He looked down to the bag now abandoned in his hand, and slung it over his shoulder with a cocky look.

Chris knew nothing of the life Simon had saved and packed for, but he did know this: Simon had nothing on his own. No prospects; nothing but his abysmal smelling fisher life and his brutish, simple man’s accent. He wouldn’t have bothered with him otherwise.

Which meant he had other clients, most likely. This bothered him as much as other men sitting in chairs he’d sat in.

Now if one of those clients had gone and stolen that human chair from him, however …

“What,” he scoffed, “like your boyfriend, again? At least he looks good with a few tears down his face.”