Page 5

EZRA

M y first check won’t come for a couple weeks — minus whatever the court takes off — but tips are cashed out every shift, so the first thing I do is hit the junk food aisle to load up on all the MVP’s.

Beef jerky, all-dressed chips, flaming hot cheetos, pop tarts…

my mouth waters with every bag that hits my cart.

It’s the poor man’s charcuterie. For two years I couldn’t get anything like this from the commissary, and now I’m obsessed.

Unfortunately I can’t live off processed corn alone, so I grab some essentials to balance it out. In honor of my health, instead of scarfing down a full-sized bag of chips when I get home I crack open a can of soup. After weeks living off mostly three minute ramen, even that feels like a luxury.

First I snap a picture of my newly replenished snack cupboard and send it to Fitzie.

He replies a minute later.

What the fuck is that?

It’s dinner for the next week, duh

Eat some veggies, you sicko. Don’t you dare die of scurvy before I get there.

Potato chips are a vegetable

Fitzie sends me a grossed out face.

V.E.G.E.T.A.B.L.E.S. You know, the things that grow in the dirt?

I grin at my phone. Fitzie never misses an opportunity to chastise me, but it’s out of love.

Sounds unhygienic

J ust so he doesn’t actually worry, I send him a picture of my soup, captioned Chef’s special.

The week flies by. Working behind the bar is exhausting, but it’s also surprisingly fun.

I easily slot into the rhythm that Orion and Plato have.

They’re both great guys, which helps. Orion is into the kind of hardcore scene that’s never been my thing, but he’s patient and a great teacher in spite of his kinda chaotic energy.

Plato is just a chill and happy dude. Even the rest of the staff are friendly, though we don’t interact much.

Still, it bugs me that I haven’t met my employer yet — the mysterious Syril. In my head I can’t match up their gloomy apothecary-like office with the rest of the club, which seems totally normal. Even taking into account the fact that someone hosted a poetry slam on stage the other day.

A poetry slam.

At a club .

It’s kinda cool, I have to admit.

Is Syril just one of those eccentrics with money to burn? Or is there something I’m missing?

I shouldn’t be looking for trouble when everything’s going great, but I can’t help thinking there’s a catch. Guys like me don’t just get handed great opportunities for no reason.

Friday night there’s a burlesque show, and by the time I get to The Sanctum it’s packed.

All three of us are working tonight. Orion is already pulling beers as Plato’s blond head bobs up and down to the beat of the music.

I wave at them before squeezing through the crowd to the back room so I can grab my apron.

The club might be full and the music blaring, but the atmosphere is totally different from what I’m used to.

They don’t even have a bouncer. The crowd is chill and easygoing, none of the tension that usually seeps into places like this.

There’s gotta be something in the water.

I haven’t seen Pretty Boy Lysander since the first night, and my pulse twitches as I scan the crowd.

I shake myself. There’s no reason I should be looking for him.

The memory of the snub still pricks me with annoyance, but it’s the weird look in his eyes that sticks in my head.

He stayed in that booth for at least an hour, nursing the drinks I kept making for him, meeting my eyes any time I looked over. Every time, I felt the same spark.

I know what it is. Anticipation. Like flicking a lighter until it catches .

Finally, he disappeared when I wasn’t looking.

He doesn’t look like the type of guy who’d appreciate burlesque — I know tailored pants when I see them, which means he’s got money. Probably goes to gallery openings instead.

What’s he doing sleeping in a hotel, though?

It bugs me more than I want to admit, seeing him at the job agency, then here. I don’t believe in fate — if anything, coincidences make me nervous. So instead of letting it go like a smart person would, I prod Orion for info during a lull.

“What’s up with that guy from the other day, the fruity drink dude?”

Orion bursts into laughter. He grabs the bar, doubling up. “ Fruity drink dude ? You mean Pr — uh, Lysander? Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“What’s his deal? You seem to know him. Why’s he so…" What did Orion say? “ Particular ? Is he one of those out-of-touch old money kids?”

Orion grabs a glass and scoops some ice into it. “Something like that. He keeps to himself, but he’s not a snob or anything. He’s just… not super well socialized. Though you wouldn’t know it when he gets on stage.”

It’s my turn to laugh, except Orion is serious. “ Not a snob? I saw you bow when you brought his dinner over.”

“Well, I — that’s just — it’s hard to explain.”

He caps the shaker and rattles it vigorously, cutting off any possible conversation. Orion stammering is weird enough to put me off, so I take the hint and let it go.

Something about that explanation still doesn’t sit right, though. When I look up later to find Lysander at the far end of the bar, I feel it again. Flick .

I’m getting to the bottom of this guy.

The clamor of the music and the emcee drown out Orion’s bright “I’ll get it!

” Or at least it’s a convenient excuse to pretend I don’t hear him.

I wipe my hands on my apron and slip past Plato as he’s pulling glasses out of the washer.

He yelps, the dishes rattling. I ignore him and slide up to Lysander, who’s become distracted by the start of the show.

“I didn’t think this would be your scene.”

He jumps. Honest to god leaps four inches into the air. By the time he turns to me, he’s got that drop-dead-peasant look firmly in place.

“My usual,” he says, ignoring my comment.

“One Sugary Mess coming right up.” I whip out a glass.

He scowls. “What?”

“Well, it needed a name. I can’t exactly call it the Pretty Boy Special.” I tried one myself, minus the stuff in the special bottle, and it’s tooth-achingly sweet. He drank three of them my first shift. “You must be made of sugar if you’re drinking these all the time.”

I anticipate a snippy reply, but he blushes.

“I — I just like sweet things,” he stammers, eyes wide.

Well, fuck. My pulse thumps loudly and I can feel the back of my neck heating up.

I did not expect him to get flustered, or to be cute as hell when he does.

I duck under the bar to pull the Tupperware of maraschino cherries out of the fridge, even though I don’t really need to crouch for that.

When I resurface, Lysander’s eyes are shuttered again. I’m almost relieved.

Almost.

“Are you only here for the drinks, then?”

“I come to support the performers,” he says, tilting his chin as if he’s expecting me to argue.

“You do?” I can’t the skepticism.

Lysander huffs. “What of it?”

I claw back to neutral. I don’t want to offend him — honestly. Just tease him a bit. “I don’t mean it that way. You know them, then?”

A frisson of unhappiness crosses his slender face. He’s got that aristocratic look, with hooded eyes and model cheekbones, and the expression humanizes him. “Not really.”

“Orion said you go on stage. Do you perform?”

Lysander avoids my eyes. “Yes, but that’s not why. I make costumes for some of them.”

“Wow.” That is not what I would’ve guessed in a thousand years. “You make them? Yourself?”

“I like to make things. Clothing, costumes, accessories. Not all the performers can afford their own costumes, so Syril provides the fabric and I do the sewing.”

“Guess I was right about you being made of sugar.” I wink. “That’s pretty generous of you.”

He ducks his head. “It’s not like that. I owe it to Syril.”

“No one’s forcing you to do it, right?”

“Of course not.” His eyes are wide, the cool, disaffected look completely gone.

It gives me a private thrill seeing his uptight expression melt away, but what’s underneath is even more dangerous — it’s honest and open.

The kind of vulnerability a guy like me isn’t used to seeing.

I want to tell him to button it up, cause he can’t go around flashing that look every time some asshole cracks a flirty joke at him.

“Then it’s exactly like that, sweets.” I slide the drink across the counter and he reaches for it quickly.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but when I pull my hand back he almost looks disappointed.