“Supper. Anyone would think you were a chef.”
The barest hint of a smile danced on Lenny’s lips. Nero reached deep and forced a tight grin of his own, though given the way the light faded from Lenny’s gaze it was apparently far from convincing. “Cass says you need a job. Asked me to train you in the kitchen downstairs. You up for that?”
Lenny shrugged. “Haven’t got much choice. Got student loans coming out of my arse.”
It was a tale Nero had heard before from the parade of students who floated through Urban Soul’s various businesses every summer. “Where did you go to uni?”
“UCL, but I dropped out last year.”
“What were you studying?”
“Medicine.”
“Seriously?” Nero raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look like a doctor.”
“I’m not. I quit, remember? Didn’t even make the first semester. And now I’m here.”
It was on the tip of Nero’s tongue to ask how the two things were connected, but he swallowed the question. Whatever had led Lenny to be sitting on his couch was none of his business. “Guess I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
He stood and took the supper plates to the kitchen, leaving them in the sink to deal with in the morning. It was his intention to head straight to bed, but something drew him back to the living room. He stopped in the doorway as Lenny curled up on the couch, his pale hair shimmering on the dark cushions, and was glad Lenny had buried his face in the back of the sofa. He’d expected to be indifferent to his new flatmate—or at least irritated as fuck by whatever bad habits he was bound to have—but he was oddly intrigued and wondered if Cass had been too. Then again, Cass had a nose for waifs and strays, and for trouble.
Nero’s missing finger throbbed harder, and he was suddenly profoundly tired, like Lenny’s woes had bled out of him and merged with Nero’s dormant ghosts, sapping the life from both of them. Fuck this. He called time on his brooding and went to bed.
Nero woke Lenny at dawn, shaking him far more gently than he ever had anyone else who’d had the misfortune to kip on his couch. “Up with yer. Come on. Got deliveries to put away.”
“Wha—?” Lenny sat up, his hair a riot. “What time is it?”
“Time to work.” Nero stomped to the kitchen and retrieved his cigarettes. He usually held out until after breakfast to light up, but something told him he’d be waiting awhile for Lenny to get going.
He stepped out onto the fire escape, blowing smoke into the clear morning sky. Below him the city was already awake and buzzing—buses, sirens, tradesmen shouting. In the distance, the fish supplier was idling at a red light. There went Nero’s precious few moments of peace.
He stubbed out his half-finished fag. His head told him to go back inside, trudge downstairs, and sign for the three kilos of hake he’d ordered the day before, but he didn’t move. For the first time ever he was in no hurry to get to the kitchen, his mind lingering on the blond stray on his couch. “Keep Lenny close, if you can. Don’t let him be scared.” What the fuck did that mean?
With a sigh, Nero went back inside. Lenny was in the bathroom, taming his wild hair, dressed only in a pair of jeans tight enough to make Nero’s eyes water. He forced himself not to stare and pulled his phone from his pocket, firing a text to Cass. Still waiting on your call . . .
He watched the screen a moment, then remembered Cass wasn’t downstairs making coffee and grilling bangers for breakfast, and was likely asleep. Lucky him. Nero pocketed his phone and knocked on the open bathroom door. “Get a shift on. You got whites?”
“Whites?”
“Chef whites.”
“Oh.” Lenny turned, revealing a skull tattoo on his chest and a pierced nipple. “I’ve got some old T-shirts?”
“What?”
“T-shirts,” Lenny repeated. “I’ve got trackies too?”
Nero’s mind slowed to a crawl as he stared at Lenny. He had a chest tattoo of his own, an intricate tiger and butterfly design that spanned his sternum, but Lenny’s was far smaller and bolder, like a stamp of darkness over his heart, contrasted by his milk-pale skin.
Lenny stepped closer. “I can wear my Docs, though, right? I’m not putting my feet in any manky old boots like Deano’s.”
“Deano?”
“Kitchen manager at Misfits? Sorry, I thought you knew everyone. Cass told me you’re the KM for the whole company.”
Nero leaned on the doorframe, absorbing the faint heat from Lenny’s body even though he was halfway sure he was imagining it. “Sounds like the kind of crap Tom would say.”
“Does it? I’ve never met Tom.”
