by Marika Ray
Skimming down my torso, my breasts were still where they should be in relation to my waist. My hips were curvier than my mother preferred. Hell, any amount of curve to a female’s body was more than a fashion model preferred. But I didn’t care. I loved my curves and the way my body moved like a sensual woman.
I let my hair fall back down my back and straightened my spine, jutting my fabulous breasts out and seeing my body in the mirror with a new eye. I wasn’t old. I was entering my prime, for God’s sake. Hot Italian men were throwing themselves at me and I was turning them down because I had bigger and grander things to focus on. I had dreams, I had goals. And plenty of time to do everything I wanted before labeling myself as old.
Back in my kitchen, I poured a healthy glass of merlot, taking it into my bedroom and repacking, this time with an eye for flair, not sensibility. I wanted to look both professional and unique on camera.
Always be memorable.
Mother meant it about one’s self. I leaned more to being memorable because of the flavors in my food. However, a TV audience couldn’t taste my food and I would be in Hollywood to judge other people’s food, not my own. So I’d fall back to Mother’s way of thinking and make sure I was memorable. That would drive people to my restaurant where I’d wow them with my food.
Silk nightie.
Tight red dress that made me look like Salma Hayek.
Sky-high shoes to prevent me from looking like a preteen who hadn’t hit their growth spurt yet.
Bright red lipstick to highlight the lips that would dish up criticism so sharp those contestants wouldn’t know I’d cut them until it was too late.
I was set. Hollywood better get ready.
El Jefe was incoming.
2
Austin
I let out a whistle and instantly regretted it when a couple strolling through the lobby of the hotel turned their heads and gave me the death stare that only the bored rich can give. Jeez, can you blame me, though? This hotel was the fanciest thing I’d ever seen, let alone stayed at. There was a reservation behind that marble desk with my name on it. And here’s the kicker: I didn’t have to pay for it!
Damn, I wished my sister, Abi, could see it with me. She’d just turned sixteen and would die to stay here and pretend to be all fancy for a few weeks. Instead, she was in a run-down foster home with three other kids in Sacramento, some five hundred miles away.
I rubbed at the heartburn creeping up my esophagus. There was a fifty-ton weight on my chest and a clock ticking in my head. Guilt, for staying at such a fine establishment while Abi was stuck in that hell hole, crept over my body and wouldn’t let go.
“Can I help you, sir?” The little guy behind the counter, so prim and proper in his purple suit, had on a polite smile, but I could tell it was fake. I knew I didn’t fit in here and he was probably wondering if he’d have to call security to kick me out. He and I had more in common than one would think just looking at us.
I had no idea what I was doing here either.
Dumb luck, I suppose. I barely remembered entering that cooking contest online a few months back. My buddy, Jeb, dared me to do it at the tail end of an afternoon of football and beer—heavy on the beer. I mean, I’d been cooking since I was tall enough to reach the stove, mostly to help Mom out, but then later, because I loved it. I was more of a TV guy, not one to read books, but you could find shelves and shelves of cookbooks in my apartment, dog-eared and splattered with whatever I happened to be making that day.
My friends teased me incessantly, calling me Mr. Martha Stewart. But those fuckers ate every last thing I cooked up, so joke’s on them. Anyway, somehow I got a call last week telling me I’d been selected to be one of the contestants on this reality cooking show. The way I figure it, they needed comic relief. Every reality show had to have some nut to get the ratings up and keep people watching week to week. And I was all too happy to be the nut.
Because underneath all the joking and ball busting? I desperately wanted to make a living as a chef. So my grand plan was to distract them all with laughter and then slide right in there with the best damn tasting food they’d ever put in their mouths. That’d shut ’em up real quick. And get me that chef’s job I needed to prove I was financially stable and able to adopt my kid sister.
Like Eminem said, I had one shot. One opportunity. I wasn’t going to get Mom’s spaghetti on anything, but the rest of the song was spot-on. It was go time.
“Sir?”
Oh yeah, check-in desk. I had a tendency to space out recently. Too much on my mind.
“Yeah, checking in. Mr. Cox.” I leaned onto the counter and stretched my back. I was a big guy. Fitting into those tiny seats on the airplane was uncomfortable, even for a quick one-hour flight.
Silence drew out and I looked down at the guy’s face. One eyebrow was lifted and he was giving me the once-over, more interest than disdain showing in his feminine features all of a sudden.
I dropped my best smile. “Oh, that isn’t a cock joke.”
He shrugged. “Too bad.” Then he clickity-clacked his way across the keyboard of his computer and spat out two room keys and a map of the property. “You’re in room 207. Just take the elevators to your right up to the second floor. And enjoy your stay, Mr. Cox.” A pursed-lipped cheeky smile and I was all checked in.
I nodded my thanks, gave him an extra wink for good measure, and slid my keys off the counter and into my hand. One duffle bag of jeans and T-shirts was all I brought with me, but I assumed I’d have access to a laundromat or something to keep them fresh for however long I’d be here. I marched over to the elevators, found my room, dumped my bag on the floor, and flopped down on the bed. Traveling was exhausting.
My phone rang from the pocket of my jeans. I fished it out and flipped it open to see my sister’s number.
“Hey, Abilene, how goes it?”
“Austin? Did you make it okay? Are you checked in?” My sister’s voice came out on a wobble.
“Yeah, I’m here. Just checked in. You okay? You sound worried.” I sat up on the bed and scooted to the edge, putting my feet on the floor. If something was wrong, I was prepared to fly back home immediately.
She blew out a sigh. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just got worried is all.” She quit talking, but I could hear something muffled.
I squeezed my eyes closed and felt that guilt climb up my spine again. “Hey, you crying?” Dammit, nothing was worse than a female crying. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’m gonna win this little show, get a nice chunk of change and the fancy job they’ve promised the winner. The judge will grant me guardianship in no time. You just gotta hang in there, okay?”
She sniffed loudly. “I know. I’ll try. It’s just I miss Mama too,” she wailed.
I scrubbed a hand over my beard and started to pace the tiny hotel room floor. “I know, Abi, I know. I miss her too. But you and me are a team. We’re gonna get through this because we’re hard-boiled. You hear me?”
If my own eyes misted over hearing her heartache, there wasn’t anyone around to confirm nor deny the accusation. I waited until it sounded like she’d gotten the crying under control. We’d had similar conversations quite a bit the last two months since Mom passed away and the state took Abi into foster care. My sister was one tough cookie, but no sixteen-year-old girl should have to lose her mama and her only sibling in the same week. As far as I was concerned, she was due a good cry session or two.
“We’re tough Cox, remember?”
She snorted, just like I knew she would. You can’t grow up with the last name Cox without knowing when to throw down a well-placed cock joke.
“You should just be thanking your lucky stars Mom named you Abilene and not Waco. Everybody would be pronouncing it Wacko since that describes you better than Abilene.”
I could practically hear the eye roll over the phone. “Whatever, Austin. If I’d had a say in it, I would’ve called you Plano. Never have seen you in something other than those ugly, plain T-shi
rts of yours.”
Now that was a bald-faced lie, but I wasn’t going to call her on it. I’d bought and worn a fancy suit just a month ago to Mom’s funeral. After we buried her, I’d buried that suit in the back of my closet and swore never to wear it again.
“Nah, the ladies call me Sugar Land.” I had a big grin on my face. Teasing my little sister was what I did best. Well, besides cooking.
She busted up laughing. “Ew, I don’t want to hear about that. I’m a minor, remember?”
And just like that, I lost the grin and came back down to earth. Yeah, I remembered, alright. She was still a kid and needed her adult brother to get his shit together and get her out of foster care. My part-time bartending gig wasn’t going to cut it. It had gotten me through college, but no judge was going to give a twenty-two-year-old bartender custody over a teenage girl.
“Hey, I gotta go. They're calling us down to dinner. Call me tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Love you, Abs.”
“Love you too, bro.” She hung up the phone and I flopped back down on the bed.
Maybe I should have bought some new clothes. You know, to show them I meant business. That I wasn’t some hillbilly from a small town pretending to know what he was doing. Yeah, but buy those new clothes with what money? Ten minutes later I was so sick of my sad-sack self I sat back up and brushed off the depressing thoughts.
“Ain’t nobody got time for that bullshit...” I muttered. Pulling out my duffle bag, I pawed through my jeans and shirts to get to the ancient laptop that had gotten me all the way through a business degree. I fired her up and found the hotel Wi-Fi. Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t how I handled life. When shit got tough, you dug in and found a way out. You worked your ass off until you had what you wanted. So tonight I’d research everything I could find on the three celebrity judges.
The way to a judge’s heart was through their stomachs. Wasn’t that how the saying went?
My phone rang again, this time the 49ers fight song, a particularly horrendous rendition of a football polka. Every time I heard it, I smiled, because it meant my best friend, Marcos, was calling and also because, you know, it was a football polka. That shit was funny.
“Hey, Marcos, how’s it hangin’?”
“Like a horse, my friend. You make it into your fancy hotel without getting kicked out for being underdressed?”
I slapped a hand to my forehead. “What’s with everyone badgering me about my clothes? I’ll have you know these T-shirts are vintage and hard to find.”
He cackled over the phone, not bothering to hide his amusement. When you’ve known someone since the third grade, you tend to be a little too honest with each other. “Dude, they’re hard to find because nobody wants to wear them.”
“Hey now—“
“Let me guess. You have your Cheers shirt on right now, don’t you?”
I looked down at my chest and saw the word “Cheers” upside down on the faded green cotton. “Yeah, well. Betcha don’t know which color, though.”
“Green.”
I shook my head. “Wow, didn’t even hesitate.” His laughter picked up volume. “I’m a bit predictable with my clothing. So, shoot me. When you’re done laughing at my expense, I need some advice.”
He sobered up quickly like a best friend does when a guy goes serious on you. “I know you won’t take my style advice, so what can I help with?”
“I’ve only got my entire future hanging on how I prepare some food the next few days. You’ve eaten everything I’ve ever made. The only information I have on the first test is that we have to have a ‘signature dish.’ What the hell’s my signature dish?”
He cackled again and I was getting really sick of how funny he was finding everything. I was all for a good laugh, but I was near full-blown panic-mode. Laughter was unappreciated at the present time.
“I doubt they’d go for hamburgers on the grill, would they? ’Cause you make those all the time.” When I groaned, he kept going. “All right now, calm down. Let’s see. You make a weirdly good mac ’n cheese. Oh, I know! How about your biscuits and gravy? That shit’s the bomb. It even got you laid that one time, remember?”
Okay, maybe a little laughter was okay, because that was pretty funny. Marcos and I had some friends over one day our junior year and one of them brought a girl we hadn’t met. She took one bite of my biscuits and gravy and the next thing you know, she was marching me into my room, slamming the door behind her, and ripping her shirt over her head. Who was I to say no to her special way of saying “thank you?”
“I want to win this thing, not get in the judges’ pants,” I reminded him.
“Hey, you asked for advice. I gave it. Take it or leave it. But what I do want you to hear is how good you are. Dammit, Austin, I’ve never tasted food as good as what you make with leftover ingredients you found in the fridge.”
I rolled my shoulders, feeling awkward hearing him sing my praises. “Thanks, man, but I just hope I don’t make a fool of myself in front of thousands of people. I mean, I know I’m only here to be the comedic relief of the show, but I’d still like to surprise them with some level of skill.”
“Hey, stop self-deprecating all over yourself, buddy. That’s disgusting.”
My face scrunched up. My best friend was crazy. “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”
“I’m no genius like you, but you catch my drift. Stop talking shit about yourself. You’re good. You belong there. Focus on doing what you love: cooking.”
“Now that’s damn good advice. Thanks, man.”
“Call me tomorrow and let me know what your schedule looks like.”
“You got it. ’Night.”
We hung up and I went back to surfing the web, my heart lighter and my confidence higher. No matter how much shit we gave each other, I could count on Marcos to be there for me. And Lord knew I’d been leaning on him quite a bit the last few months. Mom’s breast cancer diagnosis came late in the game, meaning she had few options left and only months to tie up loose ends. I’d been there for Abi, and Marcos had been there for me.
I had three really good reasons to want to win this competition: Mom, Abi, and Marcos. Okay, make that four. I couldn’t forget me. I wanted to win this sucker for myself too.
“Well, ho-lee-shit...” I was distracted from my internal pep talk by the sight of the most beautiful woman on the planet. Dark hair was severely swept back to showcase cheekbones I wanted to lick my way across. One dark eyebrow was raised just slightly higher than the other, a hint at a fiery disposition that rang all my bells. That and the saucy tilt to her hips had me leaning forward like I could climb through my screen and get my hands on her.
“Damn, she fancy...” I whistled through my teeth.
Then I saw her name: Elle Fierro, Head Judge of Taste Test.
I jumped up off the bed, taking my laptop with me. That model of female perfection was one of the esteemed judges I’d have to impress on the show.
And if I remembered correctly, I had her cookbook. I dug through my duffle bag until I found the two cookbooks I’d brought with me. My tried and true recipes that never failed me. I’d brought them for good luck. To give inspiration when I needed it.
Wouldn’t you know it? Right there at the bottom of the one that had a picture of a rustic field with food displayed on the wooden table had “Elle Fierro” typed proudly in some squirrely font only chicks knew about. Her picture wasn’t anywhere on the front, back, or inside flap, which was a crying shame.
I’d been eating Elle’s delights for years. She’d made me groan with pleasure a thousand times and I never realized what she looked like.
It was almost like she was a recluse with how infrequently I heard about her outside of her two cookbook releases. I’d never seen her in an interview. Or on a talk show. Or pictured in the paper. She could have been eighty years old for all anyone knew about her personally. And come to find out, Elle Fierro was definitely not an old lady.
Not that I wanted in her pants. I mean, I did. But that wasn’t why I’d be making biscuits and gravy. It’s just that I now had a fifth reason to want to win this thing: to impress the untouchable Elle Fierro.
And if I dreamed of brunettes in tight red dresses with red lips wrapped around... Well, you catch my drift. Don’t judge me. I was just nervous about the competition and needed an outlet. I wasn’t crushing over one of the judges. I was just overly impressed with her...accomplishments. Yeah.
3
Elle
My leg was bobbing up and down like a toddler who had to pee and couldn’t wait as I sat for the second hour in a ridiculously uncomfortable chair in makeup. Really, was there any worse way to treat your female stars than to tell them they needed hours of hair and makeup by professionals to even have a chance at looking good enough for television?
Ugh, I hated it. That was another reason I didn’t pursue a modeling career back in my teens. Well, that and the fact I needed a step ladder to climb up on to be noticed. You just didn’t see five-foot-three models on the runway, and that growth spurt Mother promised would happen vanished as quickly as her last boyfriend.
So, to keep from whining like a toddler too, I went to my happy place. I envisioned all the different dishes I could have made in two hours, sorting through all the varieties in my head and mentally flagging a few for later research. While my restaurant was being built, I also needed to build the menu, the most fun part of the whole thing, but also the most risky. So much of being a breakout success was about public opinion and people’s unpredictable whimsy, not the quality of the food presented. The restaurant had to be trendy above all else. Dios ayúdanos.