Page 120 of Spiced!

“Sometimes, yes, on weekends when the clinic is closed.”

Rod considered this while chewing a particularly large bite. Then, through a mouthful of dough, he said, “Good man. For you. And your giraffe. Hope he has nice neck, too.”

There was a brief silence.

Then Benji lost it again.

Jacks decided to wade into the water again by asking, “Can I pet his giraffe? I hear they’re friendly.”

Benji nearly hyperventilated.

Rod spat pastry.

“Yes, Jacks. We’ll take you to the zoo so you can meet the giraffe. Brendan gets special access normal people don’t get. Benji would certainly never get through the gates.”

“Special access!” Benji blurted, making me regret trying to be nice. “I bet he does!”

Benji pulled his napkin out, added something, then folded it and crammed it back into his pocket.

“What was that?” I asked. “You made a note. Was that my napkin?”

Benji winked. “Your keeper is a keeper. Take the compliment, Adrian.”

“God, I hate you.”

“I’ll think about it constantly,” he said. “But we don’t have to talk about it.” He picked up his coffee with the serene satisfaction of a man who had accomplished what he came to accomplish. “I do have one more question.”

“Fuck, Benji. What now?”

“Professional curiosity.”

“No.”

“When he does the examination—”

“I am so leaving,” I said.

“—does he use the stethoscope, or is there some special device—”

I hopped off my stool.

“Sit down,” Benji said, laughing again. “I’m done. I promise you’re safe.”

Reluctantly, I sat.

“You’re not really safe,” he said, “but we can take a break. Seriously, we’re happy for you . . . and your giraffe or snake or whatever you crazy kids call it in your moment of ecstasy.”

Thank God, the back door opened and Dante strode in, a mountain of muscle squeezing through a door made for mere mortals. He was early, which was his standard practice, carrying his current book with unhurried ease. He gave the room a nod, then found his position near the wall, back rigid against it, book held loosely.

Benji watched him settle, then looked at the bar for a moment in the way he looked at things when he was deciding something.

“How’s Mark doing?” he asked, not to anyone in particular, more to the room.

The temperature shifted, the way it did when the subject changed to something real.

I knew the shape of Mark’s story. Everyone did. Wes had left six months ago. There’d been no fight, no conversation, no slammed door. Just a note.

He loved Mark. He was sorry. Mark deserved someone who could stay in one place.