Thirty-Two
THIRTY-TWO
Byron
I HEARD VOICES coming from the kitchen as Zalen, Luca, and I approached. Emiel and Mia were... chatting . Which was obviously impossible, because Emiel didn’t chat with people. What the actual fuck?
“... I’ll school Zalen on the finer points of pasta as soon as I get the chance,” Mia was saying as we came in. She looked up, gracing us with a sunny smile. “Oh, hi.” Her gaze landed on me, a twinkle of humor appearing in her brown eyes. “The lasagna’s ready!”
The others peered at her in confusion as the scents of the spicy Southwest wafted out to us.
“Is this some kind of avant garde fusion cuisine?” Zalen asked lightly.
“Nope, just a private joke,” she said. “It’s tacos. Build your own—the chorizo is vegan.”
“And the salsa is spicy,” Luca added. “Also, there’s probably some tequila left for later.”
God help me. At this rate, I was going to need it.
“It smells wonderful,” Zalen said, making the first move for a plate. “Thanks for the spread. I think I can safely say this meal will be the highlight of an otherwise unpleasant day.”
He looked a little bit lighter already, like some of the weight had fallen away from his shoulders.
“Luca told me about the police showing up at the Hope Project,” Mia said, grabbing her own plate and sliding a steaming tortilla onto it.
“They were blocking the front door when I got back from lunch,” I said dryly, handing Luca a plate with a tortilla before taking one for myself. “Honestly, it felt just like old times.”
Emiel waited until we were all out of the way before joining the end of the taco line. “At least they’re trying to find the kid,” he muttered.
“My thoughts exactly,” Zalen agreed. “They’re welcome to search the place, if it means they can narrow down the number of places where he might be.”
I snorted, spooning guac over the too-large pile of shrimp, pico, lettuce, and cheese covering my tortilla. “Sure. Now they can narrow it down to everyplace except a single three-story brick building.”
Luca kicked me in the shin with his bare heel.
“I’m sure they’re checking his friends’ houses, and his extended family, too,” Mia said, giving me a warning scowl as she headed toward the dining room with her plate. “I bet he’ll turn up soon.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” I muttered. As far as I was concerned, if Tony was smart, he’d keep his head down until that all-important sixteenth birthday rolled around.
The ensuing uncomfortable silence held until we were all seated, setting our plates next to the silverware that had been laid out alongside tall glasses of pale orange aqua fresca that smelled like fresh cantaloupe.
“You should come visit the Hope Project next Monday on your day off, Mia,” Luca said, clearly trying to steer things toward a more neutral subject.
She looked startled, as though she hadn’t expected the invitation. “I’d like that,” she said hesitantly. Her gaze turned to Zalen. “If I wouldn’t be underfoot, I mean.”
“You’re welcome to visit anytime,” Zalen said, and I was damned if our fearless leader wasn’t sweet on her, too—in his reserved, gratingly gentle and understated way. “I’m proud of what we do there... even if it isn’t always happy endings.”
“You should be proud.” Mia’s tone was earnest—almost painfully so. “I’d love to come and meet the kids. I don’t suppose any of them are interested in cooking or food service careers? I could put together some resources.”
More of the weight visibly lifted from Zalen’s bowed shoulders. “That would actually be amazing. We do quite a bit with vocational training, but we have youngsters there with so much talent that’s going to waste.”
Her smile lit up the room. “I’ll see what I can come up with. Seriously, half the scholarships out there go unclaimed, just because people don’t know how to apply for them.”
Emiel swallowed a mouthful of taco. “I’ll introduce you to Princess while you’re there.”
I couldn’t help the startled quirk of my eyebrow, and I bit into my taco to keep from commenting on his sudden use of words as a medium for communicating thoughts and ideas. The taste of bold spice, creamy guac, and perfectly cooked shrimp exploded across my palate.
“Is Princess one of the kids?” Mia asked, understandably confused.
“She’s a cat,” Luca explained.
“Oh,” Mia said, her face clearing. “So, sort of an unofficial mascot, then? That’s really cool.”
“She’s just an alley cat,” Emiel said, directing the words to his plate. “I feed her sometimes.”
“A couple of the kids are allergic,” Zalen said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t mind having her inside the place.”
Luca looked back and forth between them with the air of someone who was about to stick his oar in where it wasn’t necessarily wanted. “I was telling Emiel the other day that he should bring her here, to live with us. She’s too sweet natured to live on the streets.”
And if that wasn’t the voice of experience speaking, I didn’t know what was.
Emiel glanced up sharply, his gaze landing on Zalen.
“I’ve no objections,” Zalen said easily. “There’s plenty of room for a litter box in the laundry room.”
“They make these automated ones now,” Luca said, with the enthusiasm of someone who’d spent too much time researching the subject of kitty litter recently. “It senses when the cat leaves and rakes up the mess into a bag at the back. All you have to do is tie it off and dump it in the trash every few days.”
“O brave new world, that has such technology in it,” I said, unable to help myself. Several glares came my way. I shrugged and went back to the frankly delicious taco, which had started dripping chili-scented grease onto my hand.
“You should definitely bring her here, Emiel,” Mia said. “With a name like Princess, she deserves to live in a palace like this place instead of an alley.”
“Maybe I will,” Emiel said.
“You’ll need to get her vaccinated and dewormed,” Luca put in. “And spayed, of course. I’ll research the reviews of local vets and see who’s best.”
He and Mia immediately fell into a discussion of the vet her parents had used before their elderly dog died a few years back. I excused myself to get another taco, and Zalen followed me into the kitchen. I glanced at him sidelong as I turned on the burner beneath a skillet and tossed a tortilla into it.
“Things getting domestic enough for you yet?” I asked innocently.
The urge to needle Zalen about his broody tendencies was always present, even though it was probably cruel, given his background. In my defense, it wasn’t like the needling ever succeeded in getting a rise out of him. Whatever bitterness Zalen held about his dead mate and their lost future, it was buried so deep I wasn’t sure it would ever see the light of day.
His expression was as calm as a still lake when he replied, “Why? Are things getting too domestic for you ?”
I scoffed. “What do I care? It’s nothing to do with me. I just live here.”
“Hmm,” he agreed wordlessly.
“It’s only a cat,” I said, aware even as the words left my mouth that I was protesting too much.
“Exactly.” Zalen gestured to the skillet, where my tortilla was sending up the first hints of a charred smell. I cursed under my breath and tipped it onto my plate. He just smiled and shouldered me aside to warm his own tortilla.
Luca and I offered to clean up the dishes after the last taco was eaten—we weren’t complete heathens, after all. Zalen acquiesced to Mia’s gentle suggestion that he looked like he could use a good night’s sleep, and Emiel disappeared up to his room without prompting shortly afterward.
Mia stuck around, sitting on a stool at the kitchen island to supervise our dishwasher-loading and counter-wiping efforts.
“This may be a new record when it comes to the number of bowls and pans utilized for a single meal in this house,” I observed, scrubbing greasy bits of chorizo from a pan that looked too far gone for Cascade’s patented sheeting action.
“Go on—don’t lie,” Mia teased, one leg swinging idly beneath her. “That was the best lasagna you’ve ever had in your life.”
Luca straightened from the overburdened dishwasher, eyeing us from beneath a fringe of unruly black hair. “Are you two going to explain the joke at some point?”
“Nope,” Mia said, popping the ‘p.’ “You kind of had to be there.”
He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Fine, keep your secrets. Byron, we need your TV tonight.”
I narrowed my eyes, beset on both sides by the sweet scent of omegas. “What’s wrong with the TV in the family room?”
“Nothing as such.” Luca added soap and rinse aid to the dishwasher. He closed it, pressing the start button.
That wasn’t particularly enlightening. “What are you planning to watch? Hentai tentacle porn?”
“ We ,” Mia began firmly, “are watching the show that spawned my love of red Audi Quattros, because you need to learn about your car’s British heritage.”
“Uh...” I said.
Luca picked up the half-finished tequila bottle and sloshed the contents back and forth suggestively. “C’mon. Look, there’s even booze.”
“Fine, you’ve talked me into it,” I told him, hanging the dish towel I was holding through its kitschy little wooden hoop by the sink. “Are there any limes left?”
Thankfully, there were.
With salt, limes, tequila, and shot glasses in hand, we went up to my room. I closed the door to keep the TV noise from carrying while Zalen was trying to sleep; trying not to remember all the times I’d had Luca and some nameless third person naked and writhing in this room.
Have you considered bringing Mia here as our third? Luca had asked, after the last time I’d had him in here with me... just the two of us.
A better question would be, had I ever managed to stop considering it.
“Nice,” Mia said, looking around at all the hardwood and leather. “I like it.”
It probably didn’t hurt that my TV was about twice the size of the one downstairs. Luca set down the bottle he was carrying and pounced on the remote, programming in some new streaming service I’d never heard of. Mia started salting the rims of the glasses and pouring shots.
Feeling thoroughly surplus to requirements—and increasingly lightheaded as my blood flowed steadily south in response to all the pheromones flying around—I flopped down on the couch. Luca sat down a moment later, leaving a Mia-shaped space separating us.
She handed out shots and lime wedges before hesitating. I downed my drink, sucked on the lime, and smiled up at her, showing teeth.
“Sit down. I don’t bite unless I’m asked,” I said. “But then, you already knew that.”
Her lips set in a stubborn line. She threw back her tequila, set the glass down on the end table, and squeezed in between us.
“Here we go,” Luca said, clicking on episode one of something named after a David Bowie song.
He set the remote down and tossed back his shot, then curled up with his bare feet tucked under him. On the screen, opening credits rolled—a disorienting upside-down view of what was probably London. I stretched an arm along the back of the sofa and willed my dick not to rise to the occasion too obviously. The three of us watched as a female British cop got sucked into a hostage crisis with her daughter, was shot in the head, and woke up in the nineteen eighties to the melancholy strains of Ultravox singing “Vienna.”
I clenched my jaw and tried to focus on the television, as sweet pheromones and tequila wrapped around me like the scent of temptation. “ This means nothing to me ...” Midge Ure crooned from the speakers, and I made a concerted effort to convince myself that he knew what he was talking about.