The Guy With the Suitcase (Once Upon a Guy #1) (9 page)

“Why did you have to give it up?” Rafe asked, his brain already at work, trying to figure out why someone would give up something they love.

“I became vegan,” came his reply in a casual manner.

“Oh. Okay. I guess,” Rafe commented.

Pierce squinted at Rafe’s attempt of sounding approving.

“I just don’t get why you would cut something out of your life if you loved it so much,” Rafe explained, trying to sound as nonjudgmental as possible.

Pierce looked him in the eyes with a semi-serious face and eyes full of surprise. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask my parents?”

Rafe cursed as he realized what he’d just said and apologized.

“Relax,” Pierce laughed, “I was joking, dude. Well, sorta”.

They finally reached the ice cream man and Pierce ordered for the two of them. He ordered two of Rafe’s favorites and gave the man all his bills, leaving without his change. Was he trying to impress Rafe? Or was he, a homeless guy, hopeless with money in his hands? Rafe didn’t care. He enjoyed this
bruto
’s company and he would savor it and whatever benefits it came with for as long as he could.
 

He licked the cold dessert and his taste buds were permeated by a blast of sweet wetness. He’d missed the taste of ice cream. He tried to avoid cold stuff to build up his immune system, not that it did anything. His immune system was fucked up. Completely. But if he could avoid catching pneumonia, he would. He didn’t have a death sentence wish.

“But seriously, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be. It was easy at first, then as the diet kicks in you start craving for some of the crap you used to eat, but you fight through the cravings, or supplement them with the closest equivalent, and then you’re set. Honestly, this doesn’t taste as good as it does in my memory,” Pierce went on.

“So, you’re still vegan? Or…” Rafe asked looking poignantly at the ice cream in Pierce’s hands.

Pierce coughed. “God, no. I tried the first couple of weeks after I was kicked out and I almost starved myself to death. That was before I came down to NYC. I’d get a couple of good souls willing to buy me food, but whenever I asked for something non-meaty, non-cheesy, they’d think I was being an ungrateful bastard. When you got no money and you are hungry, not knowing when your next meal is going to be, you get what you can to get by. Plus, most things I want to eat are more expensive. Salads aside. So when it’s going to be famine or a dollar hot dog, I chose the dog.

“But I’ve met some vegetarians who are homeless and will not eat anything else. It doesn’t work for me. If it does for them, I have no clue. Although, to be honest, now that I’m used to the city and how it works, whenever I have the option and money I do eat at least vegetarian…”
 

Rafe could hear him talking for hours, for whatever topic it was he wanted to go on about. He seemed to be passionate about his dietary needs.

If he was being honest to himself, he wasn’t paying as much attention to the content of Pierce’s words, but to his tone and his emotions, that were so generously pouring out as he explained his experience. Pierce seemed to be the guy with the constant resting bitch face which only came off whenever he got carried away and delved into his deepest desires.

His lips, full and moist from the never-ending salivation by his moist tongue. His eyes flickering more frequently than normal, as he put his thoughts into order. His nose taking deep breaths at irregular times, as his passion made him forget to breathe properly.

“…I don’t know. Every time I think about it, I can’t wrap my head around how a parent can disown their child like they’re nothing,” Pierce said and stopped talking, the silence making Rafe’s attention drift back to his ears.

He seemed to have done a one-eighty and brought the conversation to the reason for his homelessness. Rafe nodded in agreement to his last statement but tried to find the words to follow up on that.

“How did you end up out here?” Pierce asked him and Rafe mentally slapped himself for not coming up with a different subject to lighten their little rendezvous again.

He scratched his head, singing lazily trying to come up with his response. “I…I ran,” he found himself mumbling before he controlled his mouth.

“Huh?” Pierce grimaced, his face changing from a tender smile to a deep frown.

“I—I ran. I couldn’t take it any longer. I…I felt lonely in there. Felt like I was doing something wrong, twenty-four seven. I mean, sure, there was my
mamá
, who loves me, but…” he babbled before being abruptly interrupted by Pierce’s groan.

“Wait a sec. You left your house because you felt lonely? You chose to be homeless because they were just…being parents?” he growled, heat visible in his face.

“I didn’t—,” Rafe tried to defend himself, but wasn’t allowed. Pierce quickened his step, clearly frustrated, and trying to bring an end to their little walk. “Pierce, wait!”

He chased after him, navigating through people, all giving him dirty looks at his attempt. The streets were now excruciatingly busy. Lunch break was on and everyone was marching to their hotspot with clear determination.

Rafe’s vision blurred. His head was moving too fast and his breath was shortening. His agitation was growing, as were its effects on him. Why was Pierce being so hard on him? He hadn’t even let him explain.

He lost his footing and came crashing down on the sidewalk. He called Pierce’s name one more time and people circled around him, untouched by the human disturbance. He steadied himself with two hands, focusing his eyes on the sidewalk cracks instead of the dizzying hectic amount of people surrounding him.

“Are you okay?” he saw a pair of jeans kneeling down to reveal Pierce, with a concerned look on his face. That dude needed to sort out his emotional caliber.

Rafe whispered a no and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision. “I have some water in my bag,” he said, meaning to take it out of his rucksack, but Pierce was already pulling the strings of it and digging his hand inside to scavenge for the water bottle.

He passed the bottle to Rafe, and he took regenerating sips, closing his eyes as he did. When he opened them again, he felt a push on his back and turned his head to see Pierce sitting next to him, holding bills in his hands and waving them at Rafe.

“I thought you were fucking homeless,” he growled.

“I am,” Rafe murmured.

“I thought you had no fucking money. What the fuck is wrong with you, man? You leave home to live on the streets with money in your bag? Are you a psycho or something?” Pierce’s voice was becoming louder, attracting some disapproving looks from passersby.

“It…it’s not like that,” Rafe tried to find the energy to explain, to say more, but he couldn’t.
 

Not that he was given a chance. Pierce pushed himself up and stood tall above the still-floored Rafe.

“I’m taking these for the fucking ice cream I just bought you. Man, I can’t believe I spent my money to put you in a fucking room,” he huffed and walked away.

Rafe panted and looked around him trying to regain his strength and take in what had happened. That
bruto
didn’t even give him a chance to explain. He just left Rafe at the mercy of himself.

Pierce pushed the door of Les Fourches open, storing away his frustration with it. He had done his best to let Rafe and his sickening existence out of his mind, but the more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

He let it all slide away, however, as he was greeted by Vance, who was hosting on the door again. He looked up and down at him, noticing his cleanliness, and it put a smile on his face. Then took him across the bar and to a door that read ‘Personnel Only’.

He found himself being led down a long corridor with several doors. A staircase to the left led to the basement, but they, instead, used the door on the right. He found himself in a room with an array of lockers, a couple of couches, a coffee table, and hangers on every possible surface.

There were paper coffee cups and napkins on the table, t-shirts and trousers crumbled on the couches, and a bunch of shoes lying all across the floor. Vance explained that the space was the staff room where he could put away his stuff until the end of his shift. He also assigned him a locker that had a label stuck on it with the name “Imogen” on it.

“That was a hostess who used to work here, but now she’s off traveling the world. I’ll print a label with your name on it later, but even without it, know that it’s your locker and you’re the only one with the combination, so anything you put in there should be more than safe,” Vance explained.

Pierce nodded and unlocked the door. The contraption was too narrow to fit his suitcase, but it could easily fit a small wardrobe of clothes in it. One problem sorted at least. He didn’t have to carry his clothes with him. He could just leave them in his locker and wash them when they got dirty or smelly.
 

Vance let him put away his things, meaning Pierce had to part not only with his new coat but his suitcase too, which he placed behind one of the couches, hiding it from immediate view. He had not let it out of his sight in months, so he was reluctant to do so now, but Vance was waiting at the door to give him a tour of the facilities and Pierce was forced to let go.

Vance showed him to the cellar, where all the pump beer was and to the stock room where all the liquors were stored. He was taken through the kitchen where he was briefly introduced to the chefs at work — their names going in from one ear and out the other — and to the patio on the back, decorated by green and colorful blossomed flowers. Finally the tour ended behind the bar where Vance went through the job with Pierce. The time was 3 p.m. so the place was relatively empty before the after-work rush at 5, as Vance explained, so that gave them plenty of time to go through the basics.

“So the register is pretty straight forward. Everything is listed in their section. So you have beer in one button, wine in another, food is separated in appetizers, mains, desserts, and sides and cocktails have their own separate section,” Vance explained, navigating through the touch screen register.

Pierce squinted. “I don’t know how to make cocktails,” he said with a low voice that sounded almost like a whisper.

Vance laughed and turned to meet Pierce’s eyes. “Of course you don’t. But you’ll learn, with time. For now, if any cocktails come through, I’ll make them with you. Which brings me to my next point. This little machine here,” he said tapping a small black printer, “it is your best friend from now on. It will print all tickets from the floor saying what the patrons want to drink and what table they’re meant for. You put each table’s drinks on one tray, if not more, even if it is just one drink. Let the waiters deal with them, but if you put them in one tray you might confuse them. No, scrap the might. You
will
confuse them.

“Moving on, everything behind the bar needs to remain clean at all times. And that’s not just because the health inspector can bust my ass if it’s not, but also because I’m O.C.D. and I cannot stand sticky surfaces.
Capice
?”
 

Vance stared at Pierce with an intense face that cracked a smile when Pierce nodded humbly. “I promise, I’m not a horrible person. Just—,” he took a moment, thinking. Then turned to the barman at the other end. “Hey, Hollister, how would you describe me?”

Hollister folded a cloth four times and set it down under the bar, turning his head and attention to his boss. “A cranky ol’ faggot,” he said with a lot of aspiration to his voice.

“Hey,” Vance exclaimed. “I’m not fucking old,” he said and laughed it off, turning back to Pierce. “So yeah, cranky ol’ faggot will do, I guess. The point is I like things a certain away. If you do those things, we’ll get along just fine. If not—.”

“I get the boot,” Pierce interrupted.

Vance shook his head, laughing. “No, you will be a subject to my verbal harassment, which goes a bit like this,” he said and turned back to Hollister. “Yo’ mother-f-acker, are you gonna wipe that melted ice, or are we gonna turn this place into a water bar?”

Hollister stopped his conversation with a patron sitting on the other side and gave Vance the finger. He used the other hand to wipe the area that his boss was talking about, and looking at the patron, replied to Vance. “I can finally wear my wetsuit, then, dick.”
 

He resumed conversation with the patron, an older, grayer guy in a suit, who chuckled at Hollister’s comment.

Pierce laughed. This place was more alien than it had initially looked. It felt like this expensive, uptight restaurant one would expect to be inhabited by snobs, yet they’d given Pierce a job and the staff harassed each other for fun. An alien world, indeed.

“So, yeah, that’s my kind of harassment,” Vance explained and went through a few more things with him. Finally, they ended up reading the food menu together before the clock struck 4 p.m.

“There’s no meat anywhere on this list,” Pierce commented, curious as to why.

Vance slapped his hand on the bar and put his other on his waist. “Pierce Callahan, I’ve been going through the entire job for an hour now and I haven’t yet mentioned once that we’re a vegetarian-slash-vegan restaurant? Fuck me, I
am
getting old,” he rolled his eyes at himself and Pierce laughed.