You never knew your birth parents, growing up across the country in orphanages. While alone you learned to cook and shared your meals across the world, eventually owning your own business. One day you suddenly find out what your parents were. They were Fae… you’ve fed thousands Fae Food.
The call from your New York restaurant comes at 2am their time which is a sensible 11pm your time.
“Boss, we need you,” the manager says. Hercules – the name he chose for himself when he first started working for you – doesn’t scare easily. He can’t, not while running three of your restaurants in the cesspool that is New York city. “Someone just drove a truck through the flagship.”
You’re already out of bed and out the door. “I’ll be there before the sun comes up.”
Hercules’ relief bleeds through the phone. “Thank you.”
“You’re my right arm, Hercules,” you say. You’re wearing the plaid pajama set Mercedes, your left arm and the woman who runs your LA restaurants, gave you for your birthday. You can buy clothes in New York. “Thank you.”
Your Thank yous are far and few between. They’ve always felt awkward in your mouth and worse leaving it. But Hercules is one of yours and it’s easy to volley the words back, to not accept his gratitude in the face of his loyalty. No thanks needed. You’re part of me.
Hercules swallows hard. He knows you well. “Boss.”
“Hercules.”
You hang up at the same time.
Los Angeles is still awake as you roar onto the streets. Your motorcycle is the same one you bought when your first restaurant started turning a profit. Prodigal. The name of it is carved into the body. The streets are damp from a rare spot of rain. You’d gotten caught in it while leaving Queen earlier. It had felt like a bad omen then and your lip curls as the moisture sprays up under your tires now.
You should always listen to your gut.
