He carries on to the coffee machine. Stacey Alderchuck can’t function without his first coffee.
“What about me, sweet ‘ums?” I ask. “Maybe I’m fucking hungry. Rude.”
Dash glares at me for calling Stacey sweet ‘ums, even though he knows I’m ripping on him.
“I’ll make breakfast for everyone. Anyone seen or heard from Casey in the past twenty-four hours?”
“Sutter’s apartment,” Dash says.
“Didn’t know they were having sleepovers,” Stacey says.
“They’re not. It’s called, they fuck through dawn, straight on till morning,” I inform him. “Y’know, kinda like he’s taking a ride on a giant, grown-up, very adult Peter Pan.”
“Ew. That’s my brother.”
“You asked. Anyway, I’m good for food. I’ve gotta be at the restaurant.”
Stacey raises a brow. “What are you talking about? Your shift doesn’t start till four.”
Okay, Mr. Knows Everyone’s Fucking Schedule. But I should have known he’d pay extra attention with all the shift changes. Stacey’s like a dorm mom. My bad.
“Trav asked me to be there to help him with the meat shipment this morning.” The lie falls off my tongue easily. Thank fuck I know when most of our shipments arrive because Stacey will too.
“Wow, I’m proud of you. You’ve really taken the initiative around the restaurant this summer. Makes me feel better about quitting,” Stacey says with a downturn in his voice. “I feel so fucking guilty.”
This is Stacey and Casey’s last summer working at The Wicklow. They’ve been pulled up to play for the Orcas in the NHL.
“It’s the end of an era,” Dash says, but there’s a lot more to his words that only I know about. Dash is trying to put on a braveface so he doesn’t worry Stacey, but he’s dreading being away from him for a whole hockey season.
“I don’t even wanna go, Dirk,” he told me in the kind of trembling fucking voice that made me want to punch Alderchuck in the face.
Maybe I should.
Dash hops off the stool, carrying his empty bowl over to the sink. Stace has the coffee going, he’s leaned against the counter, and Dash naturally molds against his body, his back to Stacey’s chest, with Stacey adjusting to fit him.
Do they know they do that? Fit together like perfect dance partners? Dash laces his hand with one of Stacey’s, as if maybe he can make Stacey stick to him.
My lips fight to break into my own smile. I get to do that with Trav in T minus ten minutes. I keep my poker face, though, plucking my hat from the counter.
Stacey clears his throat. “Um, that’s Dashie’s hat.”
I take another look. Shit. It is. But so what? Why’s everyone suddenly getting so territorial over hats?
“I saw yours by the door,” Dash says.
“Right. I’m gonna leave you two to it.” But I make a show of taking his hat anyway. Fuck them. This is something we all do. It was Casey who started it. I get being possessive and jealous and all that, but we’re a damn family, and this is what our family does.
They’re in their own world half the fucking time, I swear. But what’s important is that they don’t suspect shit. See? I can be good at subterfuge, and I can’t wait to tell Trav.
As if the universe begs to differ, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out as I head toward the door.
Hunter. Fuck.
It’s been three days since that wonderful little dinner. It’s shocking he hasn’t drugged me and carried me out of here in the middle of the night, mercenary style.
Hunt
Don’t think you’re leaving town without a severe fucking chat, kid. Get your ass to my place as soon as your work schedule allows.
