Pony Up

by Colleen Charles

  Is that even possible? Things like this just don’t happen to Raelynn Higginbottom from bumfuck Kansas. “A show with both of us?”

  Barb nods. She suddenly looks nervous, as if she’s waiting on pins and needles for my response. Power surges through me, where seconds ago, failure had lived. “I understand if you’re not interested. Again, feel free to say no, but I think it would really overwhelm the audience if you and Carter are together in a show.”

  “So, we’d be working together? Me and Carter?”

  “Not exactly,” Barb says. “You’d be in direct competition with each other.” She swallows and clears her throat. “And again, I understand if the possibility of that makes you feel…well, I understand if it makes you feel a little squeamish, given your dynamic with him.”

  I feel a grin spread across my face. I can’t think of anything I’d love more than an opportunity to whip his pompous ass week after week. “Heck no,” I say, shaking my head. “Any chance for me to kick Carter’s butt is a chance I’m more than willing to take. No holds barred.”

  Barb smiles – this time, it’s genuine and practically lights up the room – and sinks back into her chair, looking pleased and relieved.

  “I’m so glad,” Barb says. “I was certain that you’d say no.” She hands me a piece of paper. “This is a sample contract – we’ll send over a real one to your hotel later today – but I want you to get a feel for what one looks like. Make sure to have your attorney look it over and discuss it with you.”

  I look over it, nodding. “This looks good,” I say honestly. Dante has a cotillion of lawyers for the Mona Lisa. I’ll just borrow one. Of course, Carter has one of the top lawyers in the country as his brother. There’s another pompous asshole, devoid of any semblance of a sense of humor. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Let me be the first to offer you congratulations,” she says. “I know that you must be thrilled.”

  “I am.” My cheeks start to hurt from smiling so much. “Very much so. It’s a dream come true.”

  “And as long as Mr. Caldwell agrees to do the show, we should have a hit on our hands.” I can practically see the wheels in her head churning as she talks. “And then we can get started filming. I’m guessing we’ll start with one season, and each episode can feature a different kind of cuisine.”

  “That sounds good.” In reality, it sounds better than good. It sounds amazing, perfect, incredible. If Barb wasn’t watching me closely, I’d pinch myself just to be sure.

  “I’m glad you’re excited,” she says, clasping my palm in hers. “And Pepper, just a little bit of advice. I’m sure you’re quite used to dealing with sexism, being a chef and all. But I just want to let you know, if anything happens that makes you feel uncomfortable, just talk to me or one of the other producers, and we’ll work on fixing it. We want our stars to be happy.”

  Star? She called me a star.

  “Sounds good,” I say, feeling a bit dumbstruck. There’s no way I’m worried about sexism – at least, from the showrunners and Food Network personnel. “I’m sure that it won’t be a problem. Aside from Carter, that is. I think he’s the only one who has a problem with my gender.”

  Barb tells me a few more details and then sends me on my way. Carter lounges in the hallway, leaning against the wall, those perfect full lips pulled into a sardonic smile. When I see him, I grin right back. Take that, asshole, I think to Carter, willing him to say yes to this show idea. Because if you fuck this up for me, I’ll make your life back in Vegas a living hell. Dead skunks will seem like a walk in the park.

  He looks gorgeous in his black polo shirt and dark pants, and a little thrill of arousal runs down my spine as I stare at his bulging muscles. Knife wielding has been good to the man for sure, but there’s no way I’m ever going to sleep with him again. Despite being sexy as hell, Carter Caldwell is nothing but a heathen man-child, and I can’t wait to kick his ass. Again and again and again.

  Until he begs for mercy.

  “What’re you so happy about?” Carter asks, tilting his head. “You finally figured out that fish isn’t a real protein source?”

  I bat my eyelashes at him, delighting in his frown. If all it’s going to take is a little reverse psychology to throw him off, it’s going to be like shooting fish in a barrel.

  “Oh, nothing,” I lie. “Just happy for you. You won, fair and square. I know when to wave the white towel. Or napkin in this case.”

  Carter frowns. Just as he opens his mouth to ask what I mean; Barb’s assistant calls his name. Carter stares at me for a long moment before loping into Barb’s office and closing the door.

  I’ve gotten to him. And it feels fucking fantastic. I’m still bristling over his inaccurate harassment of me in my own restaurant.

  One of the production assistants calls a cab for me, and I ride back to the hotel in shocked amazement. As hard as I sweated over that tuna tower, it came out just the way I wanted it to. I just wish I was there to see the look on Carter’s face when he learns that he won’t be the star of a new solo show.

  When I’m back in my room, I dial Basil. He answers on the first ring. “So? How did it go?”

  I can feel a grin spreading across my face until my cheeks begin to hurt. “It was incredible,” I gush. “They offered me a show!”

  “Oh my god!” Basil shrieks and I wince, pulling the phone away from my ear. “Honey, that’s fabulous news! You’re going to be the next big thang!”

  “I hope so,” I say, closing my eyes and flopping down on the soft hotel bed.

  “So, what kind of show are they giving you?” Basil asks in excitement. “Are you going to be like Rachel Ray? Or the Barefoot Contessa?”

  I squirm uncomfortably over the duvet. “Not exactly.”

  More like the Bobbsey Twins. With knives.

  “Well, tell me,” Basil says in a rush of excitement and words. “Girlfriend, I am dying for details over here.”

  “Well, it’s going to be a little different,” I say. “I’m, um, going to be competing with someone, and each show will have a different theme for the food.”

  “Oh, that sounds fun,” Basil says. “It’ll be like America’s Next Top Chef!”

  “Yeah,” I say, hesitating. “It’ll be great.”

  “So, who are you up against?”

  Dread fills my body, and my excitement fades away. He’s already making my life a living hell and stealing all my joy. And making me pant with want and need.

  “Hello?” Basil asks. “Pepper, are you still there?”

  “Yeah. Um, well, it’s a little funny, really, I’m going to be on the show with another chef from Vegas.”

  “Oh, goodie.” He sounds genuinely excited. “That’s going to be a great boon for Sakana.”

  “Yeah. Um, it really is.”

  “So, who is it? Guy Savoy? Wolfgang Puck? Gordon Ramsay.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “Carter Caldwell.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Carter

  When Barb finishes talking, I’m left staring at her in shock. Ear wax must be covering my eardrums.

  “You want me and Pepper? Together? On the same show?”

  Barb repeats herself, and my dream of being deaf flies out the window.

  “Yes,” she says. “I realize the idea is a little unorthodox, but as soon as I saw the two of you together, I knew that I had a hit in the making.”

  I blink. Surely this can’t be true? “So, I didn’t win?”

  Barb laughs. “Oh, Carter, don’t think of it like that. Your steak was phenomenal. But I think the ratings for a show with you and Pepper will be off the charts, and after all, we’re going for something new and different.”

  “Okay…” I can’t lie. I’m a little crushed that I’m going to have to share the spotlight with Little Miss Fishsticks, but it’s certainly better than losing, or being sent home with nothing to show for my efforts. Nothing but Nixon with his usual disdain and superiority, lord
ing them both over me.

  “So, are you on board?” Barb raises an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Good,” she says, nodding her approval. “Pepper already agreed.”

  Suddenly, Pepper’s little smirk in the hallway makes a lot more sense. Had I known, I would have worked harder to wipe it off her face.

  “I see.”

  As annoyed as I am by the prospect of working with Pepper, there’s no way I’m going to let her keep me from my goal of becoming a famous celebrity chef. And I get it – she’s hot as hell, and that’s probably part of the reason why she was chosen for the show. But I’m not going to let her distract me. Just because she resorts to dirty pranks doesn’t mean I have to sink that low.

  “Carter, I’m very excited to work with you,” Barb says. She reaches out her hand for a shake. When I take her hand in mine, I’m surprised at the firmness of her grip.

  “I’m excited as well.” It’s the truth too. Now that my initial disappointment has begun to wear off, I realize that this is one hell of an opportunity. And if I play my cards right, maybe I can parlay this win into an even bigger win – my own show, with my name in big letters on daytime television.

  “Do you have any questions?” Barb asks.

  “When do I start?”

  “The producers are going to do some work on design and branding, and then we’ve got to get the first season approved by the executives, but I’d say it’s likely that we’ll start filming in a couple of weeks. Each show is going to have a live studio audience, just like the test kitchen did, and I’m thinking we can do something where each audience member has a remote, with two buttons – one for you, and one for Pepper.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I say honestly.

  Barb beams at me. “I certainly thought so. Now, any other questions?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll have my assistant fax you over a contract as soon as you’re back in Vegas,” Barb continues. “And you should be very proud – the fact that you’re going to star on a show will likely mean a huge increase in business for your restaurant. Just think of what the History Channel did for Pawn Stars.”

  “I hadn’t even thought of that, but that’s awesome. It’s a two-fer.”

  “Yes.” Barb gets to her feet and shakes my hand again. Her assistant shows me out of her office, and Lisa calls a cab for me to take back to the hotel.

  “Congratulations,” Lisa beams. “Say, if you’re free later, feel like going out to dinner? Los Angeles is full of really great restaurants. I could take you to one of my favorites.”

  Somehow, I don’t think only dinner is on the menu tonight. Now that I’m going to be a famous Food Network star, I have a feeling this is going to happen all the time.

  “Thanks, but I’ve already got plans to meet up with an old friend who lives here,” I lie.

  Disappointment colors her expression into dejection as I climb into the backseat of a cab and give the driver the address of the hotel. Thinking about going out with a hot little PA doesn’t even appear on my radar, because I can’t wait to get back to the hotel and call Claude to see how things went in my absence.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I groan. The Armónico’s main line. I haven’t even been gone for twenty-four hours. I pick it up and slide open the call. I can’t believe he already managed to fuck something up.

  “What is it, Claude?” I ask in a tired voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s me,” Nixon says. He clears his throat. “Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Hell, yeah. I won the audition – I’m going to have my own Food Network show!”

  “That’s great, Carter,” Nixon says, his tone not changing. “But I’m actually calling about something else.”

  “Shit.” I press the heel of my hand against my temple. “What did Claude do? What happened?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nixon replies. I think I heard a sigh rip through the line. “The restaurant’s been running like a well-oiled machine. I’m calling about the skunk situation.”

  “Oh yeah?” My sinuses burn at the memory. “Do you have proof it was Pepper? Can we sue her?”

  “What? No,” Nixon snaps. “How could you even think that Pepper St. Claire would do something like that? She’s world renowned. Three fucking Michelin stars mean anything to you? I had Reagan look into it, and it looks like the shipment came from a shell company owned by none other than our favorite resident douche bag, Dante Giovanetti.”

  The news hits me like a punch in the gut. The need to put my head between my legs and inhale overtakes me. What have I done? “What did you say?”

  “I said that Dante was responsible for the skunks in Steakhouse,” Nixon repeats. “I should’ve known – he’s been gunning for me for years. Look, Carter, I really owe you an apology. I was so mad that I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  I can’t even think a rational thought within my tortured mind. All I can see in front of me is Pepper St. Claire’s face – that look of horror and betrayal on her petite features when I stormed into the kitchen at Sakana like a full-on wackjob and accused her of trying to ruin my life.

  “Carter? Are you there?”

  I should have known. I should have stopped to take a breath and a beat before flying off the handle.

  I’m a first-class, piece of shit, asshole. She’ll never forgive me. And I don’t deserve forgiveness anyway.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. The cab slows to a stop in front of my hotel, and I reach into my wallet and hand the driver a hundred-dollar bill without even thinking about it. All I want is to escape and be alone to lick my wounds and determine a strategy to move forward. The next food on my menu is going to be crow. I hope it turns out delicious since it’s going to be my main meal for the next fifty years.

  “You okay?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say distractedly. The truth is the exact opposite – of course I’m not okay. But he doesn’t know that, and I’m not going to tell him.

  “Listen, I know it sucks. Dante strikes again,” Nixon continues. “The lengths he will go to continue to astound me. But I’ve got Reagan watching him around the clock now, and the next time he pulls something so ridiculously petty and illegal, I’m going to send his fat Italian ass to a federal prison. I don’t care how many state and city officials he has in his back pocket. He’ll make a fatal mistake. He has to.”

  Nixon’s words seem to go in one ear and out the other. My heart thumps, and my damp palms rest on my thighs. I feel like walking up to the brick façade of my hotel and pounding my head against it. Severe pain would be more welcome than the way these rivers of regret and shame flow through me.

  “Look,” I say. “I just got back to the hotel, I’m going to have to call you later.”

  “Okay. Congrats on the show, bro,” he says, more warmly this time. “Are you coming back today? We’ll have to grab Reagan and Ford and celebrate.”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “I take it the show is going to be filming in Los Angeles?”

  “Shit, you know, I hadn’t even thought about that,” I say, frowning. “But yeah, the show is going to film here. Don’t worry about it, Nix. Even though sometimes it doesn’t seem that way, Claude is more than capable of running Steakhouse. I’m also getting a really talented intern from the culinary school in town to help out.”

  Now that I think about it, so is Pepper.

  “It’s going to be a hard task to find someone who’s even half as talented as you are,” he says. “I’m proud of you, baby brother. You’ve really knocked this one out of the park. I knew you were talented the first time you made a chocolate soufflé without it falling into a pile of batter. Mom was so tickled.”

  On a normal day, Nixon’s praise would leave me singing and dancing. But right now, I don’t feel anything but shame and anger at myself for being such a dick. I can’t believe it. Pepper is the best woman I’ve ever met – little fish fetish aside – and
I’ve acted like a savage cad.

  “Thanks,” I say. “We’ll talk later.”

  I hang up my phone and slide it into my pocket as I walk into the hotel lobby. It’s buzzing and crowded with people, and I have to push my way up to the concierge.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yeah,” I say, leaning on the desk. “Can I get Pepper St. Claire’s room number?”

  The woman gives me a scathing look. “Sir, it’s against our policy to release the room numbers of our valued guests – is Ms. St. Claire expecting you? I could ring her for you.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “She’s definitely not expecting me.”

  The woman frowns. “Then I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to release her information. Again, would you like me to call her and ask if she’d be comfortable meeting you in the lobby? Would that work?”

  For a moment, I entertain the idea. Pepper comes down to the lobby, ready to smack me across the face. But there’s no way I can break down in front of all these people and confess that I’ve been an asshole – there’s no way to guarantee that Pepper would even hear me out before whirling around and giving me a view of her delectable backside. And I hate to admit it, but I’m deeply ashamed of my actions. There’s no way I can get down on my knees and tell her the truth – she’ll probably never forgive me.

  And to be honest, I don’t know which option hurts worse.

  “Sir?” The concierge’s words pull me out of my frantic haze. “Would you like me to dial her room?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Thanks, though.”

  The woman says something, but her words barely register as I walk to the bay of elevators and wait for a free one. My own vile words keep running through my head – all of the insults I’ve hurled at Pepper, all of the times I’ve told her that she was a crazy bitch.