Page 14 of Smut Lovers

Chapter Two

Cal

F uck my life.

Cal Morris trudged up the three dingy flights of stairs to his tiny fourth-floor walk-up.

Two weeks after moving in nearly a year earlier, he’d given up trying to use the arduous climb to count his blessings with every step.

There weren’t that many.

He took a deep breath as he unlocked the door and let it swing open.

Still here.

Same four dingy beige walls he couldn’t paint thanks to his landlord’s petty sadism, same tiny corner kitchenette that might as well be a child’s play set, same mattress on the floor that multitasked as his couch and dinner table.

Same expensive drawing table shoved against the widow like it was holding its breath to fit inside the closet masquerading as an “efficiency apartment.”

He walked in and locked the door behind him, dropping everything onto his mattress as he passed—another of its uses—and headed to his bathroom.

One benefit of this building was its new boiler system that meant hot water was hot and plentiful this time of day.

Most of his fellow residents were at work in the early afternoon when he was just getting home, meaning he could stand there in the shower and wash away the smell of bacon, fries, and other mediocre diner kitchen fare.

He stood with his eyes closed and his forehead pressed against the surprisingly well-done subway-tiled shower wall while the water sluiced away his line-cook cologne.

I’m twenty-nine. What the hell am I doing with my life?

Cal was beginning to think his uncle wasn’t as stupid as Cal had believed when, on the day of Cal’s college graduation, the man berated Cal for getting an art degree.

Just because the man was a fucking asshole didn’t mean he couldn’t be right once in a while.

It was also the last time Cal spoke to him. He’d invited him because Mae and Phor asked him to, and Cal only did it to satisfy them.

Because his uncle Roy had been his only “blood family” who lived locally and wasn’t, you know, in jail.

Mae and Phor apologized after Phor ran the man off.

They were the parents of his best friend, Tom. Cal had lived safely under their wing in a room in their apartment above their Thai restaurant all the way through college.

Long ago Cal started calling them Mae and Phor —Thai for Mom and Dad—at their insistence.

Ironically, Tom flipped back and forth between Thai and English terms for them.

Tom was an only child, and Cal—or Cathal to Mae, because she preferred the sound of his full first name—had luckily stumbled from his own shitty origins into what had felt like to him, at that time, heaven.

He finally shampooed his hair, shaved, and scrubbed himself within an inch of his life with the discount coconut-scented bodywash.

He toweled off, pulled on sweats and a T-shirt that smelled nothing like food, and tossed his dirty work clothes into the washer with the past three days’ of dirties waiting to be washed.

At least the apartment came with a tiny stacked washer-dryer unit. It took up most of the bathroom, but it saved him time and money.

With that accomplished, he walked into the “kitchen” and put on the electric kettle to make tea.

He was off for the next two days, Thursday and Friday.

Yesterday, he’d shopped on the way home in anticipation of this blessed peace.

While his tea steeped he stepped around his mattress and arranged his workspace.

Today he planned to draw his next two four-panel web comics to post on his site—he liked to stay at least a month ahead—and then work on a commissioned cover art piece for an author.

Staring out his window, he tried to focus on the view. Not spectacular, but the light was good enough for his needs. The stuff he did on his computer was fine, but he loved being able to put pen or pastel or paintbrush to paper or canvas and let it flow. The tactile feel of it.

Yes, digital art disproportionately supplied the bulk of the meager income his art brought him, but it wasn’t his love .

Still, he could afford a roof over his head while working a single second job he only moderately despised.

He’d turned to get his mug of tea when the door buzzer went off.

Da fuq?

His mail and deliveries went to the mailbox store across the street.

Wary, he pressed the intercom button. “Yeah?”

“Cal, it’s Tom.”

Cal didn’t even want to ponder this unexpected development as his finger automatically hit the button to buzz him in. He stood in his apartment doorway when Tom emerged from the stairwell, two plastic take-out bags in his hands.

“Dude, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” He took one of the bags from Tom and gave him a one-armed hug before they retreated into the apartment. Cal set his bag on the counter. “And how’d you know I was home?”

Tom set his bag on the counter. “Because you posted FML, I need a shower because I smell like fries on the family group Snap when you left work.” He grinned as he started unpacking both bags.

The familiar and mouth-watering smells of pad thai and tom kha nearly turned Cal feral as he grabbed plates and bowls. “I love you, dude.”

“I know.”

“And you know exactly how to hit me in the heart.” Cal started dishing out food. “I was starving. You know I can’t stand eating the shit there.”

“I know that, too.” He turned to face Cal. “And I have an ask. Big one.”

Cal froze. “Huh?”

He hated that his usually jovial friend’s expression darkened. “Don’t yell at me, but Dad’s in the hospital.”

“ What ! Why didn’t you call me? Is he okay? What happened?”

Tom held up his hands. “He fell, and Mom didn’t call me until a little while ago because he wouldn’t let her. He knew she’d tell me and I’d tell you, and he didn’t want to interrupt you while you were at work. He’s okay, just hurt.”

“Dude, your idea of ‘okay’ doesn’t gel with mine.”

“I mean, he’s going to be okay,” Tom said.

“He’s not dying.” Tom leaned against the counter.

“He broke his right shoulder, his right arm in two places, his left wrist, his left ankle, and his left hip. He slipped going down the stairs in the middle of the night. He’s having surgery this afternoon, and probably more surgeries over the next couple of weeks.

Once they finally release him, he’ll have to go to a rehab center for a while.

And he’ll still be out of commission for at least four to six months after that. ”

“Damn.” Cal’s appetite fled despite his favorite food sitting right there. “Can I go see him?”

“That’s my next stop.” Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “I was kind of ordered to come get you and drive you there and show up together. After making sure I fed you first.”

“‘Kind of’ ordered?”

“Okay, order-ordered.” Tom sighed. “Dad wants to talk to you about taking over.”

Thirty minutes later, Cal sat, still in shock, in the passenger seat of Tom’s Toyota as they rode to the hospital.

“ Me ?” Cal asked again.

“Are you really happy right now?” Tom asked. “You can’t tell me you’re happy because I call bullshit. And I have a string of text messages that call bullshit.”

“I’ve never run the restaurant,” Cal countered.

“You grew up in it. We both did.”

“So why isn’t he asking you to do this?”

“They are. But Mom will have her hands full with Dad. I’ll handle the office and front-of-house stuff for her, and you’ll handle the kitchen for him. I’ll deal with ordering, paperwork, payroll, all of that.”

Cal looked at him. “Why aren’t you taking over the kitchen?”

Tom grimaced. “Remember what happened when I was thirteen?”

“Oh, yeah.” He snorted. “I thought Phor was going to pop a blood vessel.”

“Well, at least I proved our fire suppression system worked, right?”

Cal snorted again. “Does he still remind you how much the clean-up and restocking cost?”

“Every fucking year on the anniversary,” Tom muttered. “Anyway. He doesn’t trust anyone but you in the kitchen.”

“But what about Somchai?”

“Somchai begged me to get you to agree. As great an itamae as he is, in the years since you left his grill skills have gotten worse, not better. If it wasn’t for his parents he’d probably have already gone to work somewhere else making better money.”

“He still can’t stand up to them, huh?”

Tom laughed. “Not a chance.”

Tom’s older cousin had a different upbringing because Somchai was a first-generation American—his father was the much older brother of Tom’s father—while both of Tom’s parents were born in the US.

Meaning that Somchai’s parents demanded loyalty to the family to the exclusion of everything else.

Somchai’s father was a doctor, and his mother a nurse.

Somchai had also grown up at the restaurant, under the watchful eyes of his aunt and uncle, trusted childcare for his parents.

And he’d studied for over six years under the tutelage of the older man who used to prepare their sushi.

When that man moved when Somchai was eighteen, it was assumed by all Somchai would take over the position.

And he had. It was that, or his parents would have forced him to go to college to be an attorney. Somchai once confided to Cal and Tom that he would rather chop off one of his fingers than go to college.

When they walked into the hospital room, Tom’s mother jumped up and engulfed Cal in a hug. “Cathal!”

He hugged her back. “Why didn’t you call me?”

She finally released him and wiped her eyes, indicating the man in the hospital bed, his eyes currently closed. “You know how he is,” she whispered. “He’s asleep right now. Pain meds.”

“Is that why he wants me to take over, because he’s asleep?” Cal tried to joke, but she grabbed his arm.

“So you’ll do it?”

He couldn’t bear the heartbreaking hope in her eyes. “Of course, Mae. I’ll do anything for you, you know I will.”

Tom clapped him on the shoulder. “I didn’t tell you the best part. You get your old room, rent-free, and free cable and Wi-Fi—all of that. And free food, obviously. And get paid.”