“Toenail clippings.”
I stared.
And blinked.
“His own,” Benji clarified, like that made it better. “He was clear about that. It wasn’t a serial killer situation. He kept his own personal toenails . . . in jars . . . plural. He has jars, Jacks, labeled and organized by year.”
“That’s . . .”
“Horrifying? Revolting? Vile beyond reckoning?”
“I was going to say ‘creative,’ but yeah, all of those work, too.”
“Which means he’s been doing this for years. This was a long-term commitment to being disgusting. This wasalifestyle.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed.
Benji’s dating life was a constant source of entertainment, mostly because he had no filter and would swipe right on anyone with a pulse just to see what happened.
“So I’m guessing you didn’t go see the collection.”
“I told him I was allergic to keratin and then blocked him so fast my phone almost caught fire.” Benji took a sip of his water. “Manhole is a wasteland, Jacks. A barren, toenail-infested wasteland.”
“It’s called Manhole, Benj. It’s not Christian Mingle. What do you expect? You’d have better luck calling some of the numbers you collect from this place every night. At least you’ve met these guys in person and have some sort of creeper vibe check already.”
“Drunk creeper vibe is more like it.”
I grunted. He wasn’t wrong about that. I liked the guys who came into the bar. Mostly, they were nice, regular dudes who liked sports—or were at least sports-adjacent, which in our world was sometimes as close as we could get.
“I’m going to die alone,” Benji slumped over the bar, burying his head in crossed arms.
“You’re not going to die alone.”
“I’m going to die alone, and they’re going to find my body surrounded by cats who have eaten my face.”
“You don’t have any cats.”
“I’ll get cats! Specifically for the face-eating. It’s the only future I can see for myself now.”
I was about to respond—something about how he was being dramatic, which was both true and normal for Benji on a day ending in “y”—when the front door opened.
I glanced up, ready to call out a greeting across the nearly empty bar.
But my brain stopped working.
Four guys walked in.
Really big guys.
Deliciously athletic guys.
Guys wearing clothes that cost more than my monthly rent but somehow still looked casual.
I recognized them immediately:
Tyler Chen.
Erik Lindqvist.
