The current dinner guests were no different. They consisted of two couples who were on a double date, and judging from the expensive diamonds dripping from the women, they were important Seattleites. As soon as I took over from Jacobs, they gushed about my ethnic-food knowledge.
“My best friend Amanda and her husband were here last month,” the bustier of the two ladies remarked after I introduced myself. “She went on and on about some bird drink that you served her. She had me convinced, and I decided I just had to see what she was talking about.”
The man she was with, the one sitting on her right, pointed at me with a good-natured smile. “Now before you think of passing off just anything to us because we wouldn’t know the difference, I’ll have you know I’ve been to the country. I’ll definitely know if what you’re serving is authentic.”
No, you wouldn’t. Eating ethnic food once didn’t make you an automatic food critic, but I smiled and advised him to be sure to let me know his thoughts afterward.
I had gravitated to the ethnic food because I’d been cooking alongside my stepmother since I was thirteen and she’d decided that boys needed to know their way around the kitchen too. I might have been reluctant at first, but it hadn’t been long after that I’d come to love meal preparation with her. The food was rich and different. It had intrigued me to learn how to cook as much of what she had taught me and also to add my own spin on traditional dishes.
As excited as I was about my talk with Lawrence afterward, this had to be one of my better dinner presentations. A lot of laughter flowed along with the hummingbird drink the guest had mentioned earlier. Not only did I explain the process of cooking the various courses that were served for them, but I also had them volunteering, explaining how the names of the food varied.
By the time I finished the meal, the guests were ecstatic, the two women slightly intoxicated and pleased with their decision to order private service.
“This was the best meal,” Mallory, the chesty brunette, remarked, leaning on her husband as they prepared to take their leave. “If you ever decide to leave this place, we’ll hire you to work for us in a heartbeat.”
With my promotion coming up, there was no chance of that happening. I thanked her for the kind words, and Lawrence came out to escort them from the restaurant. He could be a huge kiss ass to diners. It was those working beneath him that he usually reserved his contempt for, and even then, he had a hypocritical politeness to him.
I waited until he returned to the area marked Staff Only, and then I followed him through the main kitchen. I enjoyed working here because it was a prime example of a twenty-first-century industrial kitchen. The rhythm of these utensils and the movement of my hands to create art pieces out of food was something I was extremely proud of.
And screw my dad for not supporting my dream of becoming a chef. I knew better than to expect even a smidgen of respect from him even when I made head chef. His bigotry and old-fashioned tendencies had brought on the divorce from my stepmom. I had moved in with her after the divorce, and my father never fully forgave me.
What did he expect anyway? Why would I have stayed with him when he would try to belittle me for the time I spent in the kitchen, yelling at me that the kitchen was for women. Later when I came out as bisexual, he’d blamed my stepmom for it, as if cooking could make anyone be attracted to the same gender.
“Bronte, come in,” Lawrence acknowledged me when I knocked on the one office in the back and opened the door.
I entered, closing the door behind me. This was the moment I had been working for. I’d taken every opportunity I could to develop my skills. I’d brought on new additions to the restaurant’s menu, and everything I introduced had become a favorite order.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked.
“Yes, take a seat.”
His office was spacious. Technically it wasn’t his, but both our bosses’. Michael Sobers was the manager of the chain of restaurants in our area. Unlike Lawrence, he was a down-to-earth self-made millionaire who never forgot his background.
“As you know, our head chef position has been vacant for a month,” Lawrence said, and I relaxed, relieved that my patience was about to pay off.
“Yes, Gustave did a good job while he was here.”
“He was exceptional.”
I held in the scoff, because he had given Gustave hell in all the time the man had worked here. I had been surprised they had been able to talk him into spending an extra year at the restaurant. On a few occasions we had gone drinking after work, and William had hated his guts enough to rant about it when we were alone.
“Anyway, I thought it best to speak to you alone before I made the announcement,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Jacobs has done a splendid job in the two weeks since he’s been here, and I think he fits in just right, don’t you?”
I frowned at him. “In what way do you mean? Is he about to take my position as sous-chef, because I thought that would go to Alec.”
“What?” Lawrence, brought his chair closer to his desk. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Why would we make Jacobs a sous-chef? He came here with the intention of being our head chef.”
I laughed softly because what else was there to do when the executive chef under who you’d worked for for five years casually made a mistake about the promotion you were dying for? “What do you mean head chef? I’m your head chef.”
“Oh no, Bronte, you can’t be our head chef.”
He was serious. By God he wasn’t even cracking a smile and announcing “gotcha” to show he was joking. All the blood drained from my face.
“What do you mean I can’t be the head chef? I’ve been busting my ass here for the past ten years with the hopes of one day being head chef. How does a chef who’s just started in our line get to that position before me?”
He held up his hands as if in surrender. “Hey, don’t blame me. I’m just the messenger guy carrying out corporate’s dirty job. They’ve decided that someone coming in from a different branch would do better to serve in this capacity. They don’t want those in charge to be too close to the line chefs.”
He was speaking, but the words went through one ear and then the next. I saw myself reaching across the table and grabbing him by his perfectly ironed shirt lapels and slapping some sense into him.
“What exactly are you saying, Lawrence?” I pressed the matter. “What’s going to happen now? Am I going to be relocated as head chef at another branch?”
“Unfortunately, all the other outlets are fully staffed at this moment, but I’m sure if something else comes up, then we can think about the transfer.”
I rose to my feet, nodding absentmindedly. I was still trying to make sense of my dreams and everything I’d worked so hard for crashing down around me. He’d knocked all my pins down with his announcement.
“I should get back to work,” I replied.
He nodded. “Are you sure? You look a little upset. Maybe you should go home and let the others handle the menu for the night.”
I grinned at him. “Upset? Why would I be upset? I’ve only dedicated the last ten years of my life to this restaurant. There was no hardship in that at all.”
“Bronte.”
I walked out of his office and didn’t stop until I was back in the private kitchen and dining room where I had been entertaining before. I had another couple coming in within the hour, and I needed to clean up and start prepping before they got here. My hands returned to the familiar routine while numbness set inside.
Ten years. I hadn’t just worked my due at this restaurant. I’d invested my ideas into this place. I wasn’t just a complacent chef who did what I was told. I brought fresh ideas to the table. I brought in fresh clients. I’d won this restaurant awards, and I wasn’t taking the glory meant for everyone either. I’d literally won awards with my ethnic dishes. When a restaurant reviewer popped up, they sent me out to the front.
And this was how they repaid me? The fuck I was
going to continue another ten years in this place while they profited from my ideas. The “meet the chef” dining experience—my idea. The Wednesday night group cooking where we featured the winning recipe of diners for the next night on the menu—again my idea.
This place sucked my fucking soul out, then returned it to me lifeless.
“Bronte! Bronte! Stop!”
I didn’t register shit that I did until I felt the arms restraining me. I blinked several times before taking in the mess of the private kitchen I had no recollection of making. My hands were all red and bleeding, though so I must have done it even though I couldn’t remember. All I could think of was the rage I’d felt inside.
“You’ve completely lost it!” Lawrence said, his eyes wide in his pale face. “My God you’ll have to pay for every bit of damage done here tonight.”
Later I would come to regret it, but in that moment, I hated his guts. Despite the arms around me, I managed to raise the middle finger of my right hand toward him. “You know what, Lawrence? You can suck my fat dick, and while you’re down there, don’t forget my sweaty balls too.”
Chapter Seven
Jason
Even though I got home after midnight, Becca wasn’t there when I entered our apartment. I’d had so much fun at the drag show that I’d completely forgotten she was out with Lucas. I contemplated calling her but decided against it. I was feeling quite petty, but I was allowed. He hadn’t answered my call earlier. Again. Neither had he replied to my text message which was a first. He at least used to respond to those.
I was disheartened at the direction our not-quite-a-romance relationship was going. Destination Nowhereville with stops at Rejection Street and Friend Zone.
“Stop being a Debbie Downer,” I muttered, closing the door behind me.
As if sensing my need for comfort, Miss Puss met me in the hall. She was a stray cat I’d found meowing on our stairwell the second night after I’d returned from London. At first Becca had argued that we couldn’t keep her, because our building had a no pets allowed policy, but Miss Puss wasn’t just a pet. She was family. I’d deemed her a fabulous she-cat, even though one glimpse between her legs proved otherwise.
I scooped up the black, gray, and orange cat in my arms, stroking her fur as she purred and rubbed her head against the sequined top I had worn out tonight. I could have stayed out later, but tomorrow was my first day on the job, and I wanted to impress. Ugh. I wanted to impress at a bad cosmetics job. That was how low I had sunk.
A quick stop inside the kitchen revealed she had cleaned her bowl. She looked up at me and meowed as if begging me to feed her more.
“Now don’t be a greedy girl,” I told her. “We can’t have you overeating, so you’ll just have to be content until tomorrow.”
Meow!
“What? It’s already tomorrow?” I placed her on the floor. “Technically, I guess you’re right.”
I opened a can of tuna for her before I left her alone to go to my bedroom and labor over removing my makeup.
At the vanity, I stared at myself. It was hard to reconcile the dramatic image in the mirror with my appearance sans makeup. Tonight’s show had been fierce, and watching the queens strutting their stuff on stage had been so inspiring. I’d fallen in love with drag when I’d visited Sink the Pink in East London, and I’d gotten close enough with some of the girls to do their makeup. The whole culture was so vibrant and freeing.
It took me an hour to complete my routine of removing my makeup and cleansing and moisturizing my skin before bed. I sent a quick message to Becca reminding her I had to start work tomorrow and could she please not bring anyone home with her. I added some emoji hearts to soften the reception of the request, then set my phone’s alarm before climbing into bed.
I anticipated taking a long time to fall asleep, but quite the contrary happened. I fell asleep quickly, waking up in the pitch-blackness of the bedroom without immediately knowing what had woken me. Still disoriented, I was not prepared for the crash I heard inside our apartment.
That wasn’t normal. As much as she partied a lot, Becca didn’t make a habit of getting drunk. Not that drunk anyway to crash about her own place.
Oh my God, are we being robbed? If there was in fact a thief out there, he couldn’t have picked a worse apartment to rob. We didn’t have anything of value here. Everything was old. Whatever hadn’t been in our possession forever had been picked up at yard sales and secondhand stores.
Another bump sounded followed by a curse that was definitely too low in register to be Becca’s. I threw off the bedsheets and grabbed for my phone while trying to move as quietly as possible.
Hands shaking, I crawled over to the side of the bed that was farthest from the door. We didn’t live in the best part of town, but I hardly expected anyone to break into our building.
“9-1-1, police, fire, or medical?” came the dispatcher’s voice when I got my fingers to work.
“The police. Someone broke into my apartment,” I answered in a whisper, afraid that at any minute now my bedroom door would fly open and I would have to confront an axe-wielding cold-blooded murderer.
“There’s an axe-wielding murderer in your apartment?” the dispatcher asked, and only then did I realize I had spoken my thoughts aloud. “Is this a prank call? May I speak to your mother, please?”
“My mother’s not home,” I replied. “It’s just me and someone just broke into our apartment.”
“Can you tell me exactly what’s happening?”
“I’m not sure. I was asleep and woke up to someone crashing inside the apartment.”
“Can you provide your address, please?”
I rattled off our address to her including the apartment number. The apartment had quietened down, but I didn’t trust whoever had broken in not to be waiting with that axe in hand. I’d rather not find out.
“Assistance should be with you in less than five minutes,” she replied. “I’ll stay on the line while they get there. Can you tell me what’s your name, little boy?”
Little boy?
Anything to get them here faster.
“Jason Walker,” I whispered.
“Okay, Jason. Keep talking to me. The cops are coming. Why are you home alone?”
“Becca went out,” I answered. “Do we have to talk? I’m afraid he’ll hear me and find me in my bedroom.”
“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk. I just need to know you’re okay until the cops get to you. There’s no need to be afraid. You’ve been a very brave boy.”
I forced down the nervous hysterical giggle that threatened to bubble up at her talking to me like I was a child. “I don’t hear anything. I think he’s gone.”
Three quick beeps sounded in my ear signaling the death of my battery. No, no, no. I could practically hear the sound effect of doom in my ear. I was flabbergasted at my phone dying when I’d gone to bed with it on the charger. I climbed to my knees and crawled over to the outlet. My hands shook so badly it took me a while to see what the problem was. I hadn’t plugged the charger into the socket properly.
Stupid. Stupid.
The shuffling around in the apartment resumed while I waited impatiently for the phone to boot up. I had every intention of keeping my ass in my bedroom. A coward man kept sound bones after all. If there was any truth to that, I would come out of this alive because I was 90 percent coward and 10 percent bravery. Maybe less.
The angry screeching of Miss Puss tapped into the 10 percent. Paralyzed with fear, I debated what to do. Miss Puss could take care of herself. She had nine lives. I only had one.
Fuck, I knew there was no truth to that.
A coward man keeps sound bones, Jason.
The hissing and spitting of the cat continued, followed by grunts of pain and shouts. If Miss Puss could tackle a burglar, I sure as hell was going to help. I grabbed the can of hair spray from my vanity, reacting more out of fear for Miss Puss than using common sense.
I flung the bedroom door
open and rushed at the black shape stumbling around in the hall, Miss Puss clutched in his arms.
“You bastard, let Miss Puss go!” I popped off the cover from the hair spray and threw it at him. His yelp was drowned out by Miss Puss’s sounds of distress. I shook the damn bottle of hair spray out of habit before I realized what the fuck I was doing and pressed down on the nozzle hard.
The sweet smell of my bottle of TRESemmé extra-hold hair spray filled the hall.
“Oh my God! My eyes!”
Wait. I know that voice.
“Daddy Luke?”
“Jace, get that the fuck away from me!”
I threw the can of spray over my shoulder because I couldn’t get my finger off the nozzle. He launched the cat at me, and I caught Miss Puss, who landed with her claws in my shoulder.
“Ouch!”
“Oh fuck! I’m blind!” Lucas bellowed.
The front door of the apartment crashed in, slamming against the wall as two large figures rushed inside with handguns trained on us. From the light spilling in from outside, I could make out their police uniforms.
What a clusterfuck.
“Hands in the air where we can see them!” one of the two yelled at us. “This is the police. Nobody moves unless we tell you to.”
“What the hell is going on?” Lucas asked, still unable to open his eyes. I winced as I raised my arms in the air because whatever they put in that hair spray had to burn. If I accidentally got even a little in my eyes, it irritated like crazy, and I’d almost emptied the can in Lucas’s face.
“It’s the police I called,” I answered him. “Just put your hands in the air, please.”
“You called the police on me?” he asked, raising his hands.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”
One of them found a light and switched it on before Lucas and I were shoved up against the wall, handcuffs snapping around our wrists.
He's Mine Not Hers Page 5