On his fifth night, he’d actually fallen asleep in the toilets, which is where the day manager found him that morning. He’d shouted and cussed, Theo had screamed a bit, and then Colin looked at him—he was probably too thin, and worn out, and pitiful—and he said, “You’d might as well make yourself useful.” And he handed him a trash bag.

Theo never knew he’d be so grateful for the opportunity to clean up other people’s messes.

It wasn’t great money, but for now it was enough. And Colin had recently started him on other tasks—just counting up the till, but with a few hints that he might be asked to do more—and most of all he felt useful, which was an entirely new sensation.

Theo stopped off for a coffee with too much cream—the only form of calories he could consume this early—and noticed a bit of movement behind him, the feeling of interested eyes on the back of his neck. He gave a flirtatious smile and a wink to his favorite barista and turned—Theo could probably flirt with a tree if he were so inclined—but he just saw the door to the café swing shut.

He had moments like this. When he felt like he was being followed. As if his past were a person, chasing him. He didn’t know if it was anxiety, or guilt, or his former certainty that he was the center of the universe, a habit he was trying to break.

Usually, that feeling edged out of his consciousness as he went through his routine. He was here, in Cork, working hard, partying harder, getting the bare minimum of sleep necessary, consuming ridiculous amounts of caffeine and nicotine. No one really knew him here—at least the Theo from Baltimore. The Beaumont. Life in Cork was rough and dirty and really quite good, as long as he had accepted that it was bad, deliciously. That for the first time the only person he was harming was himself.

But today, as he made his way toward Danny’s dim doorway, he felt that thing, following him. Something that should have been left behind in Baltimore along with his family’s shame.

He turned, just once, as he went into the bar.

And Jack fucking Gardner ducked around the corner.

His heart seized up, his mouth watered, and he longed for a third cigarette.

He thought about a hand, reaching out for him.

Something he should have left behind, indeed.

Chapter Eleven

“Oh my God.”

Jack stared at his reflection at the menswear shop, trying on new clothes, and he felt like a complete ass. The salespeople had given him a large private dressing room with far too many mirrors, and he comforted himself with the knowledge that at least no other customers would have to see...this.