Page 22 of Never To Suffer (The Hollywoodland #4)

SMASH IT LIKE BELUSHI

GREEN DAY

The ticket stares at me from the counter, accusing me of being a chickenshit and hiding from my problems. The thickness of that irony could choke me.

I spend my days helping other people through problems like this, through irrational fears and over-blown ideas.

But when it comes to me and my own issues?

I do the same things my patients do. I make excuses and bury my feelings. Therapists need therapists, too.

I glance at my watch. I could still make the flight. I can pick up my phone, get a rideshare, and be at the airport in time. By tonight, I could have a delicious meal by the finest chefs. Afterward, I’ll head over to that bakery I found on my last trip to pick up those croissants Sylvie loves.

But the call never came, and I’m not in the mood for a pity trip.

I need to bake.

Baking is a meditative art form for me, putting me into a state of mental clarity and relaxation.

I’m good at it, even if I’m not good at anything else in my life.

In France, a lifetime ago, I had the opportunity to of becoming the next up-and-coming pastry chef, studying under one of the best in the country.

It would have been a dream come true if I’d stuck with it, but life happens.

Well, more like death happens, leaving me empty and cold, with a grieving daughter and so much anger.

I failed as a chef after that, and as a father.

I stride across the room and pull the fridge open.

Empty. I used up the last of my groceries to keep me from coming home to a kitchen full of science experiments two weeks later.

I check the cabinets to see if there’s anything else I should get while I’m out, grab my reusable bags, and head for the door.

As I step into the hallway, I’m met by a large couch sticking out of my neighbor’s door, blocking both the stairs and the elevator.

A younger guy sits on the couch, his head of shaggy dark hair in his hands and shoulders slumped.

Alexis, a former patient of mine, owns the place next door.

She moved out a few years ago after getting married, and I can’t blame her.

She didn’t have fond memories of that place.

Living next to her new therapist might have been a little weird.

Her sister stayed there for a few weeks before jetting off on some grand adventure; after that, Alexis tried turning it into one of those short-term vacation rental places.

Last time I saw her she lamented about the stress of trying to keep up with the demands of people staying there, and the all-hours phone calls where they complained she didn’t live close enough to Disney.

She had mentioned selling it, she might have rented it out to someone more long term.

I glance over at the kid again, and to the stairs I can’t access without climbing over the couch.

My brain tells me to go back into my apartment and pretend none of this happened.

Order delivery. But I’m not that kind of guy. “You, uh, need a hand?”

The kid’s head snaps up, and my heart does a little tango.

His eyes are a blue so light they appear gray, and full lips with their slight part—I can’t help but lick my own as he stands, and I get a better view of his arms. His muscles flex under his thin t-shirt, and I swallow hard when I spot the edges of a colorful tattoo poking from under his sleeve.

I’m hoping he’s a kid hired to move furniture with his buddies, not my new neighbor. That could get dangerous.

“Seriously? Man, you’d be saving my ass so much humiliation and shit talking. My dickhead friends bailed on me.”

The softness of his voice lures me in; maybe he’s a vampire, waiting for an invitation inside. I shake that thought out of my head. Picturing him sucking on my neck will not get me groceries or get this couch out of the way. It’s going to get me into a world of trouble and?—

“I’m Xander.” He holds his hand out. “Hell of a way to meet your new neighbor, huh? Blocking the damn walkway with furniture and shit. I’m so sorry about that.”

I almost forget how humans greet one another, jerking my hand out to grab his hand and give it a squeeze.

My fingers brush against the veins on the back of his hand, and his forearm tightens, giving it more definition.

My mind goes blank, forgetting anyone I’ve shown any interest in over the last few years.

This kid’s puppy dog eyes, with the tattoos next to them, have my full attention.

His thick brown hair and the thin line of sweat that’s formed on his brow.

His skinny jeans and gray henley are leaving enough to my imagination that I hope he can’t read thoughts.

“Theo. Theo Clay. No worries, these hallways are a bit, uhm, tight.” He smirks and I try to keep my knees from buckling, watching him size me up like a slab of meat. I’m doing the same back, so it’s not like I can blame him. He’s the last of a dying breed of emo kids, and he’s gorgeous.

He rubs the back of his neck as he turns to nod at the couch.

“I kind of planned on surprising my girlfriend. We’ve been living in a shit hole downtown and when I found this thing, I couldn’t pass it up.

I thought it would be nice for her to come home to something more than cardboard boxes and a few pillows on the ground.

You know? But I’m a fucking idiot and didn’t check the size. ”

Girlfriend? Shit.

No, that’s good. He’s sizing me up to know if I’m competition, not checking me out.

I should know better by now. My face warms and the rush of red travel over my entire body.

Reading his body language doesn’t help, either.

I’ve probably got twenty years on him, and that punches me in the gut.

Time acts differently as you age, as if the world around you flexes and bends into a new reality you aren’t part of.

Until you catch your own reflection in a shop window and scare yourself, you don’t feel the years as they pass you by.

One day, you’re eighteen, living life to its fullest and traveling through Europe with nothing but the clothes on your back.

Blink and you’re ten years older with a wife and kid.

Blink again, you’re listening to Hollywood’s brats bitch about their lives because their parents took away their cars and made them get a job while you research retirement funds.

“So should I, uh?—”

“Why don’t we?—”

We both go for the arm of the couch, my hand landing on top of his as we stare at each other.

He’s too close, or maybe I am. Either way, neither of us moves.

That’s when I get a flash of something familiar, something I used to see in the mirror years ago.

A cockiness and bravado I long to have again. It’s in his eyes and reaches his smirk.

I clear my throat—and my head—before I step away, pretending to evaluate the situation of the couch.

“Are, uh, are you sure it will fit?” I don’t have time to catch my mistake as it falls out of my mouth.

“Oh, we’ll make it fit.” He steps up onto the couch and glares down at me, still smirking. “You just gotta push it in real hard. Don’t worry, I can take it.”

I curl my lips between my teeth and bite down to keep myself from saying something stupid.

Or even worse, attempting to flirt back with the kid.

Girlfriend. He has a girlfriend. He’ll live next door in Alexis’s place.

He has a girlfriend, and he can’t be more than twenty-five, you dirty fucking pervert.

“Relax, big guy. I’m only gonna bite if you ask.” He walks down the length of the couch, hops off, grabs the other end, and winks at me. “You okay, Theo? You know I’m only teasing, right?”

“Huh, oh, yeah. I, uhm, do you have a tape measure?” Fuck!

“Oh, we’re gonna measure it now, are we?”

“You know, to see how we’ll need to angle this?”

“Buddy, I don’t have any furniture, and I’m not about to measure someone else’s…couch. So, why would I need a tape measure?” He leans over the arm of the couch and my heart does the tango while I fail at distracting myself by thinking of cold showers and snow. “Do you have one?”

“Never mind. I guess we’re, you know, winging it.”

We’re reasonably certain the couch will fit with a little coaxing and brute force.

He’s the first to reference the sitcom from the nineties with the guys moving the couch up the stairs when ours gets stuck against the wall and a door jamb.

Either he watched reruns, or he might not be as young as I thought. Still too young, though.

It takes twenty minutes before we find the sweet spot of an angle and she glides right through the door.

He wasn’t kidding about the furniture—or the lack thereof.

I catch a glimpse of what appears to be sleeping bags on the floor in the bedroom, and the two flat pillows serve as chairs around a cardboard box table with empty Chinese food containers on top.

He must notice me staring, because he hurries over and grabs the containers, tossing them in a plastic take-away bag on the floor.

“Sorry about that,” he pants, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead to his sharp jawline.

This guy could be a model, but that’s also true of half of Los Angeles.

He reaches one hand over his head and pulls his shirt off, wipes the sweat from his face, and tosses the shirt toward the bedroom.

His chest is a canvas. I’ve seen so many of those goofy black line art drawings that too many people regret later in life, but he’s got a talented artist somewhere.

Above his heart sits a scarab beetle holding a diamond.

The color and detail are so intricate, I wish I had the opportunity to stare at the artwork without coming off as a bigger creep than I already am.

He has others too, but beetle drawings me in the most.