11. Chapter 11

Chapter eleven

L A didn't sleep worth a fuck.

It would have been easy to blame it on the massive heartburn he got from eating way too much delicious Italian food, but the truth was he couldn't stop thinking about the meeting with the lawyer.

It was important.

It might decide whether or not he could get his job back and return to a career he loved.

With people he loathed , but still.

Part of what kept LA up was realizing he'd almost forgotten about it.

He'd been so distracted with seeing Brandon and picking out paintings and talking about feelings with Cass and then kissing Cass and other things with Cass…

Shit.

The job was supposed to be the most important thing in his life. He'd studied for years and busted his ass to get an apprenticeship at a highly respected funeral home, all while having to listen to his mother's constant complaints and cruel digs. He'd given up holidays, birthdays, and countless nights of sleep to keep up with the demanding and often hellish schedule. He'd worked himself to the bone, seen things that would stay with him forever, both the good and the bad, but he'd never cared because it was all part of the price he knew he had to pay to do what he loved.

What if he didn't have to anymore?

What if he couldn't ?

Making the decision to leave the funeral industry was one thing, but being forced to leave it against his will because he wouldn't be able to find a job was another altogether. He might be able to get a position at a different funeral home, but Brandon was right—LA hated change. He didn't want a new job. He wanted his old one.

If he wasn't able to get it back…

He had no idea what he was going to do.

The very thought twisted up his guts and made it hard to breathe. Losing this job meant everything he'd done, everything he'd suffered, would be an utter waste. It would have all been for nothing. He'd never be back in that prep room doing the one thing in the world he was good at—no, no, not just good, but great .

LA had planned to retire from that damn place. He'd had his entire future planned out and every part of it had been dependent on that position. He knew he was better off without Gavin, and putting some distance between himself and his mother was also for the best, but…

He couldn't plan for a future that revolved around his career without a fucking career.

LA drifted on and off, welcoming Cass's cuddles but still not able to get much rest. When he finally woke up and beat his phone senseless to turn off the alarm, he had about twenty blissful seconds before he remembered why he'd gotten so little sleep.

Right.

Lawyer.

Call today.

Fuck .

"Good morning, Elly," Cass mumbled drowsily.

As usual, he was curled around LA as if he was Cass's personal teddy bear and showed no signs of letting go anytime soon.

LA did love it, but he also had to get up, piss, and somehow prepare for the most important phone call of his life. He nudged Cass. "Morning. Come on." He yawned. "I gotta get up."

"Two more minutes," Cass murmured.

"One."

"Three."

LA laughed. "That's not how you bargain."

"It's how I do." Cass purred and hugged LA tighter.

"Agh, okay." LA swatted at Cass's arm. "Gotta get up. Gotta piss."

"Sorry." Cass whined but let go.

"It's all right." LA limped toward the bathroom. "See you downstairs?"

"Yup!" Cass yawned as he flailed around the bed. "Mmm, I'll make breakfast."

"Sounds good." LA smiled as he shut the bathroom door behind him. He used the toilet and cleaned up, though he decided not to shave today. It wasn't as if he and Cass were planning to go anywhere else.

With some luck, they'd stay home and get drunk celebrating LA getting his job back.

Well, LA would get drunk anyway.

He met Cass down in the kitchen for breakfast, opting to stay in his pajamas for now. He wanted to be comfortable and decided that was best considering what a shabby state his nerves were in. Cass made a French toast casserole for them to share, but LA had trouble finishing even just a few bites.

Every minute was a minute closer to that damn phone call.

Cass did his best to distract him and stay positive by putting on another show starring Alan Tudyk. This one was called Resident Alien and it was about an extraterrestrial who crash landed on Earth after failing his mission to kill all humans. As the titular alien, Alan then had to disguise himself as a small mountain town's doctor to avoid getting nabbed by the government, and there was a local child who could see his true form.

It was great—LA now had a new appreciation for the phrase this is bullshit —but he had trouble focusing. He missed a lot because he kept zoning out and staring at his phone, waiting for it to do something.

When it beeped with a text message, LA nearly flew off the couch. It was only a text from Brandon, confirming the art showing for tomorrow and sending him pictures of the new gallery display with his paintings. They exchanged a few more messages to decide on pricing for each painting. LA thanked him and also assured him that he would be there with Cass too.

Still had to figure out that human disguise thing—before LA could ask Cass about it, his phone rang.

Ugh.

It was his mother.

He let it go to voicemail and tried to get back into the show.

Not even the awesome comedic charms of Alan Tudyk was enough to soothe him, but damn if LA didn't try to let them.

Cass was trying too, cuddling him close and being extra attentive. While it was sweet, it was a constant reminder of what was coming. Cass was only being extra snuggly because he was worried too. Not for all the same reasons of course, but still.

LA finally managed to get tuned into the show while making a few touch ups on the painting. He hadn't decided what exactly he was going to do over the golden impression of his and Cass's joined hands, but he knew it wasn't done yet. It still needed something—

The phone rang and jolted LA so hard that he dropped his paintbrush.

"It's time!" Cass gasped.

"Shit, shit, shit!" LA tried to pick up the paintbrush from the floor and immediately hissed in pain.

"You! Phone!" Cass waved his paws. "I'll get that!"

"Thank you!" LA sat back on the couch, took a quick breath, and then answered it. "Hello?"

"Hugh Daytona," the man said in a cheerful friendly tone. "I'm one of the senior counsel here at Hardwick and Coates. Most folks just call me Hughie though. That's fine by me."

"Lawrence Holmes. People call me LA."

"Nice to meet you," Hughie said. "Now, you got some time to talk with me?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Okay. It looks like I got some of your information already from our paralegal, Jackie. She has here that you're an embalmer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't see that every day!" Hughie chuckled.

"Yeah." LA instantly scowled. He was already preparing himself for the usual litany of funeral profession themed jokes he'd heard a million times.

"So." Hughie sounded like he was smiling. "Why don't you tell me about your injury? What happened?"

"Okay, well." LA glanced over at Cass, who was still tidying up the mess from the paint. "Part of my job involves moving the decedents around. Sometimes, they're a bit on the large side. We had a person who was easily in excess of four hundred pounds. The family decided to go with another funeral home, so a removal service came to pick him up.

"We were busy, so it was just me and the removal guy. He was, like, a hundred. I tried to get my manager to help us, but he said he couldn't leave his desk because he was watching the phones."

"Where was the rest of your staff?" Hughie asked.

"Either working a funeral service or out on another call." LA sighed. "The family was pretty ticked off at one of our directors, so they were in a big rush to get their loved one to the other place as fast as possible. That, combined with my manager being a royal ass—I mean, not great about it, I knew that I couldn't wait.

"So, we had the decedent on a table against the wall. We put the other guy's stretcher right in front of it. Normally, it's just sort of a slide maneuver. He was in a body bag, and even at that size, I figured he would slide over pretty easily. But uh, not so much. I took the upper half, the old man took the lower. One, two, three, we both pull, and the body doesn't budge.

"So, we try again. One, two, three, we both pull. I give it everything I have, and I remember feeling this pop down in my back. That was only enough to move the body about halfway over. We go one more time. One, two, three, we pull, and then I just collapsed with this horrible shooting pain going down into my leg."

"Ouch." Hughie was typing on a keyboard audibly. "What happened then?"

"After I was done saying a lot of bad words, the removal guy went and got my manager. By that point, we'd already moved the body, so all that was left was strapping him in and then loading into the removal van."

"I'm assuming at this point you'd informed your manager of your injury?"

"I did. But I still had two embalmings to do. I told him I'd go to the urgent care after I was done, but I couldn't even finish one." LA grimaced at the memory. "With the pain in my back and my leg as bad as it was, I ended up getting one of our removal techs to drive me."

"Which urgent care did you go to?"

"The one over on Sunnyshade Lane. Fast RX or something, I think. They checked me out, said it was sciatica, and I strained my back. No lifting over ten pounds and put me out of work for a few days. I tell my manager and I think, hey, I'll just be back at work on Monday. I've had lifting restrictions before from other injuries—"

"Other injuries?"

"Yeah, broke my wrist trying to catch a stretcher when it collapsed. But they let me keep working and I just had people help me move decedents, and I figured it would be the same thing this time. I show up to work and my manager tells me I have to leave and wait for the lifting restriction to be up.

"I go back for my follow-up with the urgent care guy and now he's saying I need an MRI. I gotta have physical therapy. I have to get injections in my spine. Here's all these drugs you have to take and patches, and hey, we can even try some acupuncture too. Workman's comp got involved, so at least I was getting something to help cover my bills and shit, but there was nothing I could do to get my job to just take me back with the lifting restriction."

"How long were you in physical therapy?"

"God." LA tried to remember. "Almost five months? Maybe six. But I did it and they released me to go take this lifting test to actually see where I was at physically. Like, how much could I safely lift without hurting my back more."

"So, you completed physical therapy and then had the lift test."

"Yes. Got bumped up and cleared for up to fifty pounds."

"Where at?"

"Arrow PT. The office on Blanche."

"Got it." Hughie paused, more keys clicked. "What does your job description say?"

"Seventy-five. Which would have been the heavy category, but the guy giving the test stopped me from trying to go any higher."

"Okay, okay, and that's in your report? That he had to stop you?"

"Yeah."

"That's good." Hughie typed some more. "When looking at a settlement, those sorts of details are important."

"Wait." LA frowned. "A settlement?"

"Yes. Workman's compensation settlements. The laws in our state are not friendly for the employee. They're definitely on the side of the employer. You can't even sue them directly unless there are very specific circumstances. You'd have to prove that the injury was the result of malicious and intentional neglect. But! What we can do is ask for compensation for projected future medical expenses."

"Wait, wait." LA took a deep breath. "Back up a second."

"Hmm?"

"Can you get my job back or not?"

Hughie paused. "You want to go back to the place where you got injured?"

"Yes! I, I thought there was a way to, I don't know, sue them. Wrongful termination. Something. Anything."

Hughie sighed and at least sounded genuinely sympathetic as he said, "Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but again, the law here is not on the side of the employee. You can be fired for any reason in this state. You'd have to prove some serious discrimination, or in the case of an injury, produce concrete evidence that they set you up to get hurt on purpose. Neither of which apply from what you're telling me."

"So…" LA's stomach tightened. "There's nothing you can do to help me."

"Now I wouldn't say that. There's still the projected future medical expenses, which can be a pretty big chunk of change. Your employer has a solid workman's comp carrier with deep pockets. Trust me. That's a good thing."

"But I can't get my job back."

"That would be at the discretion of your employer. Have they said anything about you not being eligible for rehiring?"

"No. Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"There's nothing that says that on paper, okay?" LA grumbled. "The HR chump made sure to mention though that I'd been written up for a few bogus things." He cleared his throat. "But nobody ever said I wasn't eligible for being hired back. They just dangled that stupid lifting requirement over my head."

"Right." Hughie paused again, but there wasn't any typing. "Between me, you, and the gatepost, it sounds like they might have been looking for a reason to let you go. If there were some, let's say, interpersonal issues? I know plenty of places who have made accommodations for their employees."

LA didn't want to mention that the funeral home had once done that for him too. That was before said write-ups, the arguments, and all the other bullshit. He sagged into the couch, his heart thumping miserably.

"Assuming that's the case, you are certainly welcome to reach out to them yourself. Can't say that me as your representation would do you much good."

"Wait, why?"

"Once they smell a lawyer, especially one who deals with workman's comp, they may shut down pretty hard. Also, it's worth mentioning that when and if you want us to represent you and we settle, they will all but definitely request that you are denied eligibility for rehire."

"So. I can't actually sue them. I can't make them hire me back. And if I try to get this medical whatever, I lose any chance of them hiring me ever again. Which it sounds like they don't want to do anyway."

"That's about it, yeah."

"Fuck." LA winced. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Hughie soothed. "I know this probably isn't what you wanted to hear or what you wanted, but we can definitely move forward with pursuing the settlement that I told you about."

"And that's just what? Money?"

"Yes, sir."

"And how much do you guys charge?"

"We only get paid when you do, Mr. Holmes. We take twenty-five percent of your final settlement. I know it sounds like a lot, but we have one of the lowest—"

"Right. Great. Thank you." LA grimaced.

"So, should I set up another time for us to discuss the details of your case?"

"I thought that's what we just did."

"Well, we'd need to get your permission to get access to your medical records, dates of treatment, things like that."

LA's head hurt. "Look, I'll think about it, okay? I appreciate your help and answering all my questions."

"So, about that appointment—"

"This is me hanging up now," LA said firmly, biting back the flurry of curse words waiting on his tongue. "You have a good day now." He hung up before he could hear another peep out of Hughie. He gritted his teeth and growled angrily, and he tossed his phone onto the coffee table.

Cass hovered nearby, but he seemed afraid to approach. "Elly?"

"What?"

"I…" Cass fidgeted. "What happened?"

"You want the long version or the shitty short version?" LA snapped.

Cass frowned deeply. "Whatever you're comfortable with sharing."

"It's…" LA inhaled and breathed out, choking on a sob. "It's over."

"What do you mean it's over?" Cass was immediately right beside him.

LA turned, letting himself collapse into Cass's arms. He squeezed his eyes closed as if he could somehow will the tears away, but it didn't help. His head burned, his chest ached, and he clung to Cass's fur. "It's fucking over."

Cass held LA close, rubbing his back gently. "Deep breaths, Elly. It's okay. I'm right here."

LA didn't speak for several minutes. He focused on breathing, waiting for the crying to stop, but it felt like it was never going to end. He had to pull away from Cass because his back didn't like how he was hunched, and he attempted to straighten out and sit up in a more comfortable position.

Cass offered him a box of tissues.

"Thanks," LA mumbled, grabbing a handful. He wiped off his face, blew his nose, and stared listlessly at the table. His face was blotchy and hot, his eyes burned, and he wanted nothing more than to scream, throw something—anything to put all the emotions still warring away inside of him to rest.

He'd never felt so fucking defeated.

Useless.

Broken.

Cass continued to rub LA's back, and his big paw was soothing.

LA tried to focus on its warmth and let it ground him to reality, but it was far easier to give in to despair. He hung his head, rubbing his hands over his face. "I can't get my job back. Not unless the funeral home wants to give it back to me. Which, ha, they don't. Because I'm an asshole. I've always been an asshole. And if shit wasn't done my way, then it was the wrong fuckin' way.

"I burned all my bridges. Every last one of them. And yeah, okay, some of them definitely fucking deserved it, but… Now it's all gone. There is fucking nothing I can do. I can go after them for some kinda medical expenses thing, but then there's no way in fucking hell they'd ever let me come back."

"If you're already certain that they won't allow you to return, is it not worth looking into?" Cass asked quietly.

"I don't know." LA rubbed his face. "I, I don't want to do that. I don't want to stop trying. I, I don't want to fucking feel like it's fucking over!" He sagged. "Even… if it is."

"I know that you do not want to work at another funeral home—"

"Nope."

" But ." Cass squeezed LA's shoulder gently before returning to the comforting massage. "But would that be an option with your injury?"

"Probably not." LA put his face back in his hands. "No one is gonna hire an embalmer who can't lift over fifty fuckin' pounds. I could work as a director and wait on families, work services. But ugh. No. I can't."

"Elly, I firmly believe you can do anything you put your mind to!" Cass insisted.

"Yeah, and my mind says thank you but fuck no, I'm not working with families. Could I do it? Probably. I could fake enough sad little smiles, sympathetic noises, and then say hey, sorry about your Pops, but hey, do you want the five-thousand- dollar casket or the ten-thousand-dollar one? No. Fuck that. It's not me." LA peeked through his fingers. "Besides, I can't stand up for very long before my stupid back hurts. Some services last hours. Directing is out."

"Teaching?"

"No."

"Making YouTube videos?"

"Huh? No!"

"I've seen them!"

"No." LA scowled. "Look, it's over, okay? It's fucking over and I've wasted a fucking decade of my life. No, more than that if I count school. And all of that is just fucking gone now."

Cass was quiet for a little while before speaking up again. "Did you forget how to help the dead people?"

"What? You mean embalming? No."

"Did you forget how to do the services?"

"No."

"Did you hit your head and your brains pooped out everything you've ever learned from all those many, many years at the funeral home?"

"No!" LA narrowed his eyes and stared at Cass. "What are you talking about?"

Cass smiled warmly. "Elly, sweetheart. Even if you don't have the position that you wanted, you still have all those years of experience and knowledge at your fingertips. I am very sure you could find a way to apply that toward a new career. Yes, it may not be what you want, not exactly, but you'd still be using everything you've learned."

LA took a deep breath. "Like what?"

Cass blinked. "Oh, I don't know!" He beamed once more. "But we won't know until we look."

"We?"

"Of course."

"Do imps of strength help job hunt?" LA rolled his eyes.

Cass giggled, and he looked downright bashful. "Well, boyfriends would."

LA's heart unexpectedly thumped. "Yeah. They would." He touched Cass's face, pulling him in for a soft kiss. "Thank you."

Cass purred, returning the kiss sweetly. "Of course, Elly. I'm here for you. I meant that."

"So." LA stroked his furry cheek. "I guess this means you're sticking around, right? Even after I regain my strength or whatever?"

"As long as I am welcome." Cass purred louder. "Then yes, I will be here."

"Sounds like you'll be stickin' around for a while." LA smiled. "I mean, you're talking about being upgraded to boyfriend status and shit. Seems pretty serious."

Cass kissed LA's forehead. "It certainly has potential."

"Fuck yeah, it does." LA took a deep breath, hoping to cleanse out the remaining urge to burst into tears. "So. Shit."

"Shit what?"

"Well, I was hoping we'd be celebrating me getting some good news from the lawyer."

"We can still celebrate!" Cass said cheerfully.

"Yeah, what?"

"Anything you want."

LA snorted. "How about we just get drunk and order more takeout?"

"Drinking is not good with your medication, and we've had a lot of takeout." Cass wrinkled his nose and then immediately brightened back up. "How about I cook for us?"

"You cook?" LA grinned then. "Thought you just baked?"

"Well, casseroles count as both cooking and baking. And I know how to make a pretty spectacular cheeseburger casserole." Cass purred proudly. "If, uh, you think that's something you would be interested in."

"Is it all right if I sit here on my butt because the chairs in the kitchen hurt my ass?"

"You know I could literally change the shape of your kitchen chairs to ergonomically fit the curvature of your very, very perfect ass?"

LA laughed. "Hey, how about just making a pillow or something?"

"I can do that." Cass kissed him sweetly and then stood, offering his paws. "You can cheer me on!"

LA accepted the help to stand with a grunt. "While I bitch about my ass hurting."

"I have done nothing to hurt your ass."

"I'm talking about the chair, Cassie."

"Oh! Well, I am going to make sure your ass is very comfortable." Cass giggled as he escorted LA into the kitchen. "Would you like a vibrating option?"

"Look, you can't offer vibrating without me thinking about your dick."

"That is not currently an option."

"Damn."

Cass smooched his cheek. "Later, Elly. Now! Let's get you seated, and I will create a masterful creation to cradle your equally masterful bottom."

Just last night, LA had been hoping against hope that everything was going to be okay.

And by okay, he'd hoped that he would be able to return to his position at the funeral home.

A voice in the back of his brain hadn't stopped screaming how awful the meeting would go and insisted his life was going to be a disaster and he'd no longer have any value if he wasn't able to get his job back.

Well.

LA knew now he'd never set foot again in Barrie-Lucas Funeral Home.

And it really was okay.

Because Cass was right.

Everything was going to be okay—because the job was not everything.

The thought was freeing and sweet, and LA felt like he could breathe again.

He had no idea what the future held now, but he knew he didn't have to face it alone. He had a partner, a friend, who would be there to support him through the good days and bad, someone who would be honest with him and give him the hard truth, even when he didn't want to hear it, and also happened to love baking peach crumbles and making very comfy cushions for his ass.

Yeah.

Everything was going to be okay.

Because Cass was everything.

Cass was everything he'd ever wanted, and LA wasn't angry or fucked up or broken.

For the first time in a long time…

He felt strong .