Heart (9 page)

The door slammed with a sickening thud. Rick stomped away like nothing had happened, but for Dex it felt like the world had imploded….

“Told you he looked better blond. Get him on the table. Put the cuffs on. Yeah, that’s right. Don’t worry, he’s not a screamer. He’ll be good here until we get back. Lock that door behind you.”

Another loud slam brought Dex back to the present. Rick dropped a white chopping board down on the counter. “Get off the floor, Dex. I don’t pay you to sit around.”

Dex scrambled to his feet and slunk to the dishwasher. His head was spinning like he hadn’t eaten in days. Come to think of it, he’d forgotten to eat the fried egg bap someone had passed him that morning, distracted by the huge pile of weird little birds Rick had asked him to butcher. Quail, apparently. They had the same anatomy as a chicken, but they looked like spindly aliens.

Being invisible was an art he’d practiced most of his life. He stuck close to the pot wash area for the rest of the night, trying to avoid the deteriorating atmosphere in the kitchen, and he’d have climbed right into the dishwasher itself if it meant avoiding confrontation.

But even hidden by the crockery stands and towering plate racks, he couldn’t escape the worsening wrath of Rick and the other chefs. He knew their aggression wasn’t personal, but he buckled under the weight of it, lost his focus, dropped things, and drew attention to himself—a grave error where he came from, and a big mistake during a dinner service that was fast becoming a war zone.

Chefs shouted. Waitresses cried. Even Bernie came in from the bar and got involved, until eventually Rick snapped and hurled a metal spatula across the kitchen.

There were several people between Dex and missile, and he would never be sure Rick even meant to hit him. But it did hit him. It sliced into his temple in a bruising blow and knocked him off balance.

Dex blinked, more surprised than anything. Rick’s temper had been boiling over all night, but getting whacked with a spatula caught Dex off guard.

And scared the shit out of him. The kitchen became a dark, deserted alleyway, his face mashed into a brick wall. A cramped, grubby car with a sweaty, heaving body behind him. Chained to the bed in Uncle Braden’s mobile home….

Bernie stepped in front of him, her expression one of fury. He flinched and stepped back, but she persisted and caught his arm, and he realized her anger wasn’t aimed at him. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go outside.”

No one looked their way as Dex let Bernie lead him out to the frost-covered bin yard. Service went on despite the violent disruption, and were it not for the sharp pain in the side of his already aching head, he’d have thought he’d imagined the whole incident.

He shrugged out of Bernie’s grasp and walked out into the night. The air was cold and the sky was clear. He stared up at the stars, wondering if his ma’s bedtime tales of long-dead gypsies haunting the skies were really true. Maybe his nan was up there somewhere. If he closed his eyes and thought about it really hard, he could just about recall her pinched face and bony fingers.

“Here, put some ice on that shiner,” Bernie said. “You’re going to feel that tomorrow.”

Dex took the ice-filled cloth Bernie passed him, but didn’t press it to the throbbing bruise on his head. Couldn’t see how it would help.

Bernie took advantage of his silence and stepped closer, rubbing his shoulder. “What’s the matter, sweetie? You’re not yourself. Do you still feel poorly?”

Dex rolled his eyes. Rick, Bernie, and his coworkers were constantly on his case for being too quiet. “I’m okay.”

Bernie eyed him, unconvinced. “Go home, Dex. Get some sleep. You work every day. It’s about time you took an early finish.”

Dex snapped his gaze to her, alarmed. “I’ve still got stuff to do. Rick—”

“
Rick
will answer to me when this bloody service finally ends. Don’t worry about him, sweetheart. It’s just one of those days, and you got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. This
isn’t
your fault.”

Rick had proved himself a formidable foe tonight, but he had nothing on Bernie. She was a towering force of Liverpudlian menace, and wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Dex slipped upstairs, got changed, and left the restaurant without encountering another soul. He walked home in a daze. He hadn’t felt right since he’d woken that morning, and the disastrous shift at the restaurant topped off a bad day all round. All he wanted was to curl up on his bare mattress and forget it’d ever happened. Or maybe forget he existed at all. It had to be a sign… an omen of some kind. He’d known from the start he was living on borrowed time, and perhaps that time had come to an end.

He collided face-first with something warm and hard… warm, hard, and stinking of hay.

“Oi! Watch where you’re going.”

Dex stumbled back. The voice came from somewhere above him, and he looked up to see he’d walked straight into the side of a patrolling police horse. He felt his eyes widen. He’d spent his life around horses, but he’d never seen an animal as huge as the sleek black stallion.

The policeman glared down at him. “Move it along. If you’re drunk, go home.”

The horse walked on, ambling at a sedate pace that gave him an almost regal air. Dex stared after him, taking in the animal’s thick, corded muscles and gleaming coat. It was the healthiest horse he’d ever seen. Carric and Tauna flashed into his mind. Carric was lame, and Tauna had been so hungry last time he’d fed them, she’d eaten half of Carric’s feed before Carric could get to it. There hadn’t been enough to give Carric any more grain, and he’d fallen asleep that night to the mournful call of the starving mare.

Until Mikey had come to get him.

Dex let himself into the hostel and made his way to his room, sticking close to the walls and avoiding eye contact with the other residents. His head hurt, and he felt unsettled and sick. He thought he’d feel better when he locked his door behind him, but it wasn’t to be. He stumbled to his mattress in the corner and lay down, feeling like his spinning head would topple him right off the earth. Sleep found him, but his dreams were plagued by the cries of the horses he’d left behind in Hatfield. Cora came to him too, her lifeless face reanimating to become frantic and desperate, calling to him for help. But he didn’t dream of the man bound at the foot of the tree with a gun to his head. He never had, and in the rare moments he ever thought of him, he knew he wouldn’t.

In the morning, Dex woke drenched in sweat. His stomach roiled until he leaned over the side of the mattress and threw up. Panting, he slapped a shaky hand over his mouth. He felt awful, like he’d been tipped upside down and shaken until his insides came out, but as his stomach heaved to empty itself of its phantom contents, he felt like a weight was floating away from his body. By the time he’d cleaned up the mess and got ready for work, he felt a lot better.

He was an hour early for his shift, but Rick was waiting for him on the back steps, blowing smoke from his ever-present cigarette into the early morning sky.

Rick put two fingers under Dex’s chin, tilting his face so he could see it better. He winced when he saw the jagged red line on his temple, surrounded by a faint, murky bruise. “Sorry, kid. Things got a little lairy last night, eh?”

Dex said nothing, forcing himself not to squirm under Rick’s light touch. What was there to say? Bernie said he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he’d yet to find that magical place where no one felt the need to take a swing at him.

Rick gave him a long look and sighed. “Bernie ripped me a new one last night, just so you know. Can’t promise I won’t chew you out again—it’s how kitchens work—but I’ll try and keep my utensils to myself next time. Deal?”

“Works for me.”

“All right, lad.” Rick grinned and lit another cigarette. “Go get cleaned up and ready for lunch. I’ll get the missus to bring you a butty.”

It was the first and only time the incident was ever mentioned. Bernie’s prophecy that the storm would pass turned out to be true, and a week or so later, with his head fully healed, Dex all but forgot it too.

One night in early December, he finished mopping the kitchen around midnight. He was about to leave when Rick called him into the bar.

“Hey, kid. Come and have a drink with us. We’re celebrating.”

Dex accepted a pint of cold lager. He didn’t often stay after his shifts, preferring to keep to himself, but occasionally, Rick wouldn’t let him escape. “What are you celebrating?”

“A fucking miracle, that’s what. We’ve got a new dessert chef. Starts in the morning. Can hardly believe it. Never thought we’d get someone this close to Christmas. He’s good too. I worked with him in Piccadilly before he buggered off down south.”

Dex absorbed the information with muted interest. Chefs seem to come and go every week, but he knew Rick had been struggling trying to manage the dessert section by himself. He nodded his good wishes, finished his beer, and headed home without giving it much more thought.

He was first in the kitchen the next morning, and he set to work getting ready for the day… until he got the distinct impression he wasn’t alone. A muffled curse sounded from the back of the kitchen. Curious, Dex took the biggest pan and carried it over to the stove to get a better look at who was poking about in the dessert fridge.

A strong, muscular back greeted him. Dex froze, though he didn’t know why, and perhaps sensing a presence behind him, the owner of the back turned and looked over his shoulder.

The world stopped spinning. Dex’s heart stalled, and his blood began to rush so fast he felt he would surely faint. The broad-shouldered man had shorter hair than he remembered, and he looked as stunned as Dex felt, but his hypnotic blue gaze was just the same.

Dex made a sound, a strangled sound distorted by the breath caught in his throat. He dropped the heavy pan to the floor. No. It couldn’t be. The stranger was the man of his dreams, and not a stranger at all.

The stranger was the man Dex wanted to hold him forever.

Twelve

T
HE
PAN
hit the tiled floor with a deafening clatter. Cold water sloshed over Dex’s feet. Shaken, he dropped to his knees to clear it up, his heart hammering. He was vaguely aware of the stranger… of
Seb
… getting to his feet, but he didn’t dare look up.
Couldn’t
look up. He was imagining things. Had to be. Seb lived in Padstow, and by his thick, Cornish accent, he’d lived there all his life. He wasn’t supposed to be here. What the fuck was he doing in London? Doing
here
, of all fucking places.

“Dex.”

It wasn’t a question. Seb’s voice was steady and sure, and sounded the same as it had eighteen months ago when they’d shared a bed… shared kisses, body heat, and so much more. Dex stared at the water pooling around his feet. Watched it spread like oozing blood under the upright refrigerator. The fridge held all the prep for the main line section, prep he was supposed to be replenishing. Rick….

“
Dex.
”

No.

Dex sucked in a breath and got to his feet, reaching for the paper towel dispenser on the wall. When he’d realized that, even away from Braden’s control, he’d never be safe enough to risk returning to Padstow, he’d locked Seb in a box at the very bottom of his heart, never daring to dream he’d ever see him again. And now, just the sound of his voice hurt, cutting deep into a wound barely healed.

No
. Dex closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Rick stomped into the kitchen. He retrieved the pan and slung it on the stove without seeming to care how it had found its way to the floor. “Clean that water up, Dex. Don’t fancy falling on my arse before lunch. Have you met Seb?”

Dex nodded slowly. “Just now.”

Seb’s eyes darkened. It was subtle, and perhaps no one else would’ve noticed, but to Dex, it was like a wave swirling up from the sea on a black, stormy night. He ducked his head and set about blotting the spilled water from the floor. Seb was angry, he could tell, but what was he supposed to say?
“It’s okay. I know him. I know he has a freckle behind his ear and a tiny scar on his belly. I know him, because I promised him I’d never forget him.”

He didn’t say it, and neither did Seb. Seb didn’t say anything at all. His expression was darkly inscrutable, and unable to take the awkward silence, Dex fled the dessert counter and returned to his place by the pot wash.

Seb’s melodic voice taunted him for the rest of the morning—calling out to the other chefs, most of whom seemed to already know him. Introducing himself to the front-of-house staff, bantering with Rick. It was wonderful and horrible. Comforting and utterly disturbing. He felt like he’d been dropped in another world. He’d never shared Seb with anyone, and he didn’t recognize this jovial, sociable side of him. Every moment they’d spent together had been theirs alone.

And why do you think that was? Do you think he wanted people knowing he had a dirty pikey in his shop?