by Emily Belden
in the building dropped off the keys to the penthouse floor.
It never ceases to amaze me the things people will do just to
feel like they have a personal connection to the Steven Tyler
of the food world. Alas, here we are.
I push on the balcony door handles fully expecting they’d
be locked. But they pop down with ease and the warm sum-
mer wind hits me in the face. I grab the railing, close my eyes and suck in that city air.
I don’t breathe enough. Not like this, deep and alone. I
have to admit that being Benji’s girlfriend sometimes feels like sitting in the passenger seat as he drives 110 miles per hour
on the freeway in a jalopy with no seat belts. It’s easy to get overwhelmed, but I remind myself that Benji came into my
life for a reason. Every douchey, going-nowhere guy I dated
before him was worth it because they led me to him: a beau-
tiful genius who knows exactly who he is and what he wants.
A guy with talent, charisma and nothing but pure adoration
for me. So what if he had a flawed start? All that matters is
that I stopped the top from spinning out of control and now
we’re good. We’re really fucking good.
Just then my phone, which I have stashed in my bra (hey,
no pockets, okay?), buzzes with a text. I dig around in my
cleavage and read the message from Benji.
2-top off elevator. It’s time, babe.
My feet are aching and I’m sweating, but as far as every-
one can tell by the smile on my face, I’m having a grand old
time filling water glasses. By now, we’re more than halfway
through the service and so far, Benji’s only used the bottle
of bourbon in the back for a caramel-y glaze on the dessert
course, not to ease the kitchen chaos. In fact, in the ten or so 9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 297
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times I’ve popped my head in to check on him, he appeared
to be keeping his cool entirely.
“And how are you two enjoying your evening?” I say, hov-
ering over a couple at a round-top table I haven’t checked on
yet.
“There she is.” My dad wipes his mouth as he stands up to
give me a hug. My god, he’s wearing a wool suit and a silk
tie. Overdress much?
“What do you think of the food?” I ask.
“It’s outstanding, Allie. Say, can we get another one of those
Sriracha Jell-O cubes?”
“Goodness, Bill, don’t embarrass me like that. Just ignore
him, Allie. Although, yes, the Sriracha cube was…” My mom,
Patty, closes her eyes, puckers her lips and explodes an air-
kiss off the tips of her fingers. I think that’s mom code for
amaze-balls.
“I’m really glad you guys could make it,” I say. And I mean
that. It’s not easy to accept the fact that your daughter is dating the most talked-about, tattooed chef in the Midwest, let
alone show your support by attending a BYOB makeshift din-
ner party on the far North Side.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. And hey, I couldn’t figure
out how to get the flash on this dang iPhone to work, but I
took a bunch of pictures,” my dad says. “You’ll have to ex-
plain later how I’m supposed to send them to you.”
I’m positive they will all be blurry, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Is Benji going to come out?” my mom asks, playing with
the pearls on her necklace. Her question captures the atten-
tion of strangers sitting across the table and now everyone’s
eyes are on me.
“We’ll see,” I say, knowing that answer isn’t good enough.
Not for anyone in the room who paid to be here. “You’ll
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have to excuse me. I’ve got to keep checking on other tables.
Love you guys.”
As I make my rounds, everyone seems to be gushing over
the fifth and final course of the night: grilled fig panna cotta with a bourbon, honeycomb drizzle over vanilla bean gelato.
I hear one person whisper it was better than Alinea’s dessert.
Another says she just had a foodgasm. At that, I set down the
water pitcher and offer to clear a few dirty plates back to the kitchen. When no one is looking, I dip my pinky into some
melted gelato and run it through a glob of the bourbon honey
before quickly licking it off my manicured finger.
Heaven. Pure heaven.
Even though there’s no negative feedback to report to the
kitchen and everyone is stuffed, I can tell people are saving
room for one more culinary delight.
They want to see Benji Zane.
Put it this way: sure, the tenderness on the squab was on
point. And yes, the scoop of gelato was spherical as fuck. But
as rock-star as his dishes may be, these people are here for
something else entirely. They’ve ponied up to get up close
and personal with Benji Zane and not just because he’s easy
on the eyes. To them, this is the Reformed Addict Show. It’s
their chance to witness firsthand if he’s turned over a real leaf this time, or if he’s just moments away from the downfall more
than a few food bloggers think is coming.
My money is on the former.
Does that make me a naive idiot? Maybe. But these people
don’t know Benji like I do. The one thing I’m sure of is that
I am Benji’s number one supporter. If I waver from that, I
know the chances of a slip are greater, so it’s not something I’m willing to do. Especially not since we live together. I mean,
you try staying ahead of the curve when your roommate has a kinky past with cocaine.
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“Benji?” I say, cracking the kitchen door open a few inches.
“Can you come here a sec?”
He puts down his knife roll and heads to the doorway, tap-
ping Sebastian on the way over and telling him to take five.
“What is it? Everything good?” I can see the anxiety in his
eyes. Whether it’s an audience of one or a roomful of skepti-
cal diners, Benji cuts zero corners when it comes to his cook-
ing. He wants tonight to go seamlessly and if he’s not pulling
a huge profit in the end because of some dealer drama, well,
then, his reputation among these unsuspecting people needs
to be the thing that comes out on top.
“Everything’s great,” I whisper. “But are you going to step
out? I think people want to applaud you. They loved every-
thing. Honestly, it was the perfect night.”
Benji’s not shy. Not by a long shot. But I can tell he’s delayed making his cameo until I offered up the reinforcement that
people really are waiting in the wings like Bono’s groupies.
“Really?” he asks.
“Really. Look at table eight. Bunch of food bloggers who
wet their panties when they ate the deconstructed squash blos-
soms. I’m pretty sure they’ll have a full-blown orgasm if you
just come out and wave to them.”
He peers over me to check out the guests. Table eight is all
attractive blondes with hot-pink cell phone cases who must
have taken a thousand photos so far. I’d worry, but when your
reckless love story has been chronicled on every social media
platform since its hot and heavy start, that makes it pretty official: Benji Zane is off the market, folks. Has been since the middle of May.
“Alright, fine. Give me a sec.”
Benji ditches his apron and grabs my hand. Together, we
walk into the dining room and all chairs turn toward us. I
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more tattooed Mr. President by my side. I bite back the urge
to wave to our adoring fans.
“I just want to thank everyone for coming out tonight. I
hope you enjoyed the food. It was my pleasure feeding you.
Feel free to stick around and enjoy the view or see Allie for a cab if you need one. Good night, everyone.” Benji holds our
interlocked hands up and bows his head.
The crowd goes wild—well, as wild as forty diners who
have all just slipped into a serious food coma can go. It’s a
happy state, the place Benji’s food sends you. Kind of like how you feel after a long, passionate sex session. When done, you’ve got a slight smile and glow on your face, but just want to lie
down for the foreseeable future and possibly smoke a cigarette.
I spot my father standing in the back, filming on his phone
as my mother claps so hard, her Tiffany charm bracelet looks
like it’s about to unhinge and fall into what’s left of her dessert. Seeing them both smile proudly across the room at who
their daughter has wound up with warms my heart. It’s been
an uphill battle, but I’m confident we’ve won them over.
Benji whisks me back to the kitchen and before I can con-
gratulate him on a successful evening, he pushes me up against
the walk-in fridge. His tongue teases my mouth open and I
am putty in his hands. With his right hand, he pulls down
the collar of my romper, exposing my black lace bra. He frees
my breast and kisses my nipple. My neck turns to rubber and
my eyes roll back.
“Benji,” I pathetically protest, very aware that all that sepa-
rates us from a roomful of people who are currently picking
a filter for a photo of the two of us holding hands is a swing-
ing door that doesn’t lock.
He continues kissing my neck, my breast still exposed. “I
couldn’t have done any of this without you, Allie.”
“Oh, really?” I say, recognizing that the natural high he’s
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on is most certainly fueling whatever is happening here. He
slips a hand up my thigh.
“You made everyone out there have a good time tonight.”
“I know,” I playfully agree. He pulls my panties to the side.
I know where this is going.
“And now it’s my turn to get in on it.”
Before I know it, he’s inside of me and we’re officially hav-
ing sex against a cooler with forty people standing fifteen feet away, two of whom are my doting parents.
Sex between me and Benji has always been explosive. It’s
like he knows exactly what I need and where to touch me
without me having to give a lick of instruction. Sex has never
been like this in my entire life. Granted, I’ve only got about
five solid years of experience, but nothing rivals what Benji
has introduced me to in the last three months. There’s vir-
tually nothing I’ll say no to with him. Pornos, toys and now
public places. Who am I?
I’ll figure it out after I get off. A few hushed moans later, and I’m there.
“You did so good tonight,” he whispers in my ear as he
helps adjust my outfit. “Now I need you to go back out there
and get everyone to leave so I can fuck you again over that
balcony with the view of the lake in the background. Okay?”
I come back down to earth and reply, “Yes, sir.”
Back in the dining room, I brush shoulders with Benji’s
sous chef, who’s on his way back to his station. I give Sebas-
tian a nod and return to my post, trusty water pitcher in hand.
There are a few stragglers left in the dining room, includ-
ing my parents, finishing the last sips of their BYO selections.
From what I can tell as I clear empty dishes and put the tips in a billfold, people liked dinner. They really liked it. The aver-age gratuity being left on the prepaid meal is about fifty dol-
lars cash per person.
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After subtracting the dealer’s cut, it’s looking like we’ll
walk with about $2,000 cash for ourselves and I can’t help but
feel like a bit of cheat. I know nothing about this world—this
high-end foodie club that I got inducted into overnight—yet
people are emptying their wallets of their hard-earned cash
to show their gratitude for what we’ve done. Do they real-
ize just hours ago, the black squid ink from course two was
being stored on ice in my bathtub? Regardless, we need the
money. Benji may have kicked his expensive habit, but I’m the
only one with a steady job right now and being a social media
manager for Daxa—yes, the organic cotton swab brand made
famous by Katy Perry’s makeup artist on Snapchat—isn’t ex-
actly like being the CEO of Morgan Stanley.
“Excuse me, where is the ladies’ room?” a tipsy guest asks.
Benji might not have taught me how to sous vide a filet mi-
gnon, but he did tell me you always walk a guest to the bath-
room when they ask. I promptly put down the dirty glasses
and the wad of tips and walk the boozy babe to the loo.
Upon my return, I nearly collide with another guest, this
one quite a bit soberer.
“Allie.” The prim-looking thirtysomething woman with
a bleached-blond pixie cut says my name matter-of-factly. I
stand up straight; this chick has CRITIC written all over her face.
“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you? Do you need a taxi?”
“No, thank you. I just wanted to give you a tip.”
“Oh, that’s so kind of you. You can actually just leave a
gratuity on the table.”
“No, I meant, like, some advice.”
I tilt my head to the side and try not to lose my grip on my
smiley service. She’s five foot nothing, but her demeanor is as bold as her bright red lipstick.
“I’m not sure Benji would be cool with you leaving a bill-
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fold with what I’d guess is about $2,000 in it just sitting on
a table in a room full of drunk people who don’t know that
it’s time to go home. It would behoove you to keep an eye
on your shit.”
She jams the billfold into my chest and proceeds to walk
right past me to the elevator bank.
And just like that, I’ve officially been felt up twice in one
night.
Copyrigh
t © 2018 by Emily Belden
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