Chapter Fourteen

Uncle Robbie

Vince

I stayed in the arena for another ten minutes to give Crossbody a chance to get changed and leave without us having to cross paths again.

Goliaths was completely empty when I finally went to my dressing room, pulled on my jeans, grabbed my duffle bag and left. I nodded at Serge, the night-time security guard for the building, as I crossed the lobby on the ground floor and stepped outside.

Crossbody’s car was gone. As I slowly walked over to mine, a memory popped into my head. Not long after I’d first started at Goliaths five years ago, Biff and I had been making our way to our cars after work when I’d pointed out the fancy one in the parking lot and commented, “Someone here is obviously doing well for themselves.”

Biff had chuckled and told me, “That’s the High Lord’s. The royal fae. He only recently got it. He spent his entire first year here getting cabs to and from work.”

I remembered snorting and calling him a pompous tool. That was when I’d started judging him, everything he did or said, because I’d written him off as a rich asshole and nothing more.

But now I was realising that he probably hadn’t been able to drive at first. It wasn’t like they had cars in Otherworld. He’d probably spent that year learning and had no other option. I mean, he could’ve taken the bus, but it was Crossbody. I couldn’t even picture him on a bus. The two things didn’t go together.

I hadn’t ever really let myself consider what it had been like for him when he’d first moved here. He’d been alone in a world that was mostly strange to him, having to learn everything he’d never really experienced before, years after the rest of us did.

I’d always just assumed that he had his family’s support, that his mom looked after him and gave him money and made sure he still lived in luxury, but if that were true, wouldn’t she have arranged for her son to have a car and a private driver or something? That was what rich people did. They didn’t use public cabs. Lots of them didn’t drive themselves anywhere.

Guilt churned in my stomach once again as I climbed into my car and chucked my duffle on the passenger seat. I didn’t want to go home and contemplate how I may have judged Crossbody somewhat unfairly from the very beginning, so instead I drove to my uncle’s place.

He lived on a street of small, single-storey houses. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the trailer he’d raised me in. I’d bought it for him once I’d saved up enough for a deposit after I’d started working at Goliaths and actually earning decent money. I’d bought it before I’d even bought my own house, and I paid both our mortgages. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to afford it.

I parked behind his beat-up old truck by the kerb and climbed out. I’d offered to make the down payments on a new car for him, but he’d refused. Said I’d done enough.

It had been a battle even getting him to move into this place, but I hadn’t wanted him to live at the trailer park anymore. A group of shady gargoyles had started taking over the place, tormenting the long-term tenants and driving them out of their homes, and Uncle Robbie was getting older. As much as he refused to admit it, he would struggle to defend himself against a bunch of towering, beefed-up gargoyle assholes. Us ghouls weren’t exactly known for being jacked and bulging with muscle. We tended to run lean and sinewy, almost gaunt unless we worked hard to bulk up, like I did.

The screen door squeaked as I opened it and stepped inside, calling out, “It’s me, Rob.”

“That you, Vinnie?” he shouted back from the kitchen. “Come in here. Come see this.”

I crossed the living room, skirting around the frayed armchair he’d had since I was a kid that was permanently reclined. The TV was on and turned down low, just like it always had been in the trailer when I was growing up.

I was a lot like my uncle—always needing background noise and some kind of external stimulation. Neither of us could sit still for long, and we both hated total silence.

When I stepped into the kitchen, I stopped dead and stared in stunned silence at the towering… thing my uncle was standing beside, grinning excitedly.

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s called a croquembouche,” he told me proudly. “Some fancy French word. Don’t know what the fuck it means.”

Slowly, I looked around at the state of the small kitchen. Broken eggs were everywhere. A bag of flour had tipped onto its side, spilling its contents over the counter. A stick of butter was half-melted in its open wrapper and dripping down a cabinet. There was an acrid smell in the air, like burnt sugar, and several pans coated in an orangey-black crust were piled up in the sink. The top one was still lightly smoking.

“Did you make it?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yep.” Rob snagged his open beer can from the counter and sipped. “Took me all fucking day too. Started at six this morning. Been making cream puffs for goddamn hours.”

“Why?” I asked, slowly walking forward to inspect the… what had he called it? Cock something.

It didn’t look like any cock I’d ever seen.

And I’d seen a lot of cocks.

“I’m getting into baking,” Rob told me, picking up a dripping eggshell and throwing it into the sink.

I snorted. “Have you forgotten the cake you made for my fourteenth birthday? The inside of it was liquid. When I cut into it, the batter poured all over my lap.”

“That’s why I’m learning ,” he insisted, nudging me with his beer can and nodding at the big cone-shaped cock thing. “Good, eh?”

“It’s…” I tilted my head and eyed it, hesitantly asking, “So is this a… beginner recipe?”

“Nah.” Rob tipped his can toward an open recipe book on the counter, its pages covered in dried egg yolk. “Didn’t want to start small. Thought I’d go for a showstopper to begin with.”

I peered down at the page.

“Croquembouche,” I read out, probably mangling the word, then huffed. “Rob, it says this is an advanced recipe. With advanced techniques. There’s not starting small and then there’s… this.” I looked up at the croquembouche towering beside us. “Is it supposed to be… tilting like that?”

“It’s just rustic.” As he said it, one of the oddly shaped cream puffs making up the cone slowly peeled away from the others and splatted onto the counter, thick yellow cream shooting out of it from the impact.

“What’s the stuff inside?” I asked in mild alarm.

Rob cackled, nudging my arm. “Pastry cream, you uncouth swine. Like a fancy version of the stuff you get in a tub at the store.”

“I like the stuff in a tub.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to try making it.” He gestured at another saucepan on the stove, so I walked over and peered down, trying not to make a face at the oily, congealed lump inside.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” I asked doubtfully.

“My first attempt split.” Rob paused. “No, wait, I think that one was my fourth attempt. But I got there in the end.”

“Well, it’s very… impressive.” I turned back to look at the croquembouche. Another cream puff was slowly peeling away from the towering stack. “What made you decide to learn how to bake?”

Suddenly, Uncle Rob was very interested in the pan of cold, congealing pastry cream. He picked up a wooden spoon and poked at it, keeping his gaze averted.

A slow grin spread over my face. “Did you make that cock-on-boosh for a lady friend, Rob?”

“It’s croquembouche, you heathen,” he said, then grunted. “I may have met a nice lady at pickleball a few weeks ago.”

“Oh yeah?” My grin widened as I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down, not realising it was covered in a fine layer of burnt strings of caramel until I rested my arms on it and they got stuck. “What’s she like?”

“She’s a fae.” He shook his head and reached for the fridge. “Prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. Got this… big explosion of puffy white hair. Like cotton candy. And she’s French. Moved here recently.”

“So you decided to make her a fancy French dessert,” I teased.

Rob snorted as he pulled two beers out of the fridge. “This is just the practice run. You can’t be caught with your pants down and your dick waving in the breeze when you’re trying to impress the ladies, Vin.” He waved one of the cans at me. “Well, the gentlemen, in your case.”

I chuckled, peeling an arm off the table to take the beer. “I don’t spend a lot of time with gentlemen .”

Crossbody’s infuriatingly beautiful face popped into my mind, with its elegant features and sultry eyes, so I quickly cracked open the can and gulped down some beer.

“Isabella’s a real lady,” Rob was saying, dropping into the other seat with a sigh. “All refined and whatnot. Drinks champagne cocktails.”

“So you’ve been for a drink with her?” I asked with a sly grin. “Does she have a crush on you too?”

“Course she does.” Rob held back a burp after sipping his beer, leaning back and resting a foot on the table. He was wearing the novelty werewolf slippers I’d got for him ten Christmases ago. The soles were threadbare, but he was a sentimental bastard, so he hated throwing things out. Especially stuff I’d given him.

I grinned and tapped my beer can against his as I echoed him. “Course she does. You’re a catch, Uncle Robbie.”

I hoped I looked like him when I got older. He was wiry, like me, but still fit. His long, once dark hair was now streaked heavily with pure white and tied back into a bun, and his horseshoe moustache was more salt-and-pepper than the deep grey-black it had been when I was little.

I was pretty sure I’d look fucking great with a horseshoe moustache too.

“I know,” he said with a tiny smirk. “You take after me there, Vin.”

I chuckled, sipping my beer. “I take after you in most things.”

“Yeah.” There was a small pause, and I tensed up a little because I thought I knew what was coming. And I was right when Rob awkwardly asked, “Your ma gone now?”

“Yeah.” I gulped down some beer so I wouldn’t have to say more.

Uncle Rob was my dad’s brother, but he hadn’t seen my dad for years. Neither had I. And my mom was… not great. She wasn’t really in my life, except when she showed up to crash on my couch and act like she was eager to spend time with me until she felt an appropriate amount of time had passed before she could ask for some money and bounce again.

And I always let her. I let her stay, hoping maybe this time would be different, and let her take some cash when I realised it wouldn’t be and her presence had started dragging me down, making me feel tense and edgy and like a confused little kid again. But I still let her, every time, because… well, she was my mom.

She’d had no interest in being a parent when I was little, preferring to drink and party. I’d stayed with my uncle a lot as a kid—more than I’d known was normal until I got a bit older and realised that most other kids’ moms didn’t drop them off at a relative’s place on a Thursday night and not show back up again until the following Monday, pale and hungover and irritable.

When I was seven, I’d heard my mom and Rob arguing by Mom’s car after she’d dropped me off yet again. I’d stayed in the trailer playing video games, and after hearing a car door slam and tyres spinning over dirt and gravel, Rob had come back inside looking ashen.

“Your ma said she won’t be back for three weeks,” he’d told me hesitantly.

“Yeah,” I’d replied, eyes still glued to the TV screen. “Some guy has been staying on our couch and she said they’re going to Vegas to gamble.”

Rob had stiffened as he perched beside me on the lumpy sectional sofa. After a few seconds of silence, he’d said, “I was thinking… How would you feel about staying here with me, Vinnie?”

“I always stay with you when she goes away,” I’d replied absently.

“No, I mean…” He’d gently taken the controller out of my hands. “Even once your ma gets back. How about you live here with me, and she can come and visit you when she’s…” He’d struggled to find the right word for a second. “Around.”

I’d looked up at him as I thought about it. “Do you have a lot of people staying on your sofa all the time? Because it always makes me feel really weird when I have to get up in the night to pee and there’s just a bunch of strangers in the living room.”

I remember the way his jaw had clenched hard. “No. There’d be no one else ever staying here. Just me and you. And you could take the bedroom, so I’d be the only one sleeping on the couch.” He’d nudged me gently and managed a smile. “No room for any stragglers.”

After a moment of consideration, I’d shrugged and said, “Okay.”

His face had broken into a big smile, stretching his moustache. “Well okay then.”

I’d grinned back, suddenly feeling excited. Rob had always played games with me, cooked me proper dinners, taken me to school and the park or skating rink on weekends and made sure there was enough hot water for me to have a bath. He’d looked after me, and it hadn’t been until that moment that I’d realised I could have that all the time. Not just for half the week.

I owed my uncle everything. He’d bought me my first pair of skates. He’d taken me to all my wrestling practices and watched all my tournaments, then all my roller derby bouts when I started competing in that too. He’d taught me how to cook and clean and drive. He was the first person I came out to when I was thirteen, and he’d pulled me into a tight hug and told me he loved me.

Sure, my mom sometimes told me she loved me too, but only once I’d given her cash so she’d leave. She only said it in that casual buddy way— ‘Love ya, hon!’— when she was already halfway out the door.

And I was pretty sure she didn’t really know anything about me. Didn’t know that I was a professional wrestler. Didn’t know I competed in roller derby. Didn’t know I was gay. I’d told her all those things in the past, obviously, but if she wasn’t interested in something, she didn’t take it in. And she wasn’t interested in me.

The last time she’d shown up had been several weeks ago now, but I remembered it well, because I’d been stressed as fuck wondering if I’d get home from work each night to find a bunch of strangers getting drunk in my house. That had been when I’d snapped during rehearsal with Dan, screaming at Crossbody to fuck off because I could hear him chuckling every time I fucked up a move.

I’d been tense and edgy and sleep-deprived, and I hadn’t wanted to tell anyone why. It was no one’s business but mine. Even Dan didn’t know about my fucked-up relationship with my mom. He just thought she wasn’t around much because we weren’t close.

“Well, let’s try this croquembouche then, huh?” Rob said, snapping me back to the present as he set down his can and stood.

“Sure.” I eyed him in amusement as he tried to slide the platter off the counter without tipping the entire thing. He gave up after a few seconds with a grunt.

“I’ll just bring you a plate.”

“I’ll get it.” I stood and joined him at the counter, staring at the mountain of cream puffs. Several more had slipped off and splatted on the counter while we’d been talking. “Uh, so do we just…”

“Don’t know how we’re meant to eat it.” Rob scrubbed a hand over his jaw, cocking his head. “Maybe just… pull them off? Like monkey bread.”

I groaned, my mouth practically watering. “Oh man, you should’ve made monkey bread.”

“Monkey bread isn’t classy.” He nudged me with his elbow and nodded at the croquembouche. “Do the honours, son.”

With a chuckle, I reached up and carefully pulled a cream puff away from the cone. It wobbled a little, making us both freeze and hold our breaths. When the tower didn’t topple over, Rob turned to look at me expectantly, so I stuffed the entire thing into my mouth.

Which I immediately regretted.

I chewed slowly, my cheeks bulging, and asked in a muffled voice, “Uh, is the… stuff inside meant to still be warm?”

And taste like burnt shit?

Rob grunted. “Well, no, but I got bored waiting for the pastry cream to cool down, so I figured it would just finish cooling down inside the puffs.”

“Uh-huh,” I managed, trying not to wince as I finally swallowed my mouthful. But I didn’t want to discourage him, so I said, “It’s good.”

“Not bad for a first attempt, eh?” He reached out and plucked a cream puff for himself.

Which made the entire thing tip.

Acting on reflex, I stuck a hand out to stop it and ended up with cream puffs showering over my arm as the croquembouche toppled over. They exploded on contact, splattering pastry cream over my neck and T-shirt.

“Well, shit,” Rob said, munching on his puff.

“Guess that one was a… load-bearing cream puff,” I said, tipping my hand so the one stuck to my palm slowly peeled off and landed on the counter. “Why are there sharp bits?”

“That’s the caramel… thing.” Rob waved a vague hand. “That’s meant to keep it all together.”

“Well, it worked for a while.” I grabbed the dish cloth to wipe congealing yellow cream off my arm. “Pretty good first attempt, I’d say. Especially if you’re a beginner. But maybe you could make your pickleball lady friend some cookies instead. Work your way up to the intricate French showpiece desserts.”

“Cookies aren’t fancy, Vin.”

“Will she care?” I asked doubtfully. “If she likes you? You’re not fancy either.”

Rob rubbed his moustache, not seeming to realise there was a smear of pastry cream in it. “I guess that’s true.”

“You should definitely keep learning to bake, though,” I said, trying to get the stains off my T-shirt. “And make me monkey bread.”

He chuckled, patting my side. “It’s next on my list, Vin. Anyway, how’s work?”

An image of Crossbody tied to the corner post of the main ring flashed in my mind, naked and writhing and begging with his cock in my mouth. I coughed and retreated to the table to grab my beer. “Fine.”

“Just fine?”

Usually I loved talking about work, telling him about my matches, but I didn’t want to think about it tonight. Any of it.

Still, I forced myself to say, “The pay-per-view thing is going really well. And we’ve got some new wrestlers starting soon.”

“New wrestlers?” he asked with interest. “The online thing was a good idea. I’m getting too old to keep going in person. Means I still get to watch your matches without leaving my recliner.”

My chest warmed with pleasure as I grinned at him. “You’re not old yet.”

He waved a hand and dropped back into his seat. “So what’s this about new wrestlers?”

“Don’t know who they are yet, or when they’re starting, but I think it’s soon.”

“That’s exciting.”

Or worrying. If Holt somehow found out that Crossbody and I had done something as unprofessional as have a brawl followed by sex in the arena, he could just fire me and replace me with someone else.

Then again, I was pretty sure he and Taylor fucked in their offices. And Gabe and Biff fucked in their dressing rooms a lot .

But those were more private spaces. Not the goddamn arena.

Where there were security cameras.

Fuck.

My gut bottomed out as the realisation popped into my mind. My fingers tightened on my beer can, making it crinkle.

I hadn’t thought about that.

Fuuuck .