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I hesitate for a moment before sitting down, pulling my feet under me like I always do when I’m nervous. I use the excuse that I don’t want to go to bed and lie in the dark, remembering.
Astro and Cillian work together to make me a plate as Raffiel watches me carefully, his eyes narrowed.
“What?” I ask.
“You need to sleep more,” he comments.
“Jeez, is that a nice way of saying I look like shit?” I scoff, but it makes me smile.
“No, you always look incredible.” He seems to realize he said that out loud and grits his teeth as he clenches his fork. “But you look tired. Sleep is important to function at full capacity.”
“Or you will be slow and sloppy. Sleep, eat, drink properly, and take care of your body and it will take care of you,” the others repeat in unison like they have heard that speech a million times. Raffiel huffs, looking down at his food, and it’s just too cute not to poke.
“Adorable, do you have that on a sweatshirt? Or should I feel honored that I was included in the club?”
“Totally honored,” Astro mutters. “One of us.”
Cillian bangs his spoon and fork on the table in time with their chanting. “One of us. One of us.” Raffiel just sighs as Dal carries on eating like their antics are typical.
Grinning, I grab a forkful of the chicken, and after biting into it, I moan, my eyes shutting in bliss. When they snap open, all four men are watching me intently. Covering my mouth, I mumble, “This is fucking amazing.”
Astro grins. “Told you.”
“Eat it all,” Raffiel orders.
I roll my eyes and dig in since it’s so good. Usually, I try to cook for myself, but it never goes well so I order from restaurants. I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal this good. Before I know it, my plate is empty and a second one appears. I pick at it as I eye them.
“So how did you four meet?” I ask.
It’s Cillian who answers. “We all served together, and when we decided to get out, we just kind of stuck together. We were used to working as a team and functioning as one, so it made sense.”
“Exactly, then Raff had the great idea to use our skills to make money. We couldn’t exactly become businessmen or some shit.” Astro smirks.
“Utilizing the skills we had seemed smart, and it turned out there was a market for them,” Raff responds.
“Bodyguards, security . . .” I nod. “Smart plays on what you know, and not many of them are actually skilled at all.”
“We are the best, baby.” Astro winks.
“Lucky me,” I deadpan, making Dal smirk as he eats.
“What about you?” Dal asks when I push my plate away and lay my head on my knees, watching them. It’s almost . . . nice. There are no judgments or expectations, just four friends eating and me.
It’s clear how close they are. They anticipate each other’s needs and work through them. Astro passes a drink to Raff when he’s done, and Dal passes the sauce before Cillian can even ask. These are four men who have been together for a really long time and it shows. I’ve never had that, and for a moment, I wish I had that kind of connection, one of friendship and love, where I can depend on the other person wholeheartedly.
“What? Sorry,” I say when I realize they are all watching me with confused expressions. Who knows how long I was lost in my own thoughts? It’s a bad habit, but it served me well as a kid. Before I went to sleep, I would create elaborate worlds and stories to escape to, and more often than not, it spurred songs afterwards, but it was my escape, my happy place, where I felt safe, and I often find myself daydreaming.
I guess that’s the downside of being an artist. We never truly shut off.
“What about your friends?” Dal asks, and I stiffen.
“I don’t really have any.” Their eyebrows rise, and I laugh bitterly. “Not the way you guys do. My friends, or my old friends, always wanted something. It wasn’t a friendship just because they enjoyed my company. It was a business deal. They wanted to be friends so they could get things out of it—money, publicity, deals, men, climb higher in the industry, you name it. It took me a long time to realize that, so I guess I don’t have any friends, not really.”
“I’m sorry,” he says sadly, or at least it looks like he’s trying to change his expression into one of sadness. Dal’s facial expressions are always a little off, as if he copied them from someone else.
“It’s a cutthroat industry. You get two types of people—those who want to use you or those being used,” I reply truthfully, my bitterness winding through my tone, but I can’t stop it. It took me far too long to realize that and it left its mark.
“Which are you?” Raffiel asks, watching me carefully.
