“I can, Mr. Kade. I don’t need to think about it. This is my dream job. It’s what I’ve been holding out for. You have no idea how excited I was when I received the call from Mrs. Webster. I can commit and give 110% if you’re willing to give me the chance to prove myself. You won’t be sorry, Mr. Kade, I can assure you.”
She’s beaming at me, and I can’t help but feel her joy, and I know she’s telling me the truth. She has that passion. This girl is going to go far. I know she is, and it’s my job to keep her on her toes and put her through the paces of a highly intense kitchen.
“Okay, welcome to Casper's,” I say and hold out my hand for her to shake. She reaches across, and as soon as our hands touch, I feel the electric spark between us — all the way to my groin and my fucking cock that has been at half-mast for the last twenty minutes and is now at full mast like a steel rod. She feels it too. She gasps and takes a sharp intake of breath then quickly releases my hand as though I have just electrocuted her. I eye her warily, but she doesn't look at me. She's turned away to get down off the barstool.
Just then Francois comes into the bar area.
“Casp, we need you in the kitchen. Slight emergency.” Thank fuck for that he just saved my embarrassment. I nod. “Francois, do you remember Ms. Donald? She has agreed to join the team at Casper’s and will be our new commis chef. She is starting with us on…?” I look at her, and she turns back to me.
“Is Monday okay with you? Hello, Francois, nice to see you again.”
“Yes, Monday is perfect. Thank you for your time, Ms. Donald, now, Francois will see you out while I go and see what the emergency in the kitchen is.” With that, I walk out of the bar towards the kitchen, but I need to stop off in the bathroom first. I can't walk into the kitchen with a rock-hard cock, and I need him to deflate. God, it's going to be fucking torture working with her if this is how I react by being in her company. I can't remember ever responding like this to a girl ever. I've never felt anything like that with anyone in my life. Fuck, I truly am screwed.
Macen
I WALK OUT of Casper’s with the biggest grin on my face. I feel like I’m floating on air as I glide down the street. But what the hell was that all about when I shook Caspian’s hand? It felt like he’d burnt me. It traveled all through my body, all tingly like thousands of little pinpricks all over me. Wow. I’ve never felt anything like it. I have never been attracted to anyone. I thought Caspian was hot back when I did my work experience, but that was it.
After my attack, I just wasn't interested, yet here I am, with all these fuzzy feelings running around my body because of one touch. He is one stunning man, but he knows it too — those brooding looks he gives with his chocolate brown eyes and long eyelashes. He's arrogant; I know that from working there before, and he always seems to be in a bad mood, unless that's just around me. I bet he can have anyone he wants. I felt a fool gasping when he shook my hand, and he gave me a confused look like he didn't understand something.
This is my dream job, and I must keep it professional no matter what. There is no way I’m screwing this up for anyone. He’s up his own ass anyway. He wouldn’t look twice at me. I mean: I’m no Kendall Jenner. I won’t stand a chance when he finds out about Dixon — he’ll probably fire me.
I can’t wait to phone Grandma and tell her the good news. I know she will be excited for me. I would love for her to move here and be with Dixon and me. He misses her so much. I get my cell out to call her, and as soon as she answers, I just spit out, “Grandma, I got it. I got the job at Casper's. Can you believe it? My dream job. I'm going to be a commis chef in the best restaurant in New York City?” I haven't even given her the chance to speak.
“Oh, Macen. I knew you would get it as soon as you told me you had an interview. Congratulations, my love. Now I guess I need to pack.”
“Grandma, that would be wonderful. I start on Monday, but you don’t have to come that quickly. I can sort out care for Dixon.”
“Nonsense, I want to be there for your first day, and I can’t wait to see my little cherub. I’ve missed you both so much.”
“We’ve both missed you too, Grandma. I can’t wait to see you. When are you thinking of getting here?”
“How about Saturday?”
“The sooner the better. Wait until I tell Dixon you're coming. He will be so excited. Wait, no, I think I will leave it, and you can surprise him.”
“Yes, let’s do that. I love you, Macen and I’m so proud of you. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do, Grandma, and I love you. See you on Saturday.” We hang up, and I make my way to the diner to let them know I won’t be working there anymore. I’ll finish my shifts this week for them, but after Friday, that’s it for me.
On my way home, the doubt starts to set in about working at Casper’s. It’s my dream, but can I do it? He didn’t ask any personal questions, so I didn’t mention Dixon. I’m sure when Caspian finds out I have a son he will fire me. I’m in a dilemma now. Do I tell him or not? Do I hope he doesn’t find out for a while, and by then, I’ll be so settled in my job that he won’t fire me? He may accuse me of lying even though I haven’t lied — he hasn’t asked, and I just never gave the information.
I don't tell people about Dixon freely unless asked. I hate the typical stereotype image I get for being a single momma — all the comments about being knocked up so young, wanting to trap a man by getting pregnant or being a silly girl throwing away her life. It's a stigma most single mommas have to live with. However, my circumstances couldn't be further from that. They don't know that, but still they tarnish us all with the same brush, they don't know if the Poppa just left as my own Poppa did, or if he died, or in fact if it was an attack like me. I work hard for my son, and I love him more than life. He is my life, but I still want to follow my dreams.
After the attack, I thought my life was over.
GRANDMA KNEW THERE was something wrong with me when I got home for Christmas after I was attacked. I didn't tell her what had happened. I just said I wasn't well and would be fine in a few days. The truth was, I didn't know how I was functioning or even how I was acting normally. I felt my life was over — I wanted it to be over.
Grandma asked me a few times what was wrong. She said I could talk to her about anything, which I knew I could, but I just couldn't bring myself to tell her. I didn't want her being disappointed with me. I was so ashamed of what happened, so embarrassed that it happened, and so angry I let it happen. I was back home for Christmas break. Home for four weeks.
Four weeks to decide if I was going back to school.
Four weeks to try and pull myself together.
Four weeks to stop the self-loathing for letting this happen to me.
Four weeks to stop the guilt I felt.
Four weeks to work out if I wanted to live.
Four weeks to try and carry on with a normal life.
Four weeks — not long enough, but too long at the same time.
Four weeks, or twenty-eight days, or six hundred and seventy-two hours. That long to decide, it wasn't long at all, but I knew it would drag and the attack would just play over and over in my head, like a record on repeat and I wouldn't be able to stop it. I knew it was going to kill me. I wanted it to.
I kept myself to myself while home with Grandma. She had her routines, meeting with her friends for book club, coloring sessions, or bingo, and she carried on with them just like we used to before I left for school in New York.
She didn’t see me curled up in a ball all night.
She didn’t see me crying.
She didn’t see me wince every time I went to the toilet with the stinging down below.
She didn’t see me trying to walk with my legs closed because the pain was so severe.
She didn’t see the painkillers I had in my bedside table that I was taking like sweets.
She didn’t see the times I had poured all the painkillers into my hand to swallow all at once.
She didn’t see
how I cried from pain in the shower trying to scrub myself down below hard.
She didn’t see the razors I held in my hand in the bathroom, wondering if I could do it.
She didn’t see the turmoil I was living in — thinking I would be better off dead.
She didn’t see me soaked with sweat and having night terrors.
She didn’t see I wasn’t sleeping much.
She didn’t see I was barely eating.
She didn’t see I was barely living.
She was the only reason I was still living.
I did manage to leave the house once but only to get a present and a card for Grandma for Christmas and stock up on more pain meds. It was torture. The pain was excruciating from walking. I was wearing sanitary pads because when I walked, I would bleed. I knew I needed medical help but that would mean me telling them what happened, and I couldn't do that. The shame alone would kill me.
I was trying to be as normal as I could, and I thought I was doing a good job — until Christmas Day.
It was just the two of us like it always was, but we always went full out with the Christmas Dinner and all the trimmings and exchanging presents. I helped Grandma in the kitchen, cooking the small turkey and the vegetables she bought for us, but I was quiet.
Usually, when we did this, we had Christmas tunes on, and we would both sing as we cooked, but I didn't put the songs on this year. Grandma put them on, and she started singing, but I didn't join in. She was cutting up the potatoes when she suddenly put the knife down on the counter top and turned to look at me. I could see her out of the corner of my eye, and I knew she was going to question me, but I just carried on cutting up the carrots.
“Okay, Macen, out with it. Please tell me what’s wrong, love. Please don’t shut me out. I can see you’re hurting. You haven’t been the same since you came home. The fact that you came home before school finished told me something was wrong.
“I can see the dark rings around your eyes, which tells me you're not sleeping.”
“I can see your eyes are bloodshot, which tells me you’ve been crying.”
“I can see your clothes getting looser on you, which tells me you’re not eating properly.”
“I can see you wince sometimes as though you’re in pain.”
“I’ve left it long enough now. I have eyes Macen, and I can see all this, love."
Ok, I was wrong. She did see me.
She came to me and pulled me into her and hugged me. And, I broke. Right there in Grandma’s arms. I just broke. It's lucky she had me in her arms to keep me upright.
“Oh, Macen, love, tell me what's wrong. I can't help you if you don't tell me. Is it a boy? Have you had problems with a boy?” I couldn't speak. I was heaving as I tried to take in air as I sobbed. She moved me to the couch in the living room and sat me down very gently —hugging me. I put my legs up on the couch and curled up into her side, sobbing. She kept rubbing my back, telling me it would all be okay. Eventually, the crying subsided, and I hugged her back. She kissed the top of my head.
“Macen, love, nothing is ever as bad as it seems. I can see you're hurting both mentally and physically, and I know you will tell me, but just know, love, that no matter what it is, we can get through this together. You have me, Macen. I'm here for you, no matter what, my sweet girl. I love you so much and will do anything to help you. Please just let me know what's happened.” I knew I needed to tell her, but I found it hard saying it out loud, as if saying it made it real, which was stupid because I knew it was real.
“Oh, Grandma, I’m so ashamed. I can’t say it.”
“Yes, you can, Macen, why are you ashamed? Did you do something to someone?” I shook my head. “No. Someone, someone…” I tried to get it out. I tried to tell her, but I had an enormous lump in my throat. I looked at her. “Someone hurt me.”
I felt her take in a sharp breath. She’s a very wise woman, and I think she guessed what had happened immediately.
“Macen, love? Was this a boy that hurt you? Did he physically hurt you?” I nodded yes into her. I felt her shake a little, and when I looked up at her again, I could see the silent tears falling down her cheeks just like mine.
“Oh, god, love.” She hugged me tighter — I think to help her to compose herself for what was to come. After a while, she asked me to tell her, and with great difficulty, I did. I told her everything that happened that night.
She was crying hard when I finished. We both sat there, hugging and crying on the couch. It was the timer on the oven that broke us up, letting us know the turkey was ready. It was the only thing that was ready, and neither of us wanted to eat. When she returned to the couch after taking the turkey out of the oven, she sat and faced me, holding my hands.
“Macen, we need to take you to the hospital.” I shook my head, no, vigorously. She grabbed my cheeks in her hands to still my head and looked me in the eyes. “You have to go, Macen. You need to get checked out, love. You have no idea the damage that has been done to you. They will need to thoroughly examine you. I know it’s the last thing you want, but we have to report this to the police. They need to know.”
I started to rock backward and forward on the couch, pulling away from her grasp and putting my head in my hands. “No, no, Grandma. NO, I can't do it. I can't let anyone go down there. I can't do it.” She stopped me rocking and hugged me. “Yes, you can, love. You have to do this. You must be brave and strong. There might be some sperm left inside you if he didn't use a condom. We must try to stop him doing this again to anyone else. Macen, look at me. We have to do this for your sake, my sweet girl.” I knew she was right, and I let it sink in as we comforted each other.
A little later, Christmas day, she drove me to the hospital where a sexual assault nurse examined me and asked me all about the attack. The damage down below was severe. They said whatever he used on me afterward really damaged my cervix and one of my fallopian tubes, which is why I had excruciating pain in my stomach as well as down below. They did a blood test on me also to see if I might pregnant, it was still early days for that but they wanted to try anyway, they said if it came back negative to try a urine test in a weeks time.
I prayed to God I wasn’t.
The test came back positive, and I broke all over again.
Caspian
I HAVE TO fly to LA over the weekend, and I won’t be back until Wednesday. Fuck, I’m going to miss Macen starting on Monday. I wanted to be there to welcome her to the team on her first day. I know it’s not usual for me to do that when someone new starts, but I just felt like I wanted to do it this time.
I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. I even phoned Darcy for another round, but then I canceled at the last minute. I didn’t want her. How fucked up is that? Me, only wanting one woman! And one that is out of bounds, too! Where does that leave me? Fucking celibate that’s where because I can’t touch Macen. Fuck that. But it leaves me fucked or fuckless as the case may be.
I’m not looking forward to my trip to LA. I know there are problems that I need to sort out with the equipment I’ve ordered. The electrician was due to start but didn’t turn up. Why the fuck do I pay a project manager to oversee everything, yet I have to go and sort shit out? And also, I want to see Macen.
The days have dragged. I've been jerking myself off to images of her in my head: in that pantsuit, bent over, with me ripping the pants from her, tugging those hips of hers right onto my cock, and plowing hard into her. I need to stop; I know I do, but I can’t help it.
I have the LA restaurant to get sorted, but it’s her I keep thinking about. I have never been like this over a woman.
A part of me hopes she is shit at the job so that I can fire her, or get Francoise to fire her, then I can get her where I want her, but while she is an employee, I can’t go there. I need another distraction. Maybe I can call one of the models in LA… They are hot, especially Janella, yeah, I can phone her. We’ve hooked up a time or two or three — I’ve lost count. I might even go
to Soho House on West Sunset. I pay thousands to be a member there, so I may as well use it. You just never know what action I may see in there.
I head to Soho House and catch up with people I haven't seen for ages, and I hook up with a new model, fresh on the scene with long chestnut brown hair which reminds me of a certain someone. Her name is Kacey-Jay, and she's fucking stunning. We have a bit too much to drink and decide to leave, getting to the exit of the club, clinging to each other for support before she trips and falls, taking me down with her, landing on top of her.
There are fucking paparazzi hanging around places like Soho House, just waiting for its exclusive clientele to fall out of the club and make fools of themselves just like we have, so they can get all the best pictures to sell to TMZ, and all the other tabloid's.
We make front-page news on those other tabloids: “Celebrity Chef caught playing with his food in public.” Is the headline this morning on TMZ and no doubt plastered all over the Internet. Those bastards knew she had tripped, and we were not doing anything sleazy, but what do they care when they get the picture they need to net them a pretty paycheck?
I think I best stay in the hotel for the rest of my time in LA. I don't want any more sleazy headlines written about me that aren't true. I wouldn't mind, but after that, I just made sure she got to her hotel safely and left, so I never even got my rocks off. Fuck my life.
Macen
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