Boy in the Club a boy & billionaire novel - Rachel Kane Page 0,32
fridge, pulling out one of the boxes. “You’re going to need this more than me,” he says, and the box is humid inside so I can’t see what it is, but when he pops the top off it, the lemon and butter hit me, and it’s freaking chicken piccata which I haven’t had in years, still warm from his sister’s house, and Roan brings me a knife and fork, it’s a little like being at a restaurant all of a sudden.
“I ought to get fired every day, if this is how I get treated,” and I smile but it’s a sad, weak smile. It’s so rare in this world for people to just be nice to you. These guys…these are the only guys in the world who get me.
“Look,” and now Polly’s dragging the other chair around to my side of the table, its metal legs complaining as it skitters across the floor. He doesn’t care if he wakes Graber up. “Can I say something? Can I say a personal thing to you?”
I laugh but it’s hollow. “Here it comes.”
“You’ve got two speeds, bud. You either don’t trust anyone at all—or you take big dumb risks with them.”
He doesn’t have to say anything about the scars. That’s unspoken territory. Everybody knows that.
“I’m not a risk-taker,” I say. The piccata is so good, I kind of wish they’d leave me alone and let me eat in sad silence. Butter beats sorrow. The chicken itself practically melts on my tongue.
I remember my mom’s cooking, and god help her, but she could dry out a chicken so that it was like eating jerky. You’d chew and chew and chew. I used to complain.
Maybe if I’d known what was going to happen to my folks, I wouldn’t have complained so much.
I wish this chicken wasn’t so good. Suddenly it’s like I’m disrespecting the memory of my mom, who worked two jobs and still cooked for us every night.
Yes, like trying to go to bed with a customer at your gross club isn’t disrespecting their memories. You know they would’ve hated this…hated you…
“He has a point,” says Roan.
“Not you, too? Guys, don’t gang up on me. I made a dumb mistake, okay? Now I’m paying for it. You’re paying for it too, that’s the bad part. I don’t know, if I can’t find something soon, I’ll just move out and let you find another roommate, okay? I’m not going to be a burden to anyone.”
“Fuck off,” Polly says. “You’ll find something. Don’t even talk about leaving. But wipe the damn butter off your chin.”
“Risks are… Risks are…” Roan’s trying to formulate a thought. “They’re bad.”
“See? The expert on fear has spoken,” says Polly. “You keep doing this to yourself.”
“I didn’t fire myself.”
“Nah, but whenever you’re under stress, you make bad decisions. You need to be more like Graber—where is he, anyway?”
Roan jabs a thumb in the direction of the upstairs.
“Fucker could sleep through a tornado,” Polly says with some admiration in his voice. “You need to be like him. You know what he’d be doing right now?”
“Watching reruns of Star Trek?”
“Planning. Writing shit down. Pros and cons. Making charts of job possibilities. He wouldn’t sit there sadly burrowing into my sister’s chicken making a fucking mess of himself, that’s for sure.”
“You literally just put this in front of me. I’m gonna eat it.”
Everything Polly says sounds like an argument, but this is one of the moments I’m so glad we’re friends. And I’m glad Roan nervously jittered into our lives too. And Graber, even if he’s up there sleeping through all the turmoil.
For the first time in my life, I’ve got friends looking out for me.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “Tomorrow I’m gonna be practical. I’ll go for one of those data entry things.”
“Or you could be a waiter somewhere else,” Roan suggests.
I shrug. Nobody wants to see me near their food. I get that. Retail is hard, waiting is hard, someone’s always looking at you with a question in their eyes: What happened to your face? The club was a little different, because I provided high-contrast with the beautiful boys. I made them prettier by being uglier.
“But tonight I’m gonna finish this chicken.”
When the call comes the next day, I’m not ready for it.
“This is your resume?” Graber asks, holding it up to the light like there might be a hidden code within the paper, a secret watermark. “It’s…thin.”
“I’m twenty-two. How many decades of experience were you expecting?”