books, treading the path other people had drawn for me, fell away. I met gay guys, trans guys, lesbians, and I felt . . . home, I guess. Clubbing, dancing, fucking around. No one cared who I was or where I came from. They saw me as I was in the moment—young, gay, and free. It was okay—it was good—to be different, you know?”
Nero nodded, though he had little understanding of the world Lenny described. Gay? Not quite. Free? Never. “How close to being a quack did you get?”
“Not very. I sacked it off a few months in.”
“To do what?”
“To realise that prancing around, drawing attention to yourself, is as dangerous as killing yourself to fit in.”
Lenny’s tone was bleak. Nero’s head wanted to ask more, but his heart said no. He passed the joint to Lenny, then slid down the wall, gazing out over Shepherd’s Bush, mentally ticking off the landmarks that made up the skyline that was often his only companion on nights like these—the bookies, the laundrette, and the dodgy kebab van that parked up every night outside the pub. At 2 a.m. it was winding down, but there was still a crowd of late-night pissheads around it, queuing up for their dose of grease.
The sight sparked a vague idea in Nero’s foggy brain. He chased it down, but it was gone before it became anything coherent. His eyelids grew heavier, and his bed called his name. Reluctantly, he forced himself upright, wobbling as the night of booze and biftas caught up with him.
Lenny smiled like a lazy cat. “All right?”
“Yup. I’m gonna sleep. You working tomorrow?”
“You tell me. You’re the boss.”
“So? I gave you the day off and you worked anyway. You’re a fucking loose cannon.”
Lenny shrugged. “Guess that means I’m working, then.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know, but I might as well. Got nothin’ else to do. Night, mate.”
Lenny stubbed the joint out and drifted away, leaving Nero to murmur his good night to a silhouette that seemed too ethereal to be real.
Nero pried the tongs from Lenny’s hand. “Seriously, take a night off.”
“I don’t want to.” Lenny jumped, swiping at the tongs Nero held high above his head. “I’m learning, aren’t I? I did all the grilling yesterday, and I didn’t hear anyone complaining.”
“That ain’t the point.” Though Lenny was right. He’d run the grill the previous day with the poise of a man who’d been doing it years, not weeks, and the only gripes had been Nero’s own as he’d spent the entire service dressing plates with the artistic flair Pippa’s guests had come to expect since Lenny’s arrival. “You’ve worked every service since . . . shit, I don’t know when.”
“So have you.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have, ’cause when you’re not in here cooking, you’re doing shit for Cass.”
Another point to Lenny. Nero was so busy his brain hurt, but he liked it that way. Meant he fell into bed too exhausted to dream, and that was never a bad thing. Besides, he was used to it, more at home on the grill than in his own bed. But Lenny? He was tired. Even if he wouldn’t admit it.
So why won’t he stop? Nero stared into Lenny’s bloodshot eyes, and something clicked in his brain. Busy. Distraction. How many times had Lenny told him he had nothing better to do? He won’t stop because he can’t.
Nero relinquished the tongs. “Fill yer boots, mate.”
He strode away without another word and went straight to the office, thankful to find it empty. Cass’s mobile went to voice mail, so he called the big old house in Berkhamsted.
Tom answered. Nero sighed, irritated. “You never answer this phone.”
“Nice to hear from you too,” Tom said dryly. “Everything okay?”
“Yup. Cass there?”
“He’s asleep.”
“Asleep?” Nero checked the time. Half past six? Seriously? “What’s the matter with him?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. He nodded off earlier, so I left him to it. Is it important? I can wake him up if—”
“Nah, it’s fine.”
“Is this about Lenny?”
Nero paused. Cass hadn’t asked him to keep Lenny from Tom, but that didn’t mean much. He might’ve assumed Nero and Tom wouldn’t cross paths—
“Stop fretting, Nero. It’s fine. Jake and I know all about him. It was Jake’s idea to send him to you.”
“It was?”
“Yes. He seemed to think you’d be good for each other.”
Nero scowled. “In what way?”
“I have no idea, just like I have no idea why we’re having this conversation. Care to enlighten me?”
“I don’t know what to do with him.”
“In the kitchen?”
Nero spun around in his chair. “I s’pose. I mean, he’s smashing it, considering he ain’t trained, but it’s not enough for him. If he’s gonna be with me—er, here for a while, he’s gotta have something else to do.”
Tom hummed thoughtfully. “I honestly don’t know how long he’s going to need refuge. I spoke to the police today, but they weren’t very cooperative.”
Coppers? Fuck’s sake. Nero didn’t need that shit, but held his tongue, hoping Tom would answer the questions Nero had spared Lenny.
“And I don’t blame Lenny for wanting to keep his head down,” Tom went on. “Being in his situation, with no support, must be terrifying. Perhaps a distraction . . . an occupation would be helpful . . .”
Tom trailed off, clearly speculating. Nero waited, his brain whirring at a thousand miles an hour. Tom seemed to think Nero knew it all, but it was fast becoming obvious that he knew nothing about the vibrant, frightened man sleeping on his couch. He pictured Lenny on the fire escape a few weeks ago, smoking, drinking, laughing . . . and too afraid to let the moonlight touch his face. Anger surged in Nero’s dark heart, and then the unique pain that came with sadness. Whatever had happened—was still happening—to Lenny, there was no doubt in Nero’s soul that he didn’t deserve it.
Not like you.
“Nero?”
Nero blinked. He’d forgotten about Tom pontificating in the background. “What?”
“I said, what about getting him to work on the art for the Vauxhall project? Cass wants it to be pretty urban and grungy, and I know Lenny’s handy with a spray paint can.”
“Oh yeah? Howd’ya know that?”
“Because I’m not a bloody idiot. Do you honestly think someone sprays pink paint all over one of my restaurants without me knowing about it?”
Nero didn’t have an answer to that. “What are you doing with the walls at Vauxhall? Leaving them bare brick?”
“I’m not sure about the kitchen, but certainly in the dining areas, though they’ll need brightening up, which hopefully Lenny can help us with. I like the work he did at Misfits, and I’m interested to see what he can do for us in Vauxhall, if he wants to, at least. You may find he’s not feeling particularly creative right now. Keep me posted.”
Tom said his good-byes and hung up, leaving Nero to ponder his proposal as he drifted back to the kitchen and floated through service while his thoughts remained elsewhere. It was ten o’clock when Lenny left the grill and came to his side.
“Did I fuck it up?”
“Hmm?” Nero glanced up fro
m drizzling herb oil around a plate of paprika-hot mackerel. “Fuck what up?”
“I don’t know, everything? You haven’t spoken to me all night.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t care, but don’t ever say nothing, Nero. Silence is too loud.”
Nero’s hand wobbled, and shiny green oil dripped over the plate’s rim. Fuck this shit. He passed Lenny the plate. “Finish that for me, will you?”
Lenny obeyed and called for service, sending the final table of the night while Nero stood with his tongue tied to the roof of his mouth. What was it about Lenny that rendered him so fucking mute?
Lenny wiped his hands on his jacket—an unforgivable habit in anyone else. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? You must be sick of the sight of me. I’ll try and stay out of your way a bit more.”
“What?”
Lenny shrugged, chewing on his lip. “I’m under your feet all the time, at home, at work. Must be driving you up the wall, especially with me taking over your living room. Got nowhere to go without me in your face, have you?”
Nero couldn’t remember ever having so much company, but his usual cravings for peace and quiet had been oddly absent recently. On the rare occasions he and Lenny had been apart, he’d found himself missing the inevitable warmth Lenny stirred in his belly. “Mate, I’m not fed up with you, I’m worried about you.”
“Why?”
“A few weeks ago because Cass asked me to be. Now ’cause I give a shit.”
“I meant what am I doing to worry you?”
“Oh.” Daft twat. Nero turned away, gathering trays and utensils to take to the pot wash.
Lenny grabbed his arm, his slender fingers wrapping around Nero’s wrist like molten silkworms. “I’m worried about me too. I’ve never felt like this . . . so out of control. I swear, you’re the only thing keeping me sane.”
Nero’s heart skipped a beat, though the irony of Lenny’s statement hit him like a truck. He might be good for Lenny’s sanity, but what about his own? What about the bolts of electricity shooting up his arm, charged by Lenny’s touch? Or the gut-wrenching desire to take Lenny in his arms and shelter him from every fear that stood between them? “I can’t fix what I don’t understand.”
“Nero—”
“Mate, I’m not asking you to tell me. I just— I want to help, okay? But you can’t kill yourself in here twenty-four-seven. It ain’t right.”
Lenny’s teeth dug harder into his bottom lip. “So what do I do? I can’t sit up in the flat by myself— I’ll go mad.”
“I know. I’ve got some ideas. I can tell you about them later, if you fancy helping me test the sourdoughs?”
Lenny’s expression brightened. Over the last few weeks, he’d appeared to become fascinated by the bubbly doughs Nero was brewing for the Vauxhall project, and had taken on the gluten-free starters as his own. “Is the spelt one ready for pizza yet?”
“Maybe. Get cleaned down and we’ll take a look.”
Midnight found them knocking the air out of huge bowls of spelt dough and rolling it into small, pizza-sized balls.
Lenny groaned as he covered the trays with damp tea towels. “You’re such a tease. Do we really have to leave them another twenty-four hours?”
“Yup. That tray over there is gonna go forty-eight. We’re fermenting it, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah, letting the natural yeast work and all that crap. It had better be fucking epic when it finally turns into a pizza.”
“First one was, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly. What makes you think leaving it out for two days is gonna make that heaven on a plate better?”
“You’ll see.”
Nero didn’t have the energy to explain the magic of sourdough to Lenny again. The dough would have to do the talking. He wiped up some stray flour, then pulled his damp bandana from his head. “Beer?”
Of course they had beer. It had become their nightly ritual to round off their workday with a few beers and a smoke. It meant neither one of them was sleeping more than a few hours a night, but Nero’s growing fatigue seemed a small price to pay for those quiet moments with Lenny.
They went to the fire escape. Nero rolled up while Lenny cracked open bottles of Estrella and a packet of Fruit Pastilles.
“Where do you get all that sugary shit?” Nero wondered aloud, because it wasn’t like Lenny was going out and buying it.
“Steph gets them for me.”
“Steph?”
“Yeah, it’s only you she hates. She’s quite nice really.”
“Steph doesn’t hate me.”
“No? Why are you so horrible to each other, then?”
“Why do you think?”
“Oh.” Lenny frowned. “She’s your ex?”
Nero snorted. “If shagging her once makes her that important.”
“Don’t be a cunt. It doesn’t suit you.”
“No?”
“No.” Lenny’s troubled frown deepened. “I’ve gotta say, though, I’m shocked. Steph’s pretty fit and all that, but I’d kind of assumed . . .”
“What? What did you assume?”
“I thought you were gay.”
“Oh.” It was Nero’s turn to fall silent as he opened his mouth. Shut it again. “Why did you think that?”
Lenny shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably because you’re so close to Cass, and you’re so unfazed by having me around. Shit, I’m sorry. I feel like a bit of a dick now. That’ll teach me to assume, eh?”
“You’re not entirely wrong, if it’s any consolation.”
“You’re bi?”
“I s’pose so.” Nero had never thought much past the fact that he wished he had Cass’s balls when it came to telling the world he liked a bit of cock. “I like both. Women, mainly, I guess. I’ve never really acted on fancying blokes.”
“Never?”
“Well . . .”
Lenny smirked. “It’s Cass, isn’t it?”
“That obvious?”
“No, it’s just the way you talk about him.”
Nero nodded slowly. “He’s always been with Tom, but years ago, before Jake came along, they weren’t . . . what’s the word? Monogamous? Yeah, that’s it. They loved each other, but still went with other people.”
“And Cass went with you?”
“Not exactly.” Nero lit the joint, hoping the smoke would hide the heat in his cheeks. “We went out one night, and he finally noticed I could hardly think straight around him. He kissed me—really kissed me—then he opened a bottle of whiskey and educated me.”
“You didn’t fuck him?”
“No! Don’t think I’d have had the guts, even if he’d let it get that far. But I’m glad he didn’t. He’s my best friend. I need him more than I need his dick.”
Lenny chewed his lip again, but he didn’t seem anxious anymore. “That’s cool. It’s hard for bi blokes, isn’t it? My mate once said it was like choosing between meat and potatoes on your roast dinner.”
Nero laughed. “You’re veggie.”
“So? Wasn’t born that way. I choose not to eat meat. You can’t choose between men and women, can you?”
“I’ve never thought about it that hard.”
“Then you’re lucky. I know bi people who’ve torn themselves up trying to find their place.”
Nero coughed out a lungful of smoke. “If there’s one thing I ain’t, mate, it’s lucky.”
Lenny’s gaze fell on Nero’s damaged hand. His eyes glittered before he averted his gaze. “There’s so much about each other we don’t know.”
“If you say so.”
“Back to that, are we?”
“To what?”
Lenny shook his head. “Never mind. You be obtuse if it suits you.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Yeah, you do. You’re just too used to pushing people away. For what it’s worth, though, I’m jealous of Cass.”
“Of Cass? Why? ’Cause he’s got it all?”
/> “No, because he got to kiss you.”
Words failed Nero. The heat of the humid night air seeped into him, melding with the heady weed smoke, and his legs moved of their own volition until he was right in front of Lenny, gazing down at him, their faces inches apart. “Do you wear makeup every day?”
“Why? Does it freak you out?”
“Not at all. It’s . . .”
“What?”
Lenny’s stare hardened slightly, like he was steeling himself for rejection, but pushing Lenny away was the last thing on Nero’s mind. An invisible cord drew him closer, and he cupped Lenny’s soft cheek in his palm. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Nero sucked in a breath and time seemed to slow as Lenny’s lips came up to meet his in a light kiss that was no more than a brush of feathers. His eyes fell closed. What the hell was he doing? As Lenny-centric as his world had become, never once had he pictured them together like this. Why would he have, when Cass had asked him to keep Lenny safe, teach him, and train him?
Not ply him with weed and snog him on the fire escape. But Nero didn’t pull back. Couldn’t. Because even as the thought crossed his mind, Lenny’s arms slid around his waist, tight and strong, holding him in place as Lenny stretched up to claim Nero’s lips once more, this time in a brave, searching kiss, the kind of kiss that couldn’t be denied.
Or ignored.
Nero backed Lenny into the flat, stumbling, and pushed him into the kitchen counter. He kissed Lenny again, harder than before—harder than he’d kissed Cass all those years ago—and rubbed his cheek against Lenny’s, absorbing the sensation of skin that was softer than his own, but rougher than any woman’s he’d held in his arms like this.
No. Not like this. He’d never held anyone like this, never breathed someone in so entirely that he didn’t know where they ended and he began. This wasn’t just a kiss. It couldn’t be. Nero shoved his hands into Lenny’s silky hair to ground himself. Lenny gasped and dug his nails into Nero’s flesh. The sharp pain brought reality crashing down and finally—finally—Nero saw sense and let Lenny go.
You’re not what he needs. Nero wheeled backwards, covering his mouth with his hands, like he could push the kiss back in, cage it, lock it up, and throw away the key. Nothing stays locked up forever—but Nero blocked that thought too and collided with the fridge, tripping over his feet, like he’d drunk twenty bottles of beer instead of two.
Strays Page 6
