The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,7
caramel inside—out of the box. “Well, because I was running so late, I dropped off those boxes of chocolates with that secretary, you know, the one I met at HR. And I signed your name on the card, so at least you’ll get some brownie points.”
“Mr. Berger, it has come to my attention that you’ve been appropriating clearance merchandise.”
Wincing, Jem closed his eyes. “What? What does that mean?”
“Several departments have reported missing clearance merchandise, and I have eyewitnesses who saw you taking it. You’re fired, Mr. Berger. And you should expect a visit from the police.”
“Mr. Kroll, this is a huge misunderstanding. I would never—”
The call disconnected.
Jem slid the phone back into his pocket and began searching for one of the chocolates he knew Tean liked.
“What was that?” Tean said.
“Oh nothing. Here, have this raspberry crème. You like those, right?”
“I’m trying not to eat sugar.”
“Why?” Jem asked.
“Because death by diabetes is a horrible way to go.”
“But you don’t have diabetes.”
“Yes, but I’m—”
“And you’re not at risk for diabetes.”
“Technically, we’re all at risk if we eat enough—”
“I think you’re just grumpy and not eating the chocolate out of spite.”
The struggle on Tean’s face was real; Jem kept his own expression clear. After a moment, Tean snatched the chocolate and shoved it in his mouth.
“You’re welcome,” Jem said softly.
Tean glared at him around a mouthful of raspberry crème.
They drove another block, heading further away from the mixture of retail and office buildings that made up much of downtown Salt Lake City. They were heading west, and the city showed the socioeconomic shift: strip malls with payday loan stores, tattoo parlors, Dollar Generals, and—increasingly—boarded up store fronts. The infrastructure showed the same shift, as the asphalt became cracked, the potholes poorly patched—or not patched at all—and the sidewalks choked with weeds. On the yellow brick of a vape shop, someone had painted a mural of a can of pinto beans as the Virgin Mary, with Our Lady of Goya in gothic letters arching overhead.
“Oh my gosh,” Tean finally exploded. “You really aren’t going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Jem poked through the box. “There aren’t any more raspberry crèmes?”
“That you just got fired.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that.”
“Well, I thought, you know, I’d spare you the unpleasantness. Because you’re my best friend.”
“I am not your best friend. I am a normal friend—”
“You’re shouting.”
“I am a normal friend,” Tean continued, obviously trying to control his volume, “and I’m a normal level of upset that you have gotten fired from your sixth job in three months.”
“The McDonald’s doesn’t count,” Jem said. “I was my own best customer. They shouldn’t hold that against me.”
“You ate four Big Macs on one shift and didn’t pay for any of them. After the manager told you not to.”
“I want you to be completely honest here. You know how delicious Big Macs are. And you know I’m weak willed. Is it really my fault?”
“Yes! And it’s also your fault that you stole a five-gallon bucket of their special sauce.”
“We can agree to disagree.”
“And before the McDonald’s there was the construction job—”
“That guy never proved I took his wallet.”
“—and before the construction job, there was the office job at the tech start-up—”
“Ok, those people should have had enough common sense to know I wasn’t really an investor whiz kid. And they definitely should have known better than to pay me cash.”
“—and before that there was the job selling cotton candy at Jazz games—”
“I love cotton candy. Sue me. And you know what? Those corporate boxes weren’t being used anyway, so I don’t know why I can’t score something extra on the side by renting them out.”
“—and now Snow’s. Stealing merchandise. And what else? What else happened?”
“Hold on. I’m not a thief.”
Tean’s bushy eyebrows looked wilder than usual as he shoved his glasses back into place. The effect gave him a slightly deranged look.
“Ok,” Jem corrected. “I am a thief. But they were just going to donate that stuff to DI; why does it matter if I take it?”
“Because it’s not yours!”
The shout echoed through the truck’s cab. Jem reached over, squeezing the nape of Tean’s neck, letting his hand rest there.
“You’re having a bad day.”
“Get off.”
“You’re really tense.”
Tean knocked his hand away, and Jem just rested it on Tean’s neck again, his thumb massaging lightly.
This time, the doc did a lot of squirming and shifting like he wanted to slip out from underneath Jem’s touch, but he didn’t knock his hand away. Progress. Maybe one day the doc wouldn’t want to crawl out of