by Davina Lee
Miss Baxter’s Girls: Chef Margo
By Davina Lee
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2019 Davina Lee
ISBN 9781646560103
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image by Exey Panteleev | License by CC BY 2.0
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Miss Baxter’s Girls: Chef Margo
By Davina Lee
I’m standing at the head of a long table with at least a dozen girls seated around it, maybe more. Most are my age—a few older and a few younger. They’re all smiling and applauding politely as Miss Baxter thanks me for the wonderful meal I’ve prepared for her birthday. I smile in return and direct some of the congratulations to the girls who volunteered to serve as wait staff and clean-up crew, leaving me free to concentrate on other things this evening.
Anise rises from her seat and comes over to stand beside me. She doesn’t say anything, but she brushes against my arm and I shudder. I almost always get at least a little shiver when I’m standing this close to Anise, because—well—she’s fucking gorgeous. And even though we’re not together any more, if we were ever really together, it’s as if nothing has changed.
My shuddering increases as soon as I feel the length of rope wrapping around my wrist. I don’t know how she does it without looking, but I feel the heat rising in my cheeks knowing that I’ve been ensnared already—not only physically, but emotionally. I wonder if any of the girls around the table are aware of my current predicament.
This is not my first time in this situation and I know exactly how things are going to play out from here. I’ll sit down to quietly enjoy my dessert, while all of Miss Baxter’s girls continue their chit-chat and convey their complements on the meal. I’ll eat clumsily with my left hand, because I don’t want to draw attention to the fact that Anise has bound my right and has the ends of the rope firmly in her grasp.
She’s never threatened to parade me around in front of the other girls, but yet I always feel vulnerable. What if she absentmindedly reaches for something and drags my trapped wrist along with her and onto the table for everyone to see? What would the other girls think?
Those are the thoughts that keep my right hand firmly anchored in my lap. And if I’m being completely honest, those are the same thoughts causing the clingy moistness that is building between my thighs. I know that when dessert is over, and all the other girls have left, Anise will lead me to her room where she will spend the rest of the evening trying to coax tonight’s dessert recipe from me, even as I try my best to keep it secret.
I learned early on that Anise has a fascination with rope and knows how to use it to keep me docile and obedient while she interrogates me. I think about her instruments of interrogation—her fingers, her tongue, that maddeningly wonderful device she simply calls Aphrodite—and I feel a twinge from below.
I know that I’ll eventually write out the recipe for Anise so that she can add it to Miss Baxter’s personal collection. I’ll be a sweaty, heaving mass of useless flesh by then, but she’ll make sure I have just enough energy left to press pen to paper.
“Are you ready, Margo?”
Anise’s breath tickles my ear as she whispers, and I am immediately jolted back into the present. As I look up from my reverie, I see that the table is empty.
“Yes, Anise.”
“That’s a good girl.”
I feel a tug on the rope attached to my wrist and slide my chair back from the table. As I stand with wobbly knees, my eye happens to catch a shining patch of my own moisture left behind on the seat. I shudder again and promise myself that maybe this time I’ll be able to hold out a little bit longer.
* * * *
Six Months Ago
“Oh, hi. You must be here about the chef’s position.” Those were the first words Anise Dale ever said to me.
“Um, um, yes. Yes, I am. Margo, um, Margo Timesch.” I wiped my palm on my pants and tried to recover my composure before offering my hand. “Are you Hilary Baxter?”
Oh, that was dumb. No way is she Hilary Baxter. Hilary Baxter sounded way more uptight than the gorgeous woman who was standing here…holding my hand in hers…I tried my best to be casual as I let my eye wander from her freckled face with slightly chapped lips. Should I offer her some of my lip balm? No, too forward. We just met. She looks so familiar.
“Um, can I have my hand back?”
Oh, head slap, Margo. Get it together.
“It’s my leg isn’t it?” she said. “I told them the color’s not quite right.”
I glanced over her body one more time, from the top of her head, slowing for the tight t-shirt that left very little to the imagination, and over the baggy board shorts where indeed her legs were two slightly different colors. When my eyes reached the ankle and its stainless steel joint, I realize what I was looking at, and more importantly, who I was looking at.
“You’re um…”
Before I could finish my sentence, an older woman, very elegantly dressed in a dark trouser suit, chose that very moment to come striding into the entryway to interrupt my already scattered train of thought. “You must be Margo,” she said. “I’m Hilary Baxter, we spoke on the phone. I see you’ve already met Anise.”
“Anise…Dale?” I managed. God, my face must be three shades of crimson right now.
“Yep. So what do you think? Too dark, isn’t it?”
“Huh?”
“My prosthetic.” Anise grinned. “It’s a new fancy dress model. If I had socks on you shouldn’t be able to tell I wasn’t born with it. That’s what the company rep said anyway. I do some promotional work for them. I still think it’s too dark though.”
“Oh my God, it is you.” I covered my mouth as soon as I said it. Way to go all fangirl, Margo, jeez. “Miss Dale, I saw you at the Winter X-Games. On TV. I wasn’t actually there. I had to work, but…Oh my God, you were amazing.”
Anise was still grinning, maybe a little wider after just watching me make a total fool of myself. I should probably go home now. There’s no way I’m going to get this job. But I need this job. Jeez, Margo, pull it together.
But then Anise did something I never would have expected in a million years. She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said. “But call me Anise. All my friends do.”
Friends. Call me Anise. I nearly fainted.
Hilary Baxter quickly snapped me out of that trance. “If you girls are now properly introduced, perhaps we could get down to the matter at hand. Margo, what will you be preparing for the noon meal?”
“Um.” I stiffened immediately.
“It is almost eleven o’clock and you are interviewing for the chef’s position are you not
?”
“Um.” I fidgeted. “Um, yes.” I straightened up. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Excellent. Follow me to the kitchen, please.”
I struggled a bit to keep up with the brisk pace Hilary Baxter set as she led me into the depths of what appeared to be a grand old mansion. Anise was right behind me, and I swear I could hear her snickering.
“She’s a little intense,” Anise whispered in my direction, “but if you stop calling her ma’am and call her Miss Baxter instead, she softens right up.”
“I’ve had everything fully stocked in anticipation of your interview.” Miss Baxter came to a stop in the middle of the kitchen. “But if there’s anything you find lacking, I can have it delivered from Dominick’s Market within twenty minutes. Any idea what’s for lunch yet?”
“Um, no ma’…No, Miss Baxter, but it will be served at noon and it will be delicious, I assure you.”
“I’m sure it will be, dear.” Miss Baxter gently patted my forearm. “I’ve heard that you’re quite a rising star in the culinary business.”
“Don’t worry too much,” Anise whispered. “We usually only ever eat soup and carry-out.”
“If you find you have any mundane tasks, Margo,” Miss Baxter was speaking to me, but her eyes were busy boring holes into Anise’s skull. “Scrubbing dirty pots and the like. Anise is very skilled with that sort of thing.”
As Miss Baxter turned on her heel and strode out of the room, I turned to look at Anise.
“I left a pot on the stove once,” she said. And then turning her head toward the door and in a louder voice, raised I’m sure, so that Miss Baxter could hear it. “Once! Just once!”
Anise turned back to me and picked up the conversation again. “I almost burned the house down. She’s never let me forget it. I’ll tell you the whole story sometime once you start working here. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Um.”
“You say that a lot. It’s cute.” Anise pinched my cheek and then laid a little peck where her fingers had just softened me up. I almost passed out again.
* * * *
The kitchen was well organized, and I didn’t really need any help, but Anise stuck around anyway. Fortunately, now that I had lunch to concentrate on, I found it a little easier to make conversation with her standing next to me.
“So how long did you say you worked there?” Anise asked again.
“Two years.”
“And this guy’s still trying to get into your pants?”
“Not the whole time,” I said. “He’s only been there six months.”
I handed Anise the whisk and she started up a nice steady stir to keep the béchamel from clumping. She had been an exceedingly helpful sous-chef, despite Miss Baxter’s opinion that she was only good for scrubbing pots.
I was going for a simple croque monsieur served with a side of soup and a chopped salad for lunch. Just a fancified sandwich really, but I was putting my money on the crème brûlée I had put together for dessert. I was planning to serve it flambéed, and in my book, a flaming dessert is always a good way to impress a client. I just hoped my custard would set before we got around to eating it.
“Still though,” Anise was saying. “What a creep.”
“Huh?”
“Your boss. He sounds like a real creep.”
“Yeah,” I washed my hands quick and turned my attention to plating the salads. “That’s why I’m looking for a new job. He’s made it very clear that I’ll never get to be head chef without doing him a few favors.”
“Eww.” Anise wrinkled her nose.
“I know. I don’t even like guys. And I don’t exactly make a secret of it.”
“Me neither.”
I swear my heart skipped a beat when I heard that little tidbit fall from her lips. Our hands touched for a moment when I reached for the béchamel to top the croque monsieur.
“Um,” I said. “Um, thanks for the help. If you could fetch Miss Baxter, I’ll bring it out.”
“You’re so cute when you get flustered,” she said. Then she leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. Lunch nearly didn’t make it to the table, because I nearly ended up collapsed on the floor—again. I also swore an oath to never wash that cheek again.
As I watched that gorgeous muscular backside sashaying toward the dining room, I managed to collect myself enough that I thought I could get lunch served without incident. Watching Anise go, I decided that she was right, the prosthetic leg was a little darker than her natural skin color. I also quickly decided that I didn’t really care.
* * * *
“Margo, this is wonderful,” Miss Baxter said as she looked at the plate I had set before her. “I haven’t had anything this authentic since my last visit to Paris. What made you choose this dish?”
“Well, Miss Baxter, I saw mostly Italian and Chinese take-out menus on your refrigerator, so I thought French cuisine might be a nice change of pace.”
Miss Baxter reached over to pat my hand. “Very resourceful, this one. We’d best not let her get away. Don’t you agree, Anise?”
Anise grinned. “I don’t know, Miss Baxter, I think we should see what she’s made for dessert.”
“Dessert too?” Miss Baxter clapped her hands together. “I cannot wait to see what you have prepared for us.”
Anise squeezed my knee under the table. I nearly wet myself.
I scurried off to the kitchen, hoping that my pants were dry and my custard was set. And indeed it was—the custard anyway. This interview was so in the bag. All I had to do was make it through dessert without drooling on myself, or on Anise, and it was goodbye douchebag boss, hello sexy snowboard girl.
I set the plates on the dining room table and pulled out an aim-and-flame. “Et voilà” I said and lit the thin layer of cognac on top. As expected, their eyes lit up and I got to spend the rest of lunch listening to Miss Baxter outline the details of the job offer while Anise trailed her fingers up and down the length of my thigh under the table.
Everything was going fine until Miss Baxter insisted that I give a full two-week notice. “The owner of the hotel employing you is a dear old friend of mine,” she said. “I’d hate to have her thinking that I was poaching her best talent for my own little venture.”
“Um, okay,” I said. “Been working there two years, I guess two more weeks won’t kill me. I’m glad you enjoyed lunch, Miss Baxter. And thank you for the generous job offer.”
I watched as the corners of her mouth twitched upward. Miss Baxter seemed nice enough, but I guess she was just too uptight for big smiles.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of business are you in? Surely you and Anise aren’t that bored with carry-out that you need a full-time chef.”
Miss Baxter reached over and patted my hand. “I have an appointment that I must keep, my dear,” she said, “but if you have the time, I’m sure Anise could arrange to give you a tour of the place and explain the details of what we have planned.”
* * * *
I got the full tour—everything but the boiler room. Anise said there was some spooky stuff in the basement, and that she didn’t want me running away. As it was, I just kind of smiled and floated through it all. Because as soon as we got up from the table, Anise had taken hold of my hand, and so far showed no signs of wanting to let go.
I got to see the upstairs that had just been remodeled into individual rooms for borders—not huge, but modern and private. I also got a peek at what I thought of as some pretty swanky bathroom facilities for a boarding house. I had no idea what Miss Baxter’s rates were going to be, but the accommodations were definitely first-class all the way.
We wound up back on the main floor, seated side-by-side on a sofa in the parlor. Anise still had not let go of my hand, but then I hadn’t really wanted her to. Feeling a bit awkward now that the tour had ended, I turned my gaze to the piano, a beautiful black-lacquered baby grand. “Do you play?”
“Me?” Anise said. “Nah. Can’t really s
it still that long. Got to be flying down a hill at mach two or I start to get fidgety.”
“You want to go see a movie or something?” Jeez Margo, she tells you she doesn’t like to sit still and you ask her to a movie? Real smooth. “Um, I mean. Um.”
Anise leaned over and pecked my cheek. “Yes,” she said. “The something part though, not the movie. I’ll let you pick since you got up the courage to ask before I did.”
“Really? Um, you…you were going to ask me out?”
“Well, I hadn’t really planned on it at first.” Anise leaned in close to my ear to whisper. “But after the crème brûlée I knew I couldn’t let you go until you had confessed all of your delicious secrets to me.”
I let out a shuddering sort of a sigh that probably sounded pretty silly, but it was all I could manage at the time. Anise Dale wanted to go on a date…with me!
“You can stay for dinner if you want, but unless you’re cooking it’s going to be soup or carry-out.”
“Oh, shit! What time is it?” I sprang from the sofa and pulled out my phone to check. “I’m gonna be late for work. Thursday night okay? Weekends are usually pretty busy in my line of work.”
“Thursday would be fine.” Anise walked me to the door and after a few seconds of staring at each other not saying anything, she leaned in to kiss me on the cheek again and I swear I must have turned three shades of red.
I’m going on a date with Anise Dale.
* * * *
It only took two weeks of dating Anise to find out that girl had a kinky streak a mile wide. Not that I minded though, I had such a crush on her that she could have sprung a second head and I probably would have been fine with it. As it was, she only told me of her desire to tie me up. I guess her little lunchtime quip about having me confess my recipes had some truth to it.
It was our first date, actually, that she let it slip. I had decided to take her dancing. The hotel where I worked was holding a fundraiser ball for the children’s hospital. The guest list consisted mostly of local celebrities, but I managed to get myself on there by calling in a few favors with fellow employees. I smoothed it over in my mind by reminding myself that Anise probably qualified as a local celebrity.