“Yeah?” Lenny cocked his head to one side. “You don’t strike me as the hysterical type.”
“Define hysteria. I break stuff. Hurt people. Cass finds me a reason not to.”
Lenny said nothing, and Nero had nothing left either. He tipped his head back and stared up at the sky as he lit a fag. Lenny’s story made him sick to his stomach, but merged with the horror came relief. Lenny’s terrors and fears were real, but knowing where they came from meant the source could be chased down and obliterated. “Do you know his name?”
“He told a couple of people it was Gareth. Don’t know if it’s his real name, though.”
“Has he been here?”
“Not that I know of. Cass brought me here because the signs don’t have the Urban Soul logos on. Reckoned it would take longer to track me down if I stayed indoors enough. I don’t know what my long-term plans are, though. I can’t kip on your couch forever.”
“It ain’t my couch.” Nero stubbed out his smoke and fought the urge to light another, unwilling to admit, even to himself—especially to himself—how much he would miss Lenny if he left. “But you can stay as long as you like. Told you already: ain’t no one gonna hurt you here.”
“I believe you, but I can’t stay indoors forever, Nero. I’m losing my mind.”
The anguish in Lenny’s voice didn’t get easier to bear. Nero slipped his arm around Lenny with little conscious thought and pulled him close. In return, Lenny tipped his head and rested it on Nero’s shoulder, and for a protracted moment that was equal parts bleak and blissful, silence enveloped them, dulling the city below to a low roar. Nero had no answers for Lenny, no comfort or wisdom, and Lenny didn’t seem to want any. Perhaps sharing his secret was enough, at least for now.
“Nero?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to kiss me again?”
It was the last thing Nero had expected Lenny to say, but he went with it, stretched his legs out in front of him, and lit another fag. “Ask me tomorrow.”
“When did you last take a Sunday off?”
Nero cast an irritated glance over his shoulder. “What?”
“Sundays,” Steph repeated. “Cass told me not to let you work every hour under the sun.”
“Yeah? Well he didn’t tell me shit.” Nero wiped the rim of the three millionth plate of roast beef to cross his path that day and banged the counter for service. “And it ain’t your concern anyway. Kitchen rotas are mine.”
“I know. I’m just reminding you to take a break. You and Lenny have worked every day this week, which is great for Lenny because he’s paid by the hour, but you’re basically working for free right now.”
“So?” Nero turned away from Lenny’s questioning stare beside him. It had been a week or so since he’d learned the reason Lenny had wound up camped in his living room, and Nero had yet to come to terms with it. He clenched his fists, picturing the terror in Lenny’s eyes every time the outside world edged a little too close, feeling it, breathing it in like it was his own. A fucking stalker? Damn. Nero had seen some nasty shit, but this was brand-new.
“Nero . . .”
Fucking Steph. Nero supressed a sigh. His Urban Soul contract had the same forty-eight-hour clause as everyone else’s, but it wasn’t unusual for him to pull half as much again in a normal week. Never had been. “Is there a point to this?”
“Not really. I want you out of here by five, though, or I’m calling Cass.”
Steph disappeared back into the chaos of Sunday service. Perplexed, Nero watched her go but, with orders crawling out of his arse, had no time to dwell on her words until five o’clock rolled around and she came back with a face even Nero knew not to mess with.
“Out.”
Nero downed tools and pointed at Lenny. “I’m taking him too.”
Steph smirked. Nero spared her a glare before handing the kitchen to Debs. With that done, he went to the office, resisting the urge to follow Lenny, who’d gone straight to the staff room to change.
He sat at the computer and logged in to the company hub, clocking his hours and recording his wastage notes from the busy lunch service. Sunday evenings were typically the quietest shift of the weekend, but the less admin he left for Debs, the better.
It was gone six when he made it upstairs, and by then, Lenny was already stretched out on the couch, looking for all the world like he was out for the count.
Nero left him to it and took a shower, washing the day’s sweat and grime away, but he didn’t linger long, and on his way to the bedroom, couldn’t fight the compulsion to check Lenny was still safe on the couch.
He threw a pair of ratty trackies on and went to the window, scanning the building opposite and street below for anything untoward—spying eyes, strange faces—but nothing stood out. With a heavy sigh, he dropped the blinds, shutting out the evening sun. It left the bedroom dark and gloomy, but Nero didn’t mind; it suited his mood. A rare Sunday night off usually meant a solitary trip to a pub in Bethnal Green, the only place near his old stomping ground he could bear to go, but the call home was absent tonight, replaced by the restless need to watch over Lenny.
