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Chapter One: Vacancies - Part Four
Flax
Flax shut Olive’s door quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping child inside.
God damn! It’d practically killed him to sit beside her on her little frilly, yellow bed in her pretty, sunny room and listen to her cry herself to sleep.
He shook his head as he made his way to the stairs.
How the hell had Mei done this for so long? For longer than he cared to remember, Mei had taken over the role of caregiver. She’d been friend, sister, and mother all wrapped up in one sweet, little package to any and all who passed through The Elysium doors. She’d always been there for everyone, listening with a patient ear and an open heart. Flax had always thought of her as the heart and soul of The Elysium. Looking at it now, the hotel seemed colder, a little less welcoming without her. Without her, Flax admitted to himself as he stopped to stare out the balcony windows at the biting autumn air blowing bits of fall about the lawn, everything felt a little lost.
Pounding an angry fist against the wall, causing the glass to wobble and shake with an ominous sound, Flax decided what he needed—or at least what he really wanted—right now was a good stiff drink. So he headed to his solid, steadfast, oak bar and studied the array of bottles lined up in neat rows against the wall.
But just as he’d decided upon some Rebel Yell Kentucky bourbon—straight—he heard someone rooting around in his kitchen. His kitchen!
Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he headed toward the insolent trespasser treading on his territory.
Pushing the doors open with an aggressive shove, he entered.
“Oo,” he heard the Frenchman say, “Flax, je cherche pour le gateau vanille—uh, le cake. The one from last night.” Turning again to stick his handsome face into the fridge, he continued, “It was so délectable—delicious—I just had to have it with ma bouteille de Château de Selle Côtes de Provence Rosé.”
Flax let out a snort of amusement as the man’s derrière délectable swung and swayed with each visual sweep of the large, stainless steel, dual door, climate controlled masterpiece of a food storage unit. It was a moving work of art in Flax’s eyes. Exclusive wine, exquisite food, and extraordinarily willing company. All the makings of a good night.
Just what he needed.
Stepping up to the man, Flax shuffled him off to the side before finding the cake in question. Producing it with a flair he knew Jonquil would appreciate, he nodded toward the island countertops. As he got the knife to cut the cake, the other man quickly retrieved the wine glasses.
After doling out the refreshments, Jonquil pierced Flax with an arrogantly Parisian, knowing look. “What’s wrong, mon amor? You do not look well.”
Flax sighed before he sipped the wine, stopping to both savor the mixed flavors of the dessert and drink as well as stall.
It wasn’t that Flax was above whining—Lord, if you asked his Mama, he came into this world with a wail, why should that change with time?—it was just that to complain about this...it was about six steps below petty.
“Parlez-moi.”
Talk to me.
“It’s the whole situation with Lenten. And Olive. And Mei,” he said sulkily.
“Mei?” 421 asked, with a knowing nod. “Did she not,” he paused before intoning meaningfully, “a réglé son compte?”
Flax nodded, thinking even the flow and song of the French language didn’t make checking out sound any more civilized. “Six days ago,” he said, taking another sip—swig, really—before refilling both their glasses. “That’s the problem.”
“Ah,” the Frenchman said, “Lenten is...” He paused searching for the word. “Heartbroken, yes?”
“Yeah,” Flax agreed. “I suppose we all are, you know?” He shook his head. “She was one hell of a woman.”
Jonquil sniffed stiffly, fighting—Flax knew—feelings of jealousy and hurt. Not that he had any reason to feel any of that—Mei wasn’t Flax’s and neither, for that matter, was 421. Flax loved well and loved often; exclusivity just not being in his blood.
But Jonquil was très passionnant and though, at times, it was inconvenient, it was one of the things Flax enjoyed best about the man.
“I was just with Olive,” he said, changing the subject.
“Aw,” Jonquil sighed, instantly sympathetic, “how is le petit?”
“Sad,” Flax answered. “And confused. And I don’t blame her. She keeps asking us about Mei and we’ve all taken our turns trying to explain it to her without actually explaining anything. Trying to tell what happened without actually saying the words.”
Flax shook his head. “Sometimes I think it’d be a kindness just to tell her straight, just lay it all out there for her.” He paused looking at Jonquil for understanding. “But damned if I’ll be the one that breaks that little girl’s heart.”
“You’re a good man,” Jonquil told him, taking another bite of sweet cake, eying Flax with interest.
But the other man just scoffed and shook his head. Not a romantic like the Frenchman, Flax knew his own number. “I yelled at Lenten again,” he confessed, setting his fork down on the countertop.
“What for this time?” Jonquil asked, familiar enough with their particular working relationship. “Not about the replicator again,” the man intoned. “It’s NASA property, you know how Lenten feels about government acquisitions. Besides, you wouldn’t even know how to use it.”
“No,” Flax said, waving that off. “It wasn’t about that.” He sighed and took another long swig of wine. “It was about Mei.”
“Mei?” he asked, his shocked jaw dropping. “You yelled at him about Mei?” He sat back, a frown on his disapproving face. “Oh, Flax, how could you? Of all things! And at such a time.”
“I know,” Flax said, squirming against the unfamiliar pangs of guilt and shame. “I know, I know. I hadn’t meant to. I had actually had the idea of comforting the man, of,” he said, the justifications sounding weak even to him, “offering my help. In some way.”
“Then you yelled at him.”
“It wasn’t a conscious thought to,” Flax retorted.
The Frenchman just made an incredulous snort. “I know that,” he said, “like I said, you’re a good man. You’re just so brash, so impulsive, so américain.” He’d meant it as an insult, but the devilish glint in his smile plum ruined the effect.
“So tell me about all this yelling,” the man said, brandishing his wine glass like a sabre. “Tell me about the fight.”
“It was just plain dumb.” Flax cut himself another piece of cake—a very large piece, because after all if he was going to hell he might as well enjoy the journey. “It’s just that ever since Mei, well...” He waved his hand expressively. “Lenten has just sort of disappeared. I mean, before, when she was just showing signs, he threw himself into his work. I’m talking the picture of Puritanical work ethic. But now, he’s just stopped.”
He started to dig into his sinful treat, feeling the empty calories like an albatross on his hips. “He hasn’t even been in his office for over a week. That means no schedules for the Faceless—they’ve been wandering around the hotel like the literal living dead. No checking up on the kids—I’ve been trying to wrangle them in, but the idea of me being in any way parental is just laughable. He doesn’t even do rounds anymore. Or answer room calls.” Flax threw his arms up in the air with frustration. “I’ve been running around this place like one of my father’s chickens before Sunday dinner.”
Jonquil, set down his glass with pointed deliberateness. He cocked an eyebrow and glared at the other man. “So,” he said, his accent sounding purposefully sharp and snooty, “you’re saying that you yelled at a grieving man because you can’t be bothered to take on a few more tasks.”
Okay, put that way, it did make him sound like a lout.
“It hasn’t even been a week, mon beau homme impitoyable.” He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “You should be a little more compatissant.”
“I know,” he said. “Vous avez raison, bien sûr.” He nodded. Of course, Jonquil was right. “It’s just,” he gave a wry half-shrug, “you know how I feel about work.”
“Nas pas travaillent!” the Frenchman gasped gravely. “Work, it is torture for one such as you, non?”
“Tais-toi,” he said with a laugh, flicking a moist crumb at the man. “Or no more cake for you, you damned, froggy bastard.”
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