All Hours

by ANDIE J. CHRISTOPHER

  He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing a piece of the crudo with his fork, and then he had to stop himself from moaning. The man might be a prick, but he was fucking talented. And he was looking right at him. Expectantly, with his hands on his hips as though waiting for Felix to spring into song at the glorious, perfect flavor of the raw fish and accompanying sauce.

  Partially because he was jealous, and partially because he wanted to see how Joaquin would react, he said, “It’s okay.”

  Joaquin grimaced, which satisfied Felix more than it should have. Lola had a shit-eating grin on her face, but that was usual, and Maya snorted and covered her mouth with her hand.

  Saying nothing, Joaquin walked away. And Felix felt as though he’d won a prize from the other man. Although he was sure that any victory would be short lived.

  Chapter 2

  Joaquin Delgado stomped through his kitchen like an approaching storm. Tonight’s service was going horribly, and no amount of yelling or throwing things would make it any better. God knew he’d tried that. His instinct was always to blow up because it made his subordinates—his lessers in the kitchen jungle—stop making excuses, mutter “yes, Chef,” and get their heads screwed on straight.

  When they were deep in the weeds, like they were tonight, there was no time to recount drinking stories and vastly exaggerated tales about their sexual exploits from after close the night before. They were here to cook perfect food and nothing else. And tonight had been anything but perfect.

  Instead of expediting food and overseeing his army of chefs, he’d had to attend to matters in the front of the house. They had two servers quit without giving notice that day—one of them had called him on his cell phone at 3:00 a.m. to do it—and so the remaining servers were short of time and temper. The whole restaurant, from the line of people waiting for a table all the way back to the dishwashers, felt as though it was a tinderbox ready to go up in flames.

  And then his grandmother had shown up trying to pawn Felix Pascual off on him. She simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. If he’d thought that Felix was a competent chef, he would have asked him to come back and help in the kitchen, but the caterer probably didn’t know a mince from a dice.

  That probably wasn’t fair, but Joaquin had never claimed not to be a snob. And it wasn’t to say that the arepas that Felix had brought to the last Pascual-Hernandez-Delgado get-together weren’t great. It just wasn’t up to par for his restaurant. His training in some of the finest kitchens in Europe had given him the right to look down the culinary mountain at everyone else scraping and clawing to get up. Sure, he liked homey, simple food sometimes. But that was not what he did in his kitchen. No one else could do what he and his staff did in his kitchen.

  Grabbing the knife out of one of the line cook’s hands before she destroyed a filet of sea bass, he said, “Not like that.”

  “Yes, Chef.” Briony was one of his newest hires. She was deeply talented, and her last boss had sent her a glowing recommendation. But she hadn’t been trained right. She’d only been in his kitchen a few days, so he hadn’t yelled at her or fired her. But if she tried to do that to a piece of fish a month down the road, she’d be out on her ass.

  Joaquin properly cleaned the fish and watched as she seasoned it—properly. He didn’t offer her praise—she didn’t deserve it for simply not fucking up—and he moved on past the fish station.

  A couple of the other chefs received nods or grunts, but something about the way the kitchen was running didn’t feel right tonight. He wouldn’t pull his chef de cuisine off the expediting station even though he itched to do it. But that would be a sign of disrespect, and working in kitchens since he was sixteen had taught him respect for the order of things above all else. If he disturbed the order, being at the top of the kitchen food chain, everything else would fall to pieces.

  The second lesson he’d learned was that he needed to keep his game face on at all times. When he’d been coming up through the ranks, anyone who showed weakness was shown the door shortly thereafter. Kitchens lived and died by the law of the jungle, and getting chummy with his staff was a violation of that law.

  Stopping next to his sous chef, Therese, he grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer and scooped up some of the béarnaise sauce she’d prepared. It was almost right, but just this side of bitter. The sous vide chicken dish that this sauce would marinate would be inedible with this sauce.

  “It’s not right.”

  Therese rounded on him. She was the fourth sous chef he’d hired this year, and he’d originally had high hopes for her. Those hopes had been dashed repeatedly over the past three months. He didn’t have time to have staff that he continually had to monitor. In the next few months, the Michelin Guide folks were due to come back and he needed another fucking star if he wanted to convince his investors to open a second location.

  And he needed the star for himself too.

  Having to correct someone who should damned well know better was keeping him from innovating, and he was at the end of his tolerance.

  “It’s bitter.”

  “I’ll add sugar.”

  “Not good enough.” His voice came out as a soft grunt. “Start over.”

  Her face screwed up as though she was about to tell him to fuck off for a long moment, and something stirred in him. She’d known he was a hard-ass when she applied for this job. No one had forced her to accept this job. If she couldn’t execute dishes perfectly every single time, then she didn’t need to keep this job. At the last moment, just when he’d gotten excited about telling her to get the fuck out of the way so he could make the sauce correctly, she said, “Yes, Chef.”

  Her capitulation earned the only smirk he’d doled out to his staff that whole night, and then he stepped away.

  He wiped sweat off his brow and rubbed his hands on the towel in the belt of his apron before starting for the walk-in cooler. He just needed a minute, which should have disturbed him a whole lot. Since he’d started as a saucier right out of culinary school, he’d been known for being able to work under intense pressure, never needing a break until the last cover had paid their check and the stainless steel of the kitchen counters gleamed. But tonight, for some reason, he needed the respite of the cooler. Just for a minute.

  Working as a line chef, a sous chef, and even a chef de cuisine, he’d never felt like his whole world would collapse if he stopped for just a minute. But being the executive chef and co-owner of the hottest restaurant in Miami was a whole new ball game. He knew deep in his bones that he could hack it, but his father’s voice haunted him to this day even though the man had up and left town months ago.

  His father was out of his life, but the daily insults the man had laid on him would quite possibly never fade from his memory. They would be with him forever. Even though he knew now that his father’s homophobia and his rage were not his fault, Joaquin couldn’t shake the sense that his tough exterior and infamous temper were all a cover for him being a fraud. That his multiple James Beard Awards and accolades, his Michelin star wasn’t real.

  Once he was fully alone, he rolled his neck and took deep, calm pulls of the cold air. He stood facing one of the shelves and closed his eyes in an attempt to center his thoughts.

  His sister, Laura, had encouraged him to try affirmations when he’d told her he’d started having panic attacks after his restaurant had been awarded a coveted star, putting it on every tourist’s “must-visit” list when they came to South Beach.

  She thought that saying shit like “I am the master of my own destiny” or “My talent is real, and I deserve good things” would help him, but he didn’t quite buy it. Still, he tried. His sister had successfully left behind their terrible, dysfunctional youth, and she was the baby of the family. She’d had to deal with it alone when Joaquin and their brother Max left home directly after high school graduation. Maybe it was a little bit of guilt that had him reciting the
words that she thought would help him until a bit of the knot in his shoulders loosened and he could breathe again.

  Until he noticed a box of Kobe beef steaks sitting on the fucking floor of the cooler. His heart beat faster at the mere thought of how much that meat cost, and he started sweating beneath his collar again thinking about how he would squeeze the life out of the cook who put it there. Without thinking of how heavy the box would be, he heaved it up on his shoulder.

  The snap of cartilage and searing pain made him drop the crate and scream out in pain. He clutched his shoulder as tears threatened. He hadn’t cried since he was eight years old, so he knew it was bad—very, very bad.

  With the hand on his still-useful arm, he opened up the door to the cooler and reentered the kitchen. Just like every other time he entered his kitchen, the noise level dropped and conversations trailed off. He felt the gaze of every single member of his kitchen staff click on him one by one. The urge to fire them all coursed through him, and he fought it back. Like a wounded animal, he wanted nothing more than to lash out. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, just that one of his arms, one of his limbs hung uselessly at his side, and without both his hands, he couldn’t do the only thing that had ever given him joy. And he was about to cry in front of these people who wouldn’t credibly believe that he even had working tear ducts.

  Therese, who moments before had been ready to tell him to take a flying leap, rushed over with a concerned look on her face. “Are you okay, Chef?”

  “Fine.” He could only talk through gritted teeth, but he was going to be okay. It was probably only dislocated. He’d take an Uber over to the urgent care and be back before close of business. “My phone. Please.”

  Therese rushed off in the direction of his office to grab his phone. He held his arm, looking like a fool, while his kitchen staff continued to stare at him when they needed to be working. “What are you looking at? Don’t you have food to prepare?”

  That had come out as a pained roar, which he hadn’t intended. But it succeeded in getting everyone back on task immediately with murmurs of “yes, Chef” echoing off the white walls and through the steam and smoke from cooking.

  Joaquin hobbled over toward his office. Jesus Christ, this was humiliating. Of course, he’d had his share of serious cuts in the kitchen, but blowing out his shoulder?

  Maybe he was turning into an old man. He certainly felt like it whenever he tried to date. In his twenties and early thirties, he’d had no problems finding star-fucking men who wanted to suck his cock. But now that he had gray hair at his temples and sprinkled through his beard, he was apparently “Daddy,” which he didn’t like.

  First of all, he didn’t like the word because it made him think of his own father. And second and most important, the word reminded him of his own mortality. It was hard to concentrate on hedonistic pursuits when he was all up in his head, thinking about things like stars and legacies. Ever since that fucking first star, he couldn’t stop thinking about the next one. Was this even his life? Was this who he was now?

  Shit.

  By the time he reached the office, Therese had his phone. He pulled up the ride-hailing app, but she hadn’t gone back to her station. “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  She hadn’t been there long enough for him to trust her, to let his guard down. If he was honest with himself, the only person he’d ever let his guard down with was Max—and that was only because both of them knew about all the shit they’d dealt with growing up.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look really pale.”

  Shit. “Go back to work. I’m going to the doctor.”

  “The emergency room?”

  “The urgent care.”

  Therese rubbed her face. “Don’t be an asshole.” Joaquin startled because he’d never heard her swear at him. She only swore at the less senior chefs. It was the way of things. “Go to the fucking ER.”

  He nodded. “Back to your station. Make sure Briony doesn’t fuck up the fish.”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  * * * *

  Lola rubbed Joaquin’s good shoulder as they waited for the doctor. His grandmother had texted him while he was on the way to the urgent care, and he’d made the mistake of telling her what was going on.

  So, of course, she’d rushed over. She hadn’t been around while he was growing up because she’d stayed behind in Cuba when his grandfather and mother had escaped. But now she was here, and she was always around. Joaquin liked to bitch and moan about it because it was weird to have a hovering grandmother at nearly forty years old, but he kind of liked it.

  When Lola had come to the States, she’d come with the mission to right all of the wrongs of the past, even though she had an odd way of going about things. She’d hooked up Laura with her now husband, Charlie, by tricking them into thinking they’d gotten married at a family wedding in Bali. They’d figured out they loved each other just in time to find out that the marriage had been a sham.

  And just a few months ago, Lola had sent his brother a personal assistant to build him a website and organize the business end of his sculpting studio. Max was now happily living with the lovely and curvaceous Letty.

  Ever since Lola had gotten his siblings sorted out, she’d set her sights on Joaquin. He thought that perhaps he’d be spared by her machinations because of his sexual orientation and her Catholicism, but Lola was way cool with him being gay. Didn’t seem to matter one whit. Every other week, she was dining in the restaurant with another candidate for his affections, and every other week, he told her that he wasn’t looking.

  In fact, the only one who’d caught his attention was Felix Pascual. But, given that Joaquin’s cousin was married to his sister, it felt a little incestuous. And if things didn’t work out, it would be awkward to have to see him at family events. Joaquin might be grumpy and too tired and stressed out to think much about sex or dating, but he wasn’t blind. He’d thought about Felix’s dark eyes and the playful dimple on his left cheek, the way he walked with a New York swagger and had a voice that sounded like whiskey on the rocks more than once since they’d met.

  Even now, when he was in an incredible amount of pain, the thought of Felix made his skin flush.

  “You should have someone to take care of you, conejito.” Joaquin had no clue why she’d settled on that nickname, more suited for a little kid than an almost six-five bearlike man. But the endearment brought him back to the tiny exam room. The doctor had taken one look at his face, tried unsuccessfully to get him to move his arm, and brought him back for an MRI, which Joaquin thought was a very bad sign. They’d been waiting for the doctor to come back for almost an hour, which meant that he was unlikely to make sure that close went well.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Pfft! You’re falling apart.” Lola’s fingers tightened like a vise, as though she wanted to render his other shoulder useless as well. “You need some more help at that restaurant.” She talked about his baby, his dream, as though it was something she found distasteful.

  “That restaurant is everything I’ve ever wanted.” His work provided him with everything he needed. He didn’t need someone to take care of him; he needed to take care of everyone working for him. And, if he wanted things done right, he had to do them himself. There was no way around the fact that he was built to be alone.

  “That’s stupid. You’re still young enough, and Dios knows you’re handsome enough to find a wonderful husband. Have a family.”

  He just grunted at that. Max had tried to convince her that he was too broken from their childhood to have anything to offer anyone long term, and it hadn’t turned out well at all. Maybe if Joaquin pretended she was right, she’d be able to let it go.

  “I didn’t fuck up my shoulder because I don’t have a man.”

  “When was the last time you had sex?”

 
Not many people heard that question from their grandmother, but Lola was a bird of a different feather. Well preserved in her seventies, she credited her youthful appearance to an active and varied sex life. As of right now, she and her ex-husband, his grandfather, were making up for lost time in ways that Joaquin didn’t dwell on. And maybe she was right. It had been a long time—maybe months—since he’d had sex, and he was feeling really old right now.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “So, too long.” She sighed. “If you would just go out with one of the boys I bring to see you—”

  “Where are you meeting all these gay boys to pimp out?” He’d been wondering after the third or fourth one. Was his abuela going down to the club to pick up for him?

  “Most of them are grandsons or nephews of the ladies in my exercise class.”

  It didn’t surprise him that the ladies would trust their relatives to Lola’s matchmaking after meeting her. She was incredibly charismatic, and she made friends and won admirers wherever she went. They probably thought Joaquin was an extrovert like her. After all, he could paint on a decent personality to do television segments and judge a few reality cooking programs. But he just didn’t have it in him the way that Lola did. He didn’t draw people toward him; he pushed them away.

  Before he could dwell further on why he was alone and probably always would be, and before Lola could interrogate him any more about his sex life, the doctor came back in with a grim look on his face.

  “How long have you been having pain in that shoulder?”

  Joaquin tried to shrug, but the pain was too great. “Don’t know. Maybe a few months?”

  Lola made another “pfft” sound, as though him not going to the doctor about a nagging shoulder injury was proof enough that he needed a boyfriend.

  “Well, you tore your rotator cuff, and I would advise scheduling surgery as soon as possible.” The doctor scribbled on his prescription pad. “Here’s a prescription for pain medication.”