“You tried again?” Chuck held up a finger, pausing the conversation to order coffee and breakfast.
Slade’s breakfast came in a cup. Hot, black coffee left too long on the burner. In an arm-wrestling match, coffee for the win. Now to admit the latest failure. “Yeah. Got as far as 13th and River before I started puking.”
Chuck winced. “And when you left town?”
“Felt better in seconds.” Nothing existing solely in Slade’s head packed the one-two punch of whatever ailed him. No way, no how.
“That is so weird, man. I can’t figure this shit out. Nothing on the Internet matches your symptoms. Have you been back to the doctor?”
“I don’t need to,” Slade growled. Mutherfucking rich guy and his mutherfucking curse.
“What? Why not?” Chuck crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in the booth, judgment in his eyes. Chuck loved him, trusted him. Even so, he’d be hard-pressed to believe the story Slade needed to tell.
“Do you believe in curses?”
Chuck barked a laugh. “You curse to put a sailor to shame.” Mr. Elementary School Teacher’s language nosedived too, whenever the two of them got together.
“Not that kind of curse.” Slade side-eyed the diner. There was no one within earshot except the server, who deposited Chuck’s coffee and refilled Slade’s cup without ever looking at them. Slade waited for her to leave to continue. “Do you believe someone can wish ill on someone else?”
Long moments passed before Chuck answered, “I don’t know. Grandma believed in hexes and superstitious shit. Dad called her a witch.” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “I figured it was his grudge against Mom talking.”
Yeah. Both Grandma and her sister made a habit of drawing Xs on a car’s windshield if they saw a black cat, throwing a pinch of salt over their shoulders, and buying into any other superstition. Some they probably made up. “You’re not gonna believe me. Hear me out before you laugh, okay?”
The server brought Chuck’s plate and bustled off. “I need some ket…” Chuck sighed. “I guess I eat my hash browns plain this morning.” He took a bite of bacon. “Now, what’s this about a curse?”
Slade bought a few seconds by scavenging empty tables for a ketchup bottle, finally handing one to Chuck. “Remember the asshole I told you I fought with?”
“Yeah,” Chuck answered, a touch of caution in his tone. The man once patiently listened to drug-fueled delusions. Not much shocked him at this point. He took another bite of bacon. “You picked up his boyfriend, right?”
Inwardly, Slade winced. Worst mistake of his life. “Yeah, I took the kid home with me.”
At Chuck’s narrowed eyes, Slade corrected, lifting his hands in surrender. “He was like twenty, twenty-one. Still a kid to me.”
“Okay, so you took this guy home and…” Chuck waved his hand in a “hurry up” motion.
“We fucked. I sent him home in an Uber.” Slade mentally relived the night repeatedly, making a different choice by taking home the college kid, the guy who’d tried to buy him a beer, or, oh hell. Both.
“Okay, so far. Then what?” Chuck squirted far too much ketchup onto his plate for Slade’s liking and dipped in a forkful of hashbrowns, raising what appeared to be a ball of pure ketchup to his lips.
“He made too much of it— how, I don’t know—and came over a few days later, thinking because we had fun times, there was something between us.”
Chuck’s heavy exhale coming out ketchup-colored wouldn’t have surprised Slade. “I told you to leave the young’uns alone, now, didn’t I?”
Slade shook his head. “Yeah. Yeah. You did. I shoulda fucking listened.”
“You shoulda. You told him what’s what, and he left, right?” Chuck leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You told me some of this already.”
“Yeah. I didn’t think any more about him until this man showed up. Drove a nice-as-hell car. Smelled of money. He acted fairly calm, accused me of using the kid, then next thing I know, he’s grabbing my hand.”
“You put him on his ass, right?”
Here came the part Slade hated to confess. “I couldn’t fucking move! He grabbed me, and I swear he must’ve had something hot because he burned my fucking hand.” Slade held out the injured body part.
Chuck stared for a moment, then shook his head. “I still don’t see anything.”
Why the fuck not? “Well, I do!”
“Dude, you sure this isn’t some kind of guilt shit you hear about on a TV shrink show? I mean, you’ve been worried about your hand for a couple of months now.” Chuck split his attention between the eggs he liberally dosed with ketchup and Slade.