Page 74 of Sizzle

Maybe because I want to see him naked again.

I close my eyes against the thought.

I’ve got zero problems with gay people. Live and let live, right? Love is love. I get all that. I support it. But how the hell I made it to my thirties without ever once finding myself attracted to a man before, I don’t know.

I’m attracted to one now. And he’s my best friend, one of the only people in the world I trust completely. And this is going to royally fuck us up beyond repair.

I can’t lose him.

So I breathe through the thoughts, push it all away to deal with later so I can focus on the task at hand—which is doing my goddamnedest to get through this day, because Duckbill’s rent is due tonight.

“I’m sorry, boss,” Jimmy says an hour later, tapping a couple of keys and rising from the computer chair in my office. He means it, too.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” I tell him, offering my hand. He takes it, smiling sadly. “I’d promote you if I could.” We share a forced laugh. I’m grateful to him for playing along.

I saw it coming. Jimmy did too, but bless the kid, he kept looking, right up to the end.

Duckbill is done. Mrs. Miller left a message last night when she knew I wasn’t here that she’d call today to talk about the late rent. All the work we put in the last two months—the new menu, all of Joelle’s hard work, the extra busy season—none of it mattered. We managed to make enough to settle up what I owe Mrs. Miller for this year, but no more.

It’s over.

Jimmy pulls the office door shut behind him, giving me that same sad smile through the glass as he heads back to the kitchen.

I sit down hard, the chair rolling back to bump the desk, leaning forward to stare at the floor.

Calling Jimmy in here was a Hail Mary pass at best. Mrs. Miller said she’d call at ten, and she’s never late. She told me once that punctuality was just small a way to show a person you respect them.

She’s a pretty classy lady, Mrs. Miller. I’ll miss working with her.

The phone rings even as my throat starts to close up. I pick it up before it can buzz again.

“Elliot James speaking.”

“Hello, Mr. James,” she says. “This is Mrs. Miller.”

I almost smile.

“How are you, Mrs. Miller?” I ask. Because I respect her right back, even if I don’t have a lot of respect for myself right this minute.

“Can’t complain, Mr. James,” she says. “I’m calling to ask when we might expect your make-up payment for the rent.”

“Of course,” I say, as though it somehow slipped my mind. “Mrs. Miller, I still need to meet payroll next week. Would New Year’s Eve be convenient for you?”

“Oh, certainly,” she says. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised to hear you say that. During our last conversation you hinted that it might be a little longer in coming.”

“We had a great holiday season,” I say. I close my eyes against what I know is coming next.

“That’s wonderful, dear,” she says. She means it, too. It chokes me up. “Does this mean you’ll be renewing your lease with us?”

My voice isn’t steady when I answer.

“I wish that was the case, Mrs. Miller, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline. Duckbill will be closing its doors permanently at 3pm on December 31st.”

“Oh, Mr. James,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry to hear it.”

I nod like a dumbass, but I can’t speak again just yet.

It’s over. It’s really over.