Pony Up

by Colleen Charles

  “I know.” I roll my eyes. “Put on a fresh jacket and go out with the dessert. Use all your flair for the dramatic in your tableside presentation.”

  I cross my fingers as I watch Claude carefully carry the beautiful dish out of the kitchen. In just a short time, I should know whether or not I knocked it out of the park. Steakhouse has always had a great reputation, but Vegas is competitive…it’s hard to stay afloat in a sea of great food. Tourists from all over the world dine here.

  Boom!

  I jump, my heart pounding, then rush into the dining area, shoving so hard on the kitchen doors they crack against the wall.

  Holy fucking shit.

  Three Michelin critics – and Claude – are covered from head to toe in caramelized rum sauce and banana goop. A gigantic pile of the sweet concoction breaks free from Claude’s towering chef’s hat and falls into the wine glass of one of the important diners. The man looks at it in disgust and starts making notes on his yellow tablet.

  Oh, fuck me, I think, rushing over to the table. Major damage control is in order.

  “Sirs,” I say. “I’m Carter Caldwell. I am so sorry about this!”

  One of the critics puts his finger in the banana mess on his shirt and licks it. He makes an appraising sound, nodding his head before he goes back for seconds.

  “Delicious, although I find the presentation a touch…Avant-garde.”

  “Yes, well,” I say, anxiety threatening to choke me. Turning to Claude, I frown. “What the hell happened?” I ask in a voice just above a whisper, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

  “Sir, I do not know!” Claude wails. He trembles, and I sense a crying fit coming on. “All going well, then boom. Banana in zee face.”

  “Go back to the kitchen,” I soothe. The last thing I want is Claude breaking down in front of these critics. Aside from the fact that they’re covered in Bananas Foster, they look incredibly professional.

  Claude’s chin wobbles, but thankfully, he doesn’t fight me. He scurries off, and I turn to the restaurant critics with my most charming smile.

  “I am so sorry about that,” I say again. “Please, what can I get you? An espresso? An after-dinner drink, or a Cuban cigar?”

  “A wet towel would be nice,” one of the critics says, pursing his lips into a trout face. Another reason why I hate fucking fish. Every single woman wears that same displeased look whenever her over-inflated expectations aren’t met.

  I can feel my smile fading with every second that passes, so I signal a server to dart into the kitchen for the towels, and she runs off, her heels clicking on the hand-scraped hardwood floor.

  I frown and lean over the ruined dish. That’s when I see something strange, and that familiar irritation begins anew.

  “This shouldn’t be here,” I say, reaching in and pulling out the blasted ruins of what looks like a roman candle shell.

  “What is that?” One of the critics stands up and reaches for it. I hand it over, frowning as I stare at the firework. I would never bring something so dangerous into my own kitchen. It’s a fucking lawsuit waiting to happen.

  “It looks like a roman candle,” I say. “And it was buried in the bottom of the dish. We use sparkling candles for this dish. I would never endanger a diner in this way. I don’t have any idea where this came from.”

  The man frowns and holds it close to his face for further inspection. “It is a roman candle,” he says. “My son sells these. He’s in college, you know how those kids need money. He had me buy about sixty last summer…hell, I think they’re still in my garage.” He laughs, and I force a chuckle.

  “Obviously, men, my Bananas Foster doesn’t come standard with roman candles,” I say. “If you wanted a little extra wham bam explosions, why didn’t you just say so?” My attempt at humor comes out more like a pathetic wail. I can’t believe this is happening to me.

  “Son, I think someone tampered with your dessert,” the critic replies. He hands me the roman candle back. “You should keep this for evidence. This is serious enough that I think the authorities should be alerted. At the very least, casino security. Maybe they can check the videotapes. This is sabotage, plain and simple. Do you have any idea who it could be?”

  I grit my teeth. “Yes.”

  In fact, I know exactly who it is, although they’re nameless right now. It’s likely one of the other Vegas chefs, since we’re all such a competitive group. Steakhouse has never had a Michelin star before, and most of the famous ones have at least one. I’m guessing someone tried to mess with me and knock me out of the running.

  The only innocent chef must be Pepper St. Claire, the chef at Sakana, the highest-rated restaurant in Vegas. She’s already got two Michelin stars – why the hell would she need to knock me out of the running for just one? I’ve never met her, but I hear she’s a no-nonsense type so wouldn’t have time for this juvenile shit.

  “Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,” the critic says. He gets to his feet and wipes his suit clean with a linen napkin, shaking his head. His voice is neutral – devoid of warmth or chill – and I have no idea what he’s thinking. “We should be going now.”

  “Okay,” I say, grasping at any attempt to repair the shreds of this visit. “Thank you very much for taking the time to dine at Steakhouse. I really appreciate it.”

  The critic nods. “Of course. Thank you for the meal. I’m sure I’ll never forget it.”

  “Yes.” It’s probably one of the most unforgettable nights of my life too.

  As I watch the critics leave, my heart sinks to my non-slip shoes. This is my one shot at the stardom I’ve worked so hard to achieve and so richly deserve. And just like the roman candles that exploded in the middle of my dining room, my dreams have been blown sky high.

  Chapter Three

  Pepper

  “I can’t believe it went so well,” I say to Basil, closing my eyes and taking a long sip of rosé. After the day I’ve had, it tastes like manna from heaven. “I thought Cody was going to lasso everything straight into the shitter.” I shake my head, thinking of my fun-loving but unsophisticated brother. We don’t even have a fine dining restaurant back in our hometown. “But three stars? I can’t believe it! We’re the only restaurant in Vegas with that high of a rating. I have to pinch myself because I must be dreaming.”

  “Girlfriend, you earned those three stars.” Basil leans in to plant a sloppy wet one on my cheek. “You never told me your fuck-up of a brother was such a stunner. He’s a stone-cold fox.”

  “He’s not a fuck-up.” I push my hand through my hair. “He’s just…well, he’s like the rest of my family, you know.”

  “God, guns, and git-r-done?” Basil smiles at his own joke.

  I burst out laughing. “Basically.” I drain the rest of my wine. “You should have heard them all when I told them I was opening a restaurant that served nothing but seafood.”

  “If y’all weren’t supposed to eat beef, then God wouldn’t have put any gosh dang cows on His green earth!” Basil drawls in an exaggerated accent, making me nod enough to egg him on. Let’s just say my folks wouldn’t understand Basil and our friendship. Basil’s my BMF.

  “Basically.” I think back to my childhood. Even though I know how much my parents love me, they just don’t get me. And that’s tough. It makes for a lot of lonely, sleepless nights where I wonder if I’ll ever have someone in my life who loves me unconditionally. Not in spite of my passion for being a chef but because of it. “My parents have always been farmers. You know, the real salt of the earth types – they don’t get that watching animals brought up for slaughter makes me sad and goes against my personal values.”

  “Fish don’t have feelings,” Basil says. He reaches for the bottle of wine and pours me another healthy glass, then tops off his own glass and takes a sip. “At least, that’s what I think when I’m filleting.”

  Just as I’m about to reply, my phone buzzes on the table. “Sorry,” I mouth to Basil. “This should be quick.”


  “Hello?”

  “Hi, I’m calling for Pepper St. Claire,” a pleasant female voice says.

  I clear my throat. “This is she.”

  “Good. Pepper, my name’s Robin, and I’m from the Food Network. I’m calling to let you know about a new show we’re producing for our exciting new season. I can’t tell you too many details yet, but it’s going to be very hot, and it’s an exceptional opportunity for unique chefs with mass appeal.”

  I feel my eyes bulging out of my head. Basil stares and mouths ‘what?’ but I wave my hand in the air to shut him up.

  “Wow…” I lick my suddenly dry lips. “That does sound very exciting.”

  “It is,” the woman replies. “Pepper, I’m calling because I wanted to know if you’d be interested in auditioning. We’ve heard great things about Sakana, and I’m sure you’d bring a lot of energy and fun to the show.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” I’m practically vibrating now. “Yes! I would love that.”

  “Wonderful,” Robin replies. “I’m so glad to hear it. This will be a cooking competition show. I’m afraid that, right now, that’s all I can tell you.”

  I take a ragged inhale and begin scribbling down the address I’m given and the other particulars about the audition.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “A lot,” I say with a laugh. “But I’m sure I’ll find everything out in time.”

  “Of course,” Robin answers, her tone warm. “Pepper, it was wonderful talking to you. I speak for everyone at the Food Network when I say that we’re looking forward to working with you.”

  “Thank you. This is an incredible opportunity.”

  We say a brief goodbye, and then I hang up. I can barely keep from squealing, and I look at Basil and wave my hands in the air. I’m probably turning blue due to my lack of oxygen. I feel like I should breathe into a bag. Damn, this day couldn’t get any better.

  “Dish,” Basil says, reaching for his rosé. “What happened?”

  “An audition, for the Food Network,” I babble, mind racing with thoughts of my own show where I can teach viewers how to make all my signature dishes. Viewers who will care about their health, and animal rights. My very own tribe. “It’s so exciting, I can hardly stand it! Basil, what if I get my very own show?”

  “Well done,” Basil says, clapping. “I just hope you won’t be working with Antonia Benedetti.” He tosses his head. “Now put the leeengweeeeny in zee pot, and stair!”

  I burst out laughing at his goofy impression. “I wouldn’t mind. At this point, I’d work with anyone. Including you.”

  Basil eyes me. “You’d mind her,” he says. “She’s all show and no substance. You, well…you’re something special, Pepper. You’ve got raving beauty and mad talent to back it up. You’re the real deal in cuisine.”

  I feel my cheeks grow hot. It’s not often that Basil gives me a sincere compliment. We’ve been best friends for years, and he’s a dream to work with, but most of our relationship is drinking wine and bitching about guys. Or rather, listening to Basil bitch about guys. When he’s not working in my kitchen, he’s the fabulous Ivory Crème, one of Vegas’s most famous drag performers. I have to admit it; his life is fabulous, and I live vicariously.

  “Thank you,” I say, shifting. Talking about myself makes me more uncomfortable than I care to admit. “So, what’s new with you?”

  “Oh, god, honey, there ain’t enough wine in the world to get through it,” Basil snips, tossing his head and making eyes at me.

  I smirk at him. “Try.” I imagine his latest tale about love gone wrong with his latest boy toy. His groupies are legendary. And so are his one-night stands with them. I’ve never had a one-nighter. “Your life is so much more interesting than mine.”

  Basil laughs and wags a finger. “That is not true. You’re a fabulous Vegas chef, and what am I?”

  “A really fabulous Vegas chef,” I say, mimicking Basil’s mincing tone.

  “Yes.” Basil preens and flutters his eyelashes at me. “Well, at least that’s what little miss thang thought after the show last night.”

  I raise an eyebrow because it’s about to get good. “Go on.”

  As Basil launches into a story about a prima donna drag queen, I can’t help but let my mind wander. It’s only been a week since the Michelin critics were at Sakana, and since then I’ve picked up three Michelin stars and an audition on the Food Network. My dreams are within arm’s reach, and now all I have to do is snag them and reel them in like my fresh catch of the day.

  I bet Dante’s going to be thrilled. As a boss, he’s usually pretty hands-off and respectful, but when he sets his mind to something, he’s like a dog with a T-bone.

  “Hello,” Basil says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “You even listening? I’m talking about heartbreak over here, you know.”

  “Sorry.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m spacing a little bit. I can’t help it – this day is just really exciting.”

  Basil nods, and I can tell he’s not annoyed. “If I were you, I’d be running down the street singing Diana Ross.” He gives me a bestie grin. “You should be proud, girlfriend. You’re about to become a superstar, and I’ll be the one flying high on your chef’s jacket.”

  I knead my bottom lip with my teeth, strategizing about how I’ll make it all come together just the way I want it to. “Thank you. I never thought I’d get where I am today.”

  “But you did.” Basil clinks his glass against mine and takes a long drink. “And you earned it, Miss Pepper Pants.”

  A smile spreads across my face, and my cheeks burn. “I guess I did,” I say, liking the taste of the words in my mouth. “Damn straight I did.”

  Chapter Four

  Carter

  After my horrible day with the Michelin critics, I’m tempted to go off and wallow in some wet pussy…or a bottomless vat of gin.

  Either would work.

  But I can’t. As big as Vegas can seem to tourists and outsiders, it feels awfully fucking small to someone like me. With a family like mine, I know that I’m never going to stand out unless I leave and make it on my own somewhere else.

  Maybe that’s part of my problem.

  I’m just another Caldwell brother. Between my hotshot lawyer brother Reagan, my casino-owning brother Nixon, and my techie genius brother, Ford, I barely make waves.

  I know I often sound like Debbie Downer, but sometimes it’s hard to feel like anything other than another face in the crowd…especially when the rest of my family is so successful.

  “Excuse me, Monsieur Carter?”

  My head snaps up to find Claude standing in front of me, shifting his weight between his feet. His fists are so tight, his knuckles have turned into white balls.

  I sigh, because I’m the asshole who caused it. “Claude, for the last time, you can just call me Carter. You’ve been working for me for years, it’s okay to relax. Things are rarely as bad as they seem.”

  Claude sighs, and he seems to deflate as he does so. His cheeks turn bright pink and his fists release but then tangle back together in a mass of fingers.

  “What is it?” I ask, an edge of impatience creeping into my voice.

  “Um, sir, I just wanted to extend my deepest apologies,” Claude says. He sniffs, then looks down at the floor. “I am not worthy of working for you, monsieur.”

  I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Claude could work wherever he wanted. I have nothing to do with his brilliance.

  “Claude, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but whatever, I know it wasn’t your fault. Someone obviously tried to sabotage me.”

  Claude blinks and opens his mouth in surprise. “Zee sabotage?”

  “Did you see anyone unusual sneaking around the kitchen?” I ask, thrusting my hands in my pockets.

  Claude begins to tremble and shake in front of me.

  “It’s okay,” I say, more forcefully this time. “I’m not going to yell at you, Claude. Relax. Whatever happen
ed, we’ll get to the bottom of it. Together.”

  Claude sighs again and wipes a greasy sheen of sweat off his large forehead. “Well, sir, I did see un person today,” he said. “He said he was a delivery boy.”

  “And did he deliver anything?” I narrow my eyes. “That would be helpful to know.”

  Claude shakes his head. “I do not know.” A touch of arrogance creeps into his voice, and he gives a sidelong glance at one of the line cooks. “I do not deal with zee deliveries. It is their job.”

  “Fine.” I’m in no mood for the dramatics. “You know what? I’ll worry about it later. Just finish up your prep for tomorrow’s dinner service.”

  Claude begins to say something else, but I push past him and out of the kitchen. Normally, I hang around with my staff at the end of the night, sometimes I even help them clean up. Share a drink or two and some bonding. But not tonight.

  Tonight, I need to be alone or face-planted in a bottle of vodka. Or both. I walk out onto the casino floor. After a few minutes, I spin through the revolving entrance doors. The heat shimmers above the pavement in a fog of pollution, but it looks almost pretty with the twinkling lights. I’ve grown so used to the Strip that everywhere else seems like suburbia, even other cities.

  Maybe that’s part of my problem.

  I stop by the liquor store on the way home for a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and some diet tonic water. Most of the time, I drink beer and wine – it makes cooking at home more fun – but tonight, I feel the desperate need for something a little stronger.

  The checkout girl gives me a sympathetic look.

  “What?” I snap. “You never saw a guy buying gin before?”

  She rears back from my intense reaction. “No, it’s not that. It just looks like you had a hard day.” She bats her lashes at me. She’s cute too – little upturned ski-jump nose, nice rack, curly hair to her shoulders. Very fuckable. But too young.

  “I did,” I say.

  The girl purses her lips. “Well, I get off in half an hour…maybe I can help cheer you up? There’s a new taco place over on Bonanza if you feel like eating.”