Don't Go Away Mad (Burgers and Brew Crüe Book 2)

by Lacey Black

  Don’t Go Away Mad

  Burgers and Brew Crüe, book 2

  Copyright © 2021 Lacey Black

  Cover Design by Melissa Gill Designs

  Photographer Wander Aguiar

  Model Lucas Loyola

  Editing by Kara Hildebrand

  Proofreading by Joanne Thompson & Karen Hrdlicka

  Format by Brenda Wright, Formatting Done Wright

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved.

  Index

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Also by Lacey Black

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Jasper

  “I’m out of caramelized onions! Where the hell are the onions?” I bellow into my busy kitchen, ready to jump up my assistant’s ass for the second time today. She knows today’s special is the meatloaf burger, or “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” as the menu depicts, and one of the main ingredients is freshly caramelized onions over a grilled meatloaf patty.

  She knows this, and yet I have no fucking caramelized onions.

  “They’re right here,” Petra says, flustered, tossing a fresh batch of the vegetable into the metal bowl.

  “Keep ‘em coming, Pet. We’ve got five more orders behind these,” I state, making two of the gourmet burgers my restaurant is known for.

  Burgers and Brew, that’s what we’re called. The bar and restaurant my three friends and I opened just five years ago. What started as a pipe dream shared over a lot of cheap beer, transformed into what you see today featured in foodie magazines and websites all over the United States. We’ve turned hamburgers into an art, thanks to unique and delicious topping combinations and clever names.

  Case in point: “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.”

  It’s my take on a classic meatloaf sandwich. Fresh ground beef, a secret blend of spices, a bit of breadcrumbs, with a ketchup and homemade barbecue sauce glaze. Top it with those caramelized onions that are so hard to keep stocked, and a lightly toasted Kaiser bun, and you have a delicious take on a Sunday evening family favorite entrée.

  I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and find Isaac heading to my office, a stack of papers in his hand. Isaac is the brains on this particular operation. We call him Numbers or Newton, after Isaac Newton, and he keeps our budding business in the black. It was Newton’s solid business plan that helped us secure the loans needed to start Burgers and Brew. He’s probably the one who works just as many hours as I do, making sure our bills are paid and everything runs smoothly.

  Well, as smoothly as it can, considering we staff over two dozen employees and are opening our own brewery.

  My friend, Jameson, took on that project. He serves as head of security on the bar side of the business but is overseeing the transformation of the empty warehouse next door to the future Crüe Brewery, an ode to our favorite band from college. We’re still a ways out from being able to produce our own beer, but we’re all pretty excited about it. Jameson has been working on recipes at home, when he’s not here.

  He also plays a mean guitar. In fact, he’s our house musician on Friday and Saturday nights, packing the place with crowds from Stewart Grove and many surrounding communities. I’m not sure when Jameson learned to play, but I know he’s always had a guitar in his hand since I met him in college.

  The man behind the bar is Walker. He makes sure the alcohol flows at a steady pace and the patrons are enjoying themselves. He even has this crazy tradition that every Saturday night, he plays a Mötley Crüe song on the old jukebox and dances on the bar. The first time he did it was during a successful opening weekend and a few too many celebratory shots, and ever since that night, everyone screams for more. Even his girlfriend, Mallory, seems to egg him on.

  I’ll tell you, seeing my friend around Mallory has been something to witness. We all saw his feelings for her way before he acknowledged them, and it was fun as hell to tease him about it. The icing on the domestic bliss cake is Mal’s three-year-old daughter, Lizzie—or Lizard, as we like to call her. Cutest little thing I’ve ever seen, and she definitely livens up this place when she’s here.

  Finally, there’s me. I run the kitchen with an iron fist, but if you want to be the best, you have to actually be the best. And that’s me. I’ve always wanted to be a chef, though I never saw myself serving hamburgers all day long. When I was in culinary school, I thought I’d be at a three-star Michelin restaurant, preparing cuisines to jet-setters around the world. Yet, when my friends and I had a little too much to drink and we started brainstorming this place, it grew on me.

  A lot.

  Now, I can’t see myself anywhere but here. Running my own business with my best friends is exactly where I want to be in this life.

  “Order up!” I holler, making sure the plates look as appetizing as they’ll taste.

  “I’m coming, hold your horses,” Mallory states as she swipes the freshly prepared plates onto her tray.

  “I have no horses, Mal. You know this,” I tease. Mal works as a server in the restaurant, which is where Walker met her. She’s one of the newest employees but is one of the best. She’s attentive and quick, and the customers love her.

  “I’m well aware of your shortcomings in the patience department, Jasp,” she sasses as she pushes through the swinging kitchen doors.

  “Is that a smile I see?” Patrick, my dishwasher, asks.

  “Get back to work,” I growl without any heat behind the demand.

  He laughs as he stacks clean plates on the shelf in front of my face. The kid is one of the hardest workers I’ve ever encountered. At just twenty, he couldn’t afford college post-high school, so he opted to find a full-time job. He uses the money to help support his disabled mom, who has been in a wheelchair since an automobile accident almost a decade ago. He’s kind, reliable, and does a great job, even pitching in where needed if we’re ever in a pinch. Patrick has shown a little interest in cooking lately, so I make sure to pull him over to the grill every once in a while, usually after the lunch rush has already gone.

  Patrick’s also one of the only employees to stick out my mood swings. Working in the kitchen of Burgers and Brew isn’t for the faint of heart. It takes someone who pays close attention to detail, can keep up with the demand of a high-intensity
job, and thick skin. They need the latter to put up with me on a day-to-day basis.

  I know I’m a son of a bitch. I’ve been called it plenty of times over the years. You don’t think I haven’t heard the grumblings by the kitchen staff or the whispers of the serving staff? Oh, I’ve heard it all. But this is my business, my legacy, and I expect it to be done right or not at all. What goes out those swinging doors has my name on it, even when I’m not behind the grill. Therefore, every step in the process must be executed perfectly or the whole thing could crumble.

  I won’t let that happen.

  Gigi, our server manager, comes through the door and delivers a tray of dirty dishes. She’s been with us since the beginning, having waitressed for two decades before. Gigi’s very grandmotherly and an important part of the team. Plus, she doesn’t put up with my crap and calls me on it often. She’s one of the only people alive I’ll allow to walk into this kitchen and give me hell. Anyone else would be fired, but not her.

  “We’ve got a table of seven seating now,” she hollers, as she sets the dirty dishes on the counter for Patrick.

  “You need him to bus?” I ask, without taking my eyes off the task at hand.

  “Not yet, but I’ll let you know,” she adds before heading back out.

  “All right, team, let’s get ready to kick it into high gear. Patrick, get those plates through the washer. We’ll need to stay on top of them. Mark,” I say, turning to the man working the burger prep station, “grab more cut fries from the walk-in. Petra, prepare the buns to be toasted. We’ve got burgers to make,” I demand just as more orders start to come in.

  An hour later, we’ve finally slowed down enough that I can take a breath. I love being busy. Not only because it means we’re making money, but because it’s just in my DNA. Keep moving, make the burgers. It’s what I do. If I’m not here—that’s not very often—I’m running the trails out at Grove Park or I’m racing up the 102 in my Mercedes. She doesn’t like to sit still either. My two-year-old SLC 300 Roadster loves to stretch her legs as often as I’ll let her.

  I make four fresh hamburger patties and doctor them up to each of their preferences. I throw piping hot fries on their plates, load them on a tray, and head for the door. “I’ll be in the bar if you need me, Petra,” I say to my assistant, who’ll take care of any orders that come in while I’m in my weekly Monday afternoon owners’ meeting.

  When she waves her understanding, I push through the swinging doors and head for the bar. The guys are already there, laughing at something Walker is saying. “Lunch is served,” I announce as I approach the table.

  Jameson jumps up quickly and starts helping me hand out the plates. “My mouth’s been watering ever since I saw today’s special on the sign,” he says, handing off meals to our friends. When the food has been distributed, I set the tray on the empty table behind us and take my seat.

  “Before we start, I need to use someone’s garage or spare room for a decent-sized box,” Walker says, shoveling fries in his mouth.

  “What’s in it?” Jameson asks before taking a bite of his burger.

  “A recliner.”

  That causes us all to stop and look his way. “A recliner?” I ask.

  “Yeah, one for little kids. A few months back, we saw them at the furniture store down the block. Lou fell in love with it, and all I’ve been able to think about since is getting her one,” Walker replies, referring to Mallory’s daughter, Lizzie. He started calling her Lou not too long after he met her for the first time, short for Lizzie Lou.

  “You can use mine,” I tell him, taking a bite of a fry. “I have plenty of room in the garage or spare room.”

  “Thanks. I’m picking it up when I leave here, so I’ll run it over before I head home,” he confirms.

  “You know the code,” I state, even though I don’t need to. All three of them know the security code to my house, like I have keys and know the codes to theirs. There’s no one I trust more in this world than the men sitting around this table right now.

  “While we’re eating, and before we jump into an update on the brewery, I found out who purchased the small empty building across the street. It’s going to be a bakery,” Isaac informs us.

  “A bakery?” I ask, my interest piqued, taking a few fries and popping them in my mouth.

  “Yeah. The paperwork filed with the city was completed three months ago by a Lyndee Gibson,” Isaac says casually.

  I choke on my fries.

  Flashbacks explode in my mind.

  Air is sucked completely from the room.

  A fiery little pixie with dark hair, brown eyes the color of milk chocolate, and an attitude bigger than the Grand Canyon. She was my favorite sparring partner in culinary school, and if I’m being honest, my biggest competition. There was something about her that got under my skin from the very beginning. Day one, when she walked in, gave me a little smile, and proclaimed herself as the best in the class.

  I’ll admit, she was damn good. Lyndee Gibson kept me on my toes during the day and wide awake at night. While she was this little spitfire with dark flames burning in her eyes, that spunk also seemed to fuel a certain fire deep inside of me. Specifically, down in my balls.

  “You all right?” Walker asks, reaching over and slapping me on the back as I choke on my fries.

  “Fine,” I gasp, reaching for the glass of water sitting in front of me. After a few sips, I feel the burn in my throat subside. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

  “Do you know her?” Isaac asks, his all-knowing eyes locked on mine.

  “What?”

  Jameson starts to laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes. He’s avoiding like a mother.”

  I huff out an exasperated breath. “Whatever.”

  “No, he’s right. Something’s up. What is it? Did you sleep with her?” Walker asks, a look of pure amusement on his face.

  “No,” I growl, grabbing my burger and taking a big bite, hoping it will help change the subject.

  “No, you didn’t, but you wanted to?” Jameson asks with a laugh.

  “Shut up.”

  He barks out a big boisterous laugh. “That’s a yes.”

  I can’t dispute it, because he’s absolutely right. Back in school, she was this sexy little thing in black leggings and lasers shooting from her eyes. There was something about getting her all worked up that turned me the hell on. It became our thing. I used to push every single one of her buttons, just to watch her detonate.

  It’s how I got through school unscathed.

  “Well, we should anticipate the opening of her bakery within the next few weeks. I don’t foresee it having any impact on business here,” Isaac states. “Do any of you?”

  Both Jameson and Walker shake their heads, but I know better. I learned the hard way not to underestimate Lyndee. I did that exactly one time during a particular sautéing project that first year and ended up with a failing grade and a burnt piece of whitefish.

  I decide to keep my mouth shut until I have an opportunity to find out what’s going on. If Lyndee is opening a bakery directly across the street from my restaurant, it’s for a reason. She’s probably trying to capitalize on our success, using our name and product to worm her way into our customer base with a friendly smile and the prospect of a sugar rush.

  I may not have seen Lyndee in a decade, but I know this isn’t a coincidence.

  Can’t be.

  Nothing is ever coincidental where Miss Gibson is concerned.

  “If there’s nothing else then, let’s talk about the brewery,” Isaac says, pulling us away from the new business across the street and right into our sister company being constructed next door.

  It’s a pleasant change of topic, one I enjoy hearing about. Jameson and Isaac are working their asses off on our new brewery, everything from logos and brew names to potential distribution options after we’re finally producing our own beer. I love hearing their excitement, feeling their energy with each detail they share.

  �
�We’re starting with four recipes we’ll serve in-house. The plan is to incorporate seasonal brews starting next summer. A summer ale and something for fall. I’ve been testing at home and think I almost have a good recipe down,” Jameson informs us.

  “I think that’s it for today,” Isaac finally says, after we’ve gone over questions and concerns.

  “Leave the plates, and I’ll take them back to the kitchen,” I tell my friends, watching as they place their empty dishes on the tray.

  Isaac and Jameson take off for the office upstairs, while Walker practically runs to the bar when he sees Mallory over there placing a drink order. I grab the tray to haul it back to the kitchen, but my legs carry me in the opposite direction. Instead of heading to my domain, I find myself lingering at the front windows of the bar, where I have an unobstructed view of the building across the street. It has white paper across the windows, which is why we weren’t sure what was going in, but because of its small size, we knew there was a limited number of options.

  Now that I know it’s a bakery, I’m looking at it with a more critical eye. The awning is a light blue, the brick façade freshly painted white. It’s bright and cheery, and I’m sure resembles the same on the inside.

  Lyndee Gibson.

  Hell, I wasn’t expecting that one.

  The woman I butted heads with daily in college is going to be right across the street from me. My cock actually seems to like that idea, giving me a happy little jump in my pants. Unfortunately for him, there’s no way her opening a business across from us will have the results he’s hoping for. Nothing good could come from this.

  This has bad written all over it.

  Chapter Two

  Lyndee

  I set the paintbrush in the pan and smile. After four hours of painting with both brush and roller, it’s finally complete, and I couldn’t be happier with the final project.

  Glancing around, a sense of pride fills my entire being. This is it. All my hard work and determination, my sleepless nights and ramen noodle budget has paid off. I’m a week away from opening Sugar Rush, my very own bakery in the heart of Stewart Grove, Ohio. After nearly two decades of hoping and wishing for this day, my dream has finally become a reality.