UNWRITTEN
Copyright 2017 © Karen Hamilton
All Rights Reserved.
Cover design by Kiki Hamilton
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Gaslamp Books
New York Seattle London
Also by Kiki Hamilton:
The Faerie Ring Series:
The Faerie Ring
The Torn Wing
The Seven Year King
The Faerie Queen
The Midnight Spy Series:
The Midnight Spy
The Last Dance
To the handsome young lawyer
I shared a cab with
in Chicago, November 2011,
who told me many details of his life
but never mentioned his name—
Thanks for the inspiration.
Chapter One
So many heads turned when they came through the door it was as if a stiff breeze had rippled through the restaurant. And it wasn’t like people glanced and looked away—no, their gazes lingered until curiosity got the better of me and I had to look.
They stood in the entry, a few steps above the dining area, waiting to be seated, giving the rest of us the opportunity to gaze upon their perfection. Without a doubt, they were the most beautiful people in our very expensive restaurant—and in Manhattan, that was saying something.
He wore a black suit with a crisp white shirt open at the neck. His black hair was combed straight back and white teeth flashed in an easy smile. She was his evil twin: model-gorgeous with pencil-thin legs that were… well…. pencil-thin and clad in skin-tight black leather pants as if she’d just strutted off the catwalk in those five-inch red Louboutin’s she was wearing. Even from across the room I could tell she was pissed.
“Alexis,” Nandini growled in my ear, “what da hell are you doing?” The rolled r’s of her Indian accent made her words sound warm and inviting instead of the curse they were intended to be. “Are you trying to burn d’ose two to death with your eyes? Get back to your customers. Table five wants another bottle of champagne.”
I snapped off a salute, but my gaze was drawn back to them like a compass to magnetic north. I tried to tell myself my curiosity was a learning device— ‘character study’ was how I liked to think of it, but it was also possibly a small personality flaw. I watched as he slid his hands into his pockets and smiled at his date, a dimple flashing on one side. He had a throwback glamour that was different—a Frank Sinatra kind of cool. What was his story? He might look perfect but everybody had a flaw. I’d learned that the hard way. What was his?
Nandini shoved me so hard I almost catapulted into table eight’s foie gras, but luckily, she grabbed my arm and yanked me back upright.
“Dammit, Lexie, can you not see dat dey see you staring?” Her voice was definitely not as warm and inviting this time. “What is wrong with you? Richard will flip his kettle if he sees you eyeballing a customer like dat.” Her accent always got a little thicker when she was upset. “Go to da kitchen, now.” She gave me one more shove for good measure then glided past and stopped to greet a table, her voice once more sweet and inviting, like cinnamon honey. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Delacroix. So nice to see you tonight.”
I gave a mental shrug as I hurried toward the kitchen to check on my orders. What did I care about the filthy wealthy? They were a dime a dozen in New York City. They had nothing to do with me—in more ways than one. I should spend my time being curious about people like Charlie Fitz, the owner of the corner pub who kept asking me to come by for a beer. That was more my speed.
I plucked my dinners for table two from the warming shelf and backed through the swinging door just as Chelsi came in.
“Lex, you’ve got customers being seated at seven.”
“Okay, thanks.” I was covering two tables for Mandy, who was off tonight, plus my own five tables. If they’d seated seven, that meant my tables were full and I’d need to run my ass off to keep up, but that was okay. Life was expensive in New York City and the one year I’d been granted by my parents since I’d graduated from college to ‘make it’ in my dream career, (which was not waitressing), was almost up. I didn’t even want to go home for Christmas in two weeks because I knew I was going to get the ‘come home and get a real job’ talk from my mom and dad.
“Here you are.” I stopped at table two to deliver the exquisitely arranged plates. Antoine’s on Madison didn’t serve food, we served art. I placed the first plate in front of the middle-aged woman with silver-white hair who wore six strands of pearls. “Pan roasted lobster with charred baby leeks reduced in a lobster-lemongrass broth, perfectly balanced with a sea bean and mango salad.”
She nodded and smiled—my sign to place the next plate. With a flourish, I swiveled the other plate to properly position it before the middle-aged man with a paunch who had six strands of hair on his head. I mentally cataloged him for future reference. “And for you, sir, crispy duck breast and snow peas nestled in a sour cherry sauce.” Wait for the smile—and go—off to table five.
I waved the wine steward over with the champagne I’d ordered and raised the bottle high to pour a waterfall of pale golden bubbles into their fresh glasses. They don’t call it bubbly for nothin’. Checked to see how the salads tasted at table three, (delicious) confirmed that the plates at six had been cleared and did they want another drink before their chocolate mille-feuille arrived (yes, of course) then whirled around to face my new guests at seven—and froze.
Beauty (and I didn’t mean her) and the Beast were seated in my section. Handsome did not do this guy justice. I smiled, but from the pinched look on the girl’s face it was obvious smiling wasn’t going to fix whatever had pissed her off.
“Welcome to Antoine’s on Madison. My name is Alexis and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with something from our tasting bar?”
I’m not sure what instinct made me use my British accent—my mother was from London and my father from Seattle so I grew up immersed between two linguistic worlds: American nose-speak and the Queen’s English. As a result, I tended to have a bit of an accent anyway, but in times of doubt I fully reverted to Mum’s world and pretended I’m wasn’t just a schleppy waitress dreaming of being a writer.
His gaze flicked to my face and for a moment I thought I saw curiosity. He turned to his date. “Simone, would you like a glass of chardonnay?”
Up close, they were younger than I’d originally thought—closer to my age of twenty-two—and even better looking than from a distance. Her china-doll skin (no nose-freckle affliction like some of us) was flawless, complemented by protruding collar bones and a sultry pout.
“Oliver, you know I don’t want wine.” She had an accent too. French, perhaps. (What else?) “Of course, I want an Angry Bear.”
A loud snort escaped my delicate nostrils and I hurriedly adjusted my features into a properly serious expression and nodded. “Of course.” Sarcasm was my flaw. I couldn’t seem to squelch my reactions, no matter how hard I tried. Nandini, with her ancient Indian wisdom, always told me that someday I would wish I’d bitten my tongue off instead.
Oliver raised his head to look at me—I mean, really look at me—and his eyes narrowed in a way that could only be described as evaluating.
“And Oliver, make it a double.” His date spoke to him as if I was invisible, leaning into him and putting her hand on his cheek to turn his head back toward her so he had to gaze into her evil eyes. “We’re supposed to be celebrating.”
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Oliver slid his free arm around Simone’s bony shoulders and turned back to me, a subtle challenge in his eyes. “Two Angry Bears, please. Doubles.”
“Of course.” I clicked my heels together and strode away grinding my teeth. Beauty and the Beast meant nothing to me and I was invisible to them. We didn’t breathe the same air. But manipulative women and men stupid enough to fall for them brought out the worst in me. Nandini told me I had repressed anger over an old boyfriend from college that I needed to deal with and maybe she was right, because if I was honest with myself, (which I tried to avoid whenever honesty was painful… another flaw?) that old boyfriend was the other reason I didn’t want to go home.
IT WAS AN exceptionally busy night and the Beast was high maintenance. She seemed to take special pleasure in giving orders to Oliver to give to me. “Oliver, tell her I want lemon and cucumber in my water. Ask her why the shasimi and caviar aren’t together. Did you ask her to order another round?”
On the other end of the spectrum, Oliver spent a lot of time looking at his phone, not asking for anything. Even as I rushed from table to table I found my eyes drawn back to him like a fly stuck to fly paper. More than once, Simone caught me looking at her date, which seemed to inspire her to order Oliver to order me to do something else for her.
In between the Beast’s demands I raced back and forth between my other tables hoping our manager, Richard, (who could shrivel someone with just a glance), wouldn’t notice that long wavy strands of hair had sprung free around my temples and were no longer cemented into place behind my head as per the wait staff dress code. I’d had to sign a letter of understanding and compliance about the code when they’d hired me. Clearly, they didn’t understand that my hair had a mind of its own.
I want a different dressing. Get this. Bring me that. The Beast was relentless. I had one table too many tonight and I knew exactly which one should be eliminated. My temper was beginning to fray faster than my summertime blue jeans so it was with immense relief that I finally delivered Oliver and Simone their main course: dover sole with almond-pistachio-barberry golden basmati and brown-butter tamarind vinaigrette for him and for her: special request (of course) pan roasted filet mignon with wild mushrooms and mole sauce.
I placed the plates and put my hands behind my back and tried to surreptitiously blow the strand of hair that was hanging over one eye out of the way.
“Does everything meet with your satisfaction—” my breath stuck in my throat as the table candles illuminated his eyes that were the most extraordinary shade of blue— “sire?”
Wait a minute. What did I just say? I’d said sir but it definitely came out sounding like sire. He pressed his lips together and I swear he snorted. (Perhaps sarcasm was his flaw, too?) My heart started to race as color flooded my cheeks. My head became so light I thought it might float away like a giant balloon. I took one step back—debating whether I should run for it or wait for his date’s response. But she had her head tipped back draining her third Angry Bear, oblivious to the art before her.
Oliver nodded toward his plate, one side of his mouth still twitching. “This looks wonderful, thank you.”
That was all I needed to bolt.
RICHARD STOPPED ME as I raced to hide in the kitchen.
“Alexis,” he said very softly so only I could hear, “please attend to your hair. You’re not adhering to the code.” Then he sailed on, like a silent, but very deadly ship in the night. I tucked my unruly hair back into the bun behind my head as I waited by the warming shelf for my next round. Sire?
“Alexis, what are you muttering about?” Nandini asked as she joined me. “You are acting so strange tonight.”
I fanned myself with one of the starched white napkins. “I am serving the queen bitch and her evil consort and they are a total nightmare.”
Nandini leaned closer. “Like normal, I have no idea what you are rambling on about but do you know who dat is at table seven?”
I paused in my fanning. A warning prickled along the back of my neck. “No. Who?”
“It’s Simone Bouchard.” Nandini whispered. “She just signed a four million dollar deal to be da new face of Chanel.”
My stomach did a slow roll. The Beast really was a model? And a supermodel, at that. It wasn’t fair! “How could you possibly know that?” I hissed.
“Her picture was all over Page Six this morning.” She reached for her next two plates. “You should try reading da papers. Especially when you work—”
A piercing scream silenced the loud buzz of conversation that filled the restaurant. Nandini’s brown eyes went round as two quarters. “What da hell was dat?”
There was only one person I could think of who could (and would) scream like that in this restaurant. Before I could answer, the Beast shrieked, “Oh my God! That girl’s hair is in my dinner!”
Chapter Two
Simone held up the long strand of hair drenched in mole sauce for everyone to see before she shrieked for the manager. He arrived and politely let Simone vent before he whisked the plate away. I could tell by the look on his face that heads would roll as soon as he got away from Simone and I was pretty sure I knew which head.
I shoved my plate toward Simone. “Try this fish—it’s delicious and I’m full.” I scooted my chair back. “Excuse me for just a moment.” I hurried after the manager hoping to derail what I was sure was about to happen. Though the hair in the food was disgusting, it wasn’t worth firing someone over.
As I neared the open doorway where the manager had disappeared, I could hear him speaking in a low, angry tone and I stopped, hesitant to barge into an employee area and interrupt.
“Alexis, we have a code here that must be maintained. You signed an—”
“But I thought they were more like guidelines!”
I pressed my lips together to hold back my laughter. “You are fired, Miss West.” The manager’s voice practically sizzled with anger.
“But—”
“Take your things and leave the premises. We will mail your check.”
“Richard, I was joking. You know—trying to lighten the mood. I need this job.”
“No Alexis, I’m afraid your future is not with Antoine’s.”
Before I could move, our waitress stormed around the corner and stopped short as I blocked her path. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears but that didn’t dilute the look of pure hatred she shot me before she dodged to the left and ran from the room.
THE MANAGER OF the restaurant was extremely gracious but also extremely unyielding.
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Beckett, but we have standards here at Antoine’s to which we must adhere and Miss Bouchard is a valued customer. Please—” he put his hand out and led me back to my table— “allow us to comp your meal and please accept my most sincere apology.” He bowed and I had no choice but to take my seat and wonder what would happen to the girl we’d just gotten fired.
SIMONE WAS DRUNK by the time we got in the car. She poured herself a glass of champagne and I had to steady her hand so she wouldn’t slop the contents on my suit as she leaned against me, giggling.
“Taught her a lesson, didn’t I?”
“Who’s that?” I was tired and the night’s events hadn’t sat well with me. Simone was a client of our firm even though she lived in France part of the year. Almost twelve months had passed since she’d requested that I be her escort to the many publicity events she attended around New York when she was in town.
It made sense. We were close to the same age and our law firm represented her. But what had started as a business arrangement had shifted into a gray area between business and personal. I’d been encouraged to encourage her and she’d made it clear she enjoyed my company and wanted to take things further. Simone could be fun when she wasn’t ‘on’ for the paparazzi who loved to follow her, and her celebrity opened doors that would otherwise be firmly shut in my face. But she was also self-centered and often high-maintenance. So far I’d been unwill
ing to make the kind of live-together commitment she wanted and we’d argued about it again tonight before we’d arrived at the restaurant.
“That uppity waitress.”
I stilled, bracing myself. “What are you talking about?”
Simone giggled again as she reached up and pulled the band free that held her hair in place behind her head. A wave of long black hair washed forward over her shoulder. “Did you really think that was her hair in my dinner?” With a jerk of her wrist, Simone pulled a strand of hair from her head and held it out for me to see. “Oh my God,” she mimicked, “that girl’s hair is in my dinner!” She laughed as she released the hair to let it drift to the floor of the car.
I leaned away and looked at her. “You put your own hair in your dinner? Why?”
Simone shrugged and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Because I didn’t like the way she looked at you, Oliver. You are mine, cherie and no one else can have you.”
Chapter Three
“I need a straight shot.” I dropped my purse on the bar at Fitz’s and climbed onto the wooden stool, still reeling in disbelief that Richard had actually fired me. Money had been tight before—now what was I going to do? I was headed home for Christmas in two weeks and my parent’s faces telling me to come home and get a real job haunted my thoughts like unwelcome ghosts. I was doomed—I had no way to justify my existence here anymore.
The owner, Charlie Fitz, was working the bar and he laughed as he grabbed a beer glass and poured me a glass of Northeast Dark Ale, the pale foam on top a nice contrast to the dark, caramel color of the beer.
“We’re a brew pub, West, not a liquor store. We only sell the beer we brew.” Brown hair, green eyes and a smattering of Irish freckles, his was a face that knew no strangers. Anybody that walked into the pub was his friend and he had a smile and an ear for everyone. Four or five years older than me, he and a couple of college buddies had started a microbrewery over in Jersey straight out of college and in the last year had expanded their business to include this corner pub in lower Manhattan, which had become a popular watering hole for the locals. “Tell me what happened.”
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