All You Touch, page 8
Jakob wanted to fling himself into the sun. “Have you, uh…called over there?”
West gave him an incredulous look. “Dude.”
Lifting one hand in surrender, he shook his head. “No, I know.” He had no doubt all calls were routed to an endless loop of automated bullshit that never got anywhere so people would give up trying. “I just…I’m sorry. I’m sure they’re going to fix it.”
“Yeah,” West said with a snort. “And right after that, they’re gonna donate the year’s proceeds to charity, feed the homeless, adopt some orphans, recycle…”
“Alright,” Jakob said, throwing his hands up, overwhelmed between wanting to laugh and cry. “I get it. Soulless corporate monsters.”
West hummed, then leaned over, and Jakob heard a quiet click, then a wet rumble of a coffee percolator. “I thought you were one of them, you know.”
Jakob blinked at him as the younger man leaned against the counter and drummed his fingers on the laminate.
“One of the soulless corporate monsters,” West clarified, like Jakob was confused by his words. “You showed up looking all…deliciously rich, like there was no way you’d belong in a place like that.”
“I probably don’t,” Jakob couldn’t help but say.
West laughed again like Jakob had told a joke. “I mean, okay, we’re all drowning in ennui and identity crisis. And trust me, I get the whole…” He waved his hand up and down. “Trying to look more? I guess? I had a friend back home who would save for six months to afford a pair of Gucci jeans and a polo. Two thousand bucks. One winter he went without heat all December and swore it was worth it because the outfit got him the best lay of his life.”
Jakob swallowed around a lump in his throat and thought about how he didn’t even know what his little jogging outfit had cost him. His running shoes were probably a grand, and he wondered if West would be able to tell if he looked close enough.
“Why would he do that?” Jakob finally asked.
West shrugged, and he fished two paper cups from the long stack and filled them from the coffeepot, which smelled rich and delicious. Setting them on the counter, he pushed a little bowl filled with flavor creamer pods toward Jakob and gestured for him to help himself. “I think sometimes, when you have nothing, it gives you a rush when someone thinks you have everything.”
Jakob closed his eyes and breathed out. “Do you…” He stopped and licked his lips as he toyed with the foil top on the vanilla creamer before he was brave enough to look up. “What do you want?”
“Like, from life? Or right now?” West asked with a grin. “Because right now I could go for a massive breakfast burrito. There’s this one truck that parks over on campus, but it’s never there before work, and these days, I can’t afford to lose even fifteen minutes of being open.”
Jakob’s lips twitched into a soft smile. “What about from life? I mean, is that you? Do you want someone to look at you like you have everything?”
West blew out a puff of air, then stayed silent as he added four creamer pods to his coffee and stirred the very pale liquid with a wooden stir stick. After he took a drink, he looked up, and there was something in his eyes Jakob couldn’t quite read. “I don’t really know. I never felt like I was owed everything, if that makes sense. Some of my friends back home couldn’t fathom the idea that they’d be middling to content for the rest of their lives. That they’d be working some nine-to-five and they’d do that until they were too old to keep going. They were convinced that the universe owed them their big dreams.”
Jakob felt the heavy weight of melancholy on his shoulders, and he knew he had no right, considering his position. And considering he was lying by omission to this man who was one of the few people Jakob thought maybe did deserve to reach out and touch whatever he wanted—and to keep it. “But not you?”
“I think I’d be content with running water that got hot and didn’t turn brown for the first five minutes it ran. And I think I’d be happy,” West said with a slight laugh, “if my heating didn’t crap out every December. I think I’d be content with my own little place. Nothing fancy,” he added in a quiet voice. “Just something that was actually mine. This shop is, but the building’s owned by London Enterprise. My piece-of-shit car still has twenty-four months before it’s paid off, and I doubt it’ll live that long. My apartment building is owned by Satan and his minions, who would love nothing more than to see me sleeping in the alcove of the church shelter. So yeah,” he laughed again, almost self-deprecating. “I think I’d like to have something no one could take away.”
Jakob wanted to make him a thousand promises. That he’d fix it, that he’d give West the sun and the moon because he was good, and good men deserved those small things in life.
But he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to live up to anything other than being Karl Larsen’s yes-man. So, he sipped his coffee and met West’s eyes as he leaned against the counter. “If anyone deserves it, West, it’s you.”
8
West swiped the sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve, then slapped his gloves into the bin and stared at the trays of bread in front of him. The air was sluggish coming out of the vents, and he wasn’t sure if it was just the random humid heat wave that hit the coast that week or if the AC was giving out on him.
The only saving grace was that if something fell apart, Rhys would send someone to immediately fix it. But West didn’t want to bother the man. They were eyeballs-deep in legal battles over property in St. James now that his brother had gone to work for LPM, and the few times West had seen the man, he looked wrecked.
He’d deal with an uncomfortable airflow for a while if it meant not bothering Rhys about something so small, and anyway, it was likely the last heat wave they were going to see for a while. He was actually looking forward to the chilly season—at least, until it became so cold that his building began falling apart in other fun ways. But the coast was far more temperate than he’d grown up with, and even after being in St. James for as long as he had, it never quite felt like home with the tepid holiday weather.
He didn’t need to think about that now though. Going down that road meant thinking about how he was missing another Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah with his parents. It meant sitting at home and staring at an empty table and knowing that they were all together and happy and missing him—but not enough to remember to call until the next day.
And West knew better. He knew it wasn’t personal. When people moved away, lives went on. But every now and again, when he was feeling low, he wondered if maybe that’s really what happened to Abraham. Maybe it wasn’t some big family drama they were refusing to tell him about. Maybe he just wanted a change, and after ten years, they just sort of stopped remembering to invite him to things.
Then one day, he died, and they all realized what a waste that time had been.
He didn’t want to become that to them though. He loved his family. He didn’t want to be some afterthought, some memory. Some shop left in a will to a random niece or nephew who then moved across the country to try and remember the uncle that existed in old photos and foggy memories.
Pushing those thoughts away, West lifted the trays of dough and slid them into the rack before rolling them toward the walk-in. He took a moment to let the cool air wash over him, breathing in the weird scent of raw ingredients and cardboard boxes, and then he shoved the bread inside and slammed the door.
It was punctuated with the little bell from the front door, and he groaned because yet again, he’d forgotten to lock it. Most of the St. James locals knew not to come in past closing, even if he’d left the open sign on. Hell, a couple of the baristas at Noah’s place would even sneak in and turn the little neon light off if they saw it still blinking after four.
But the tourists—who were growing in number thanks to LPM’s efforts to turn their town into some billionaire oasis—didn’t give a shit about posted hours.
He gritted his teeth and braced himself, then pushed through the door where he let out a massive sigh of relief. Carter stood at the pastry display, looking a little nervous and a little shy. He had a hand in his pocket and the other tapping on his phone, and he glanced up when West waved.
“Hey.” Carter set his phone down and sagged against the counter. “Rhys sent me over here because he said he got the inspection for the HVAC last week, and it looks like the AC compressor is going out.”
West almost laughed—it was a damn near thing that he didn’t. “Uh. Yeah, I noticed it today, actually. The airflow kind of sucks, and it’s hot as balls back there.”
Carter’s grin widened. West liked the guy from the moment he’d set foot in the deli with his first lunch order for Rhys. He’d seemed a little skittish, and frankly, West was surprised he hadn’t seen the guy before because he would have remembered him. But he later found out that Carter had been working ridiculous hours for Ned—a dickhead, small-time Realtor who wanted to be as big as Rhys or the Larsens, but who didn’t have the capital or the drive.
“Well, he said he can have someone come next week, but he wanted to see what your schedule was like. They’re gonna have to…” Carter trailed off, then fumbled for his phone and read the screen before he went on. “They’re gonna have to shut the power off for a bit, so he doesn’t want to interrupt baking time or service hours.”
West’s brow furrowed. “Well, I have Noah’s lab Tuesdays and Thursdays, but the rest of my shit is online. So, whenever.”
“Okay. I’ll have Elisa make the appointment—and if you need someone to come hang out here while it’s being done, you can always text me.”
Carter was too good for this shit town.
“Thanks, man,” West said as he leaned on the counter. “You want anything while you’re here? I have some leftovers I can wrap up if you and Rhys wanna skip cooking tonight. Enough to make his sandwich and probably some soup.” Rhys only ever ordered one thing, and West made sure he always had extras just in case Carter or Rhys’ assistant showed up late for a craving run.
Carter’s face softened into a glowing smile. “Yeah?”
West snorted a laugh and waved him around the counter. The few friends he had made in St. James always seemed surprised when he showed any measure of generosity. And he didn’t think it had anything to do with Abraham. So far as he knew, his uncle had treated everyone in the town like family. But he supposed when, border to border, the place was being run by LPM, people came to expect the worst.
He heard Carter pull out one of the stools near the baking table, and he reached out, pulling the lid off the soup tureen to see if it was still hot enough.
“Uh,” came Carter’s voice behind him, and West looked over his shoulder. “Is that a bruise on your wrist? Did something happen?”
West had all but forgotten the faint marks left behind from his night in the supply closet with Jake. Jake, who had shown up right after at the Café and proved everything West had assumed about him entirely wrong. Jake, who West had been trying to forget since he left that afternoon without leaving a number or looking back.
Which was what he’d wanted, West told himself over and over.
It was definitely what he wanted.
“Yeah, that’s…nothing. Ignore that.”
Carter made a small noise as West grabbed a couple of to-go containers and began to fill them. “Is it a kink thing?”
West was startled enough he spilled soup on himself, hissing in pain as he reached for a towel. “Jesus, warn a guy,” he said as he turned toward the other man.
Carter looked vaguely mortified but also determined. “I’m not judging. My best friend is into all kinds of shit.”
West’s cheeks were still burning as he shook his head. “No. We just got a little…enthusiastic at the bar the other night.”
Carter chuckled and leaned forward. “Did you say enthusiastic?”
West nodded and stepped closer to make it easier on Carter to understand him. “It was kind of amazing.”
Carter grinned wider. “You gonna see him again?”
Rolling his eyes, West walked backward toward the fridge and pulled out the containers for Rhys’ sandwich and began to assemble it on the baking table with the leftover rye he had from the lunch rush.
“You know me well enough to know I don’t double-dip,” he said, though those words tasted like the lie they were because if Jake showed up again and propositioned him, there was no way in hell he’d say no.
“Did you at least get his name this time?”
West bit his lip as he began to assemble the meat on the bread. “Jake. Super normal, right?”
Carter huffed. “There’s nothing wrong with normal. Anyway, one of these days, one of your little hook-ups is gonna come along and sweep you right off your feet.”
“Now that’s some southern-fried bullshit right there,” West said, gently mocking Carter’s Bible Belt accent, only to make him laugh, which he did. “I actually ran into him at Noah’s café the other morning, but it was kind of obvious the passion from the bar was gone.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be him, but the more you’re not looking, the more it’s gonna find you. I was definitely not looking for love when I…”
“Started screwing the boss?” West said. Of course, he knew the situation was more complicated than that. Carter had slept with Rhys’ brother thinking it was him, then came to a job a few months later thinking he’d fucked his boss in the back seat of a car. And it wasn’t until Jordan London swaggered into town like the raging narcissist he was that it was all cleared up.
And in the end, it was fine, but he knew Carter was still sensitive about it.
Picking at his nail, Carter shrugged. “I’m just saying you deserve to be happy.”
West let out a tiny sigh. “Happy’s for other people. I promise I’m good though.” He put the sandwiches in the press—which went against Abraham’s recipe that said grill only, but it was a lot faster, and Rhys hadn’t once complained about him not cooking it the way his uncle had. When it was done, he ripped off a couple pieces of butcher paper and wrapped them, tying a bit of twine in a little bow.
“You’re too good to us,” Carter said, taking the bag when West offered it over.
He smiled and walked him to the door, leaning on it as Carter stepped out. There were thick, heavy clouds sitting above them, and it smelled like rain. “Get home safe,” West said.
Carter nodded. “And call me if you need me. I promise it won’t be a problem.”
West watched him go, and then he turned on his heel, remembering to lock the door behind him, and hurried to finish closing the shop so he could lose himself in schoolwork for the rest of the night.
“We’re here, we’re queer,” Hannah chanted in a faint voice, “we’re melting into the sidewalk because it’s literally a thousand degrees outside.”
West gave her a flat look, then dug one of the water bottles out of the cooler and handed it off. Using his ice-cold hand, he swiped it along the back of his neck and basked in the momentary relief. It wasn’t a thousand degrees, but it was probably close to ninety—a random heat wave on the back of a drought that looked like it was going to creep toward winter.
Clouds had rolled in, promising rain, then failed to deliver, which made the humidity worse and the desperate need for one good, vicious storm almost painful.
West knew he probably could have planned the petition afternoon better, but he’d been caught up in classes, homework, and making sure the deli’s books were balanced. He’d been struggling to pay his accountant until the month before when Carter caught him all but sobbing over the books and volunteered his services. West tried to turn him down, but Rhys sent Carter back a few days later with a politely worded threat, and West was just too damn unable to process numbers to say no.
But it was another layer of stress taking away his attention from the task at hand—which was getting the residents left in the building, and anyone else living and working in St. James, to sign a form proving that what Larsen Property Management was doing was criminal. Metaphorically, if not literally.
“Sir,” Hannah said suddenly, hopping off the low wall. “Sir, could you…” The man didn’t turn, and she deflated, dropping her clipboard to her thighs. “No one is going to sign anything in this heat. They’re too pissed off.”
He had a feeling she was probably right, but where he could see the cracks in her armor, he wasn’t ready to succumb just yet. “I’m gonna stay out for a few more hours.”
“You’re going to die of exposure,” she told him, slapping her forms on the wall and grabbing another water bottle before she headed to the doors. “We can do it again next week.”
He wasn’t sure there would be a next week considering how quickly LPM liked to move on things the moment they had the legal okay to do so. West had woken up to out-of-business signs with no warning more than once. And he wanted to trust that Rhys would have some sort of “in” and give him a heads-up if LPM was going to slap eviction notices on everyone’s door, but he couldn’t be certain.
Leaning against the wall, he picked up Hannah’s abandoned clipboard and stared at the sorry list of names. Less than a dozen on hers and thirteen on his. He’d be laughed out of any courtroom, and he didn’t think any local news would take his story if he didn’t have the support of his community.
He also knew that LPM had everyone shit-scared of losing everything they had if they stood against them. And that just served to stoke his rage into a blaze because he was sick and goddamn tired of being held by the balls, thanks to some rich asshole who got off on watching people suffer.
