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“No can do. There’s no key. But I can work like this, with the exception of being able to pull a work shirt on over the chains.”
Jamie was fighting the urge to roll his eyes, I could tell. But he said, “Go ahead and work without it,” and went back into the kitchen.
I tied my black apron around my hips and went out into the dining room and got busy, refilling drinks and clearing a couple plates. I went to refill a beer, and found Dmitri behind the bar. It always seemed really incongruous to see him doing something as mundane as working, somehow. At least to me. A man that beautiful looked like he should be lounging on a Hollywood movie set or something, not serving drinks.
“Hi Charlie. Hi Austin,” he said cheerfully. His cornflower blue eyes were sparkling with amusement.
“Hi Mr. Teplov,” my companion said with a smile.
“It’s just Dmitri,” my ex’s husband corrected. And then he asked me, “Out of curiosity Charlie, why are you chained to a prostitute?”
“How do you know he’s a prostitute?”
“Dante introduced us when I ran into Austin at his house.” I was a little surprised that Dante was that forthcoming about his sex life. And then I remembered how the guy at the door when I’d gone to see Dante had recognized Christopher and let him right in (in a delayed light bulb moment, I realized the guy at the door had thought I was a prostitute as well, there to do a three-way with Christopher and Dante). Man, a lot of people were up in Dante’s business.
“Um, the cuffs are a long story. I’d better give Cole a hand, so I’ll tell you later,” I said.
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Dmitri said with a big smile, dimples out in full force.
A table was seated in my section, and when we went up to them and they gave us a funny look, Christopher told the two businessmen, “We’re on a game show. If we can survive like this for a week without killing each other, we win a cash prize.” They wished us luck.
At the next table, he told a group of college students with long hair and political t-shirts, “We’re doing a school paper on abuses in the criminal justice system, and are learning how a man’s dignity is stripped from him when he’s forced to wear handcuffs.”
“Right on, man,” one of the students said.
For every table, Christopher had a different story, tailored to that particular set of customers. My new friend had some pretty amazing people skills. And also, as noted earlier, he was one hell of a liar.
I went to place an order in the kitchen, and raised an eyebrow at the sight of Jamie behind the grill, flipping a burger patty. “Oh dear God, are you cooking?” I asked him.
“We’re one line cook short because we weren’t expecting a lunch rush, so I’m pitching in.”
“So, you owe me five bucks,” I said with a smile.
“What do you mean?”
“You bet me a couple years ago that you could make it to the age of twenty five without ever actually cooking a single thing. You just lost.”
Jamie grinned and handed over a five dollar bill. “I’d forgotten about that. I probably would have made it, too, if I hadn’t become the owner of a bar and grill.”
“Probably.”
Christopher watched our exchange without comment, his intelligent blue eyes taking it all in and filing it away. And later on, as my shift was winding down and I was cleaning up my station, he asked me, “Are you still in love with Jamie?”
I stopped what I was doing and really considered the question. Then I said, “As recently as a few days ago, the answer would have been yes. And now…I do still love him, but as a friend. He’ll always be important to me. But no, I’m not in love with him anymore.” It was a pretty surprising realization. And kind of freeing, actually.
“Not since you met Dante,” Christopher said happily. “Because you’re falling in love with him.”
“Oh man. There’s the hopeless romantic in you again,” I said as I wiped down a table.
“Not hopeless. Hopeful. I want to believe that love actually exists in the world.”
“Speaking of Dante,” I said, slightly changing the subject, “I want to give his grandmother another call, make sure she’s still ok.” We went in the back and I pulled out my cell phone. Christopher took his out as well, scrolling through some texts as I dialed the hotel.
An accented woman’s voice answered the phone in the suite, and when Mrs. Dombruso came on the line she explained, “My housekeeper Marta is here, she brought me some clothes. And Mr. Mario is here. He’s my hairdresser. You’d like him, Charlie. He’s a gay homosexual, too.”
I grinned at that and asked, “Did the doctor come by?”
