by Lexi Blake
Her mom reached up, touching her for the first time in years. “Look at me and if you don’t ever believe a word I say, you believe this: I am proud of you. I am so proud of you. Baby, if you want to stay here and find yourself, at least let me help. Let me upgrade your hand. They tell me it’s not very high tech. Can I please do that? You think what I do is shallow, but it has meaning to me if I can I help my daughter.”
If she upgraded her hand, she would likely be able to do more with it. Not everything. It wouldn’t be perfect. She wouldn’t be perfect. What was the point if she couldn’t be…
If she couldn’t be the perfect vision of who she’d been before, it wasn’t worth even trying?
Adaptation. She hadn’t been trying to adapt. She’d been trying to hide.
“I went into the water,” she heard herself saying. “I did it knowing I could die, Mom. I didn’t want to die. I just knew I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to save them.”
“Yes, my darling. That’s why I’m begging you to forgive me. I was the weak one. I was scared and instead of talking it out with you, I tried to control you. Instead of trying to understand, I punished you.”
But it was her fault, too. She’d skipped her mom’s calls, and slowly but surely the days had gotten away from her. It got easier and easier to sit back and make excuses for why she didn’t have to try. She’d moved to Dallas because she’d known no one would look at her with sympathy and talk about the good old days when she’d had two hands.
What had Suzanne said? There was a gift in everything. That people who had gone through a trial knew who they were.
She’d been trying to find herself. She’d gone into that water a woman who didn’t back down, who helped the people around her, who fought for what she wanted.
Because her mother had taught her never to back down.
She’d come out too afraid to even try in case she failed and proved her mother right.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Something opened inside her, some piece of her she’d thought long buried.
Her mother rushed in, hugging her tight. “No. I’m sorry. I love you, baby, and that means supporting you even when I think you’re wrong. I’ve missed you, Juliana. I’ve missed you like I missed a piece of my soul.”
She held her mother for the longest time and when they sat back down, they finally did what they should have done that day so long ago. They talked.
An hour later, she waved as her mom’s limo rolled out. They’d said all the things they should have said and the deep breach between them had started to heal.
So why was she so fucking angry?
Why was the rage stirring inside her?
She sat back down, the moon high above offering illumination to the small space.
The door opened and Macon walked out, a trash bag over his shoulder. He stepped gingerly down the stairs, something he would likely do for the rest of his life because he only had one leg.
Yet there he was walking along because she was wrong. He had two legs. One was natural. One wasn’t.
“Hey, Jules,” Macon said, nodding her way. “I thought you’d left.”
She spent all her time bemoaning her fate. Pretending that she wasn’t bemoaning her fate, really. She played a damn good game. She put on a happy face and deflected all those pesky questions about what she would do with the rest of her life.
She said she wanted to find herself. Well, she was learning that sometimes that didn’t happen in some fun, Hollywood, get-an-education, see-the-world-and-magically-land-where-you-should way.
No. Sometimes it happened with blood and sacrifice and loss. Sometimes the person we figured we were wasn’t the one we wanted to be.
But she could change that. She could fight that. She’d never allowed her mother to choose who she would be, what she would be, and yet she was sitting here allowing a circumstance to do the very same thing. Put her in a box. But there was one thing she knew—boxes could be busted open.
“Jules, are you okay?”
She looked up. For a moment she’d forgotten Macon was there. “Do we still have onions?”
Macon stepped back from the trash bin. “Uh, we usually have a bag lying around. I know Javier went to the farmer’s market this morning.”
She stood up, her heart pounding. It was an onion. A stupid onion. She could beat an onion. “Good.”
Jules turned and walked up the stairs and into the kitchen, her whole being focused on one task. One task that she was going to master. One perfect dice.
The kitchen was quiet but Javi, Sebastian, and Chef Taggart were talking quietly in the back. One of those men would have what she needed.
Tiffany walked through the double doors, menus in hand. She stopped, obviously surprised to see her. “Hey, I thought you’d left.”
“I need a knife.” She didn’t want to make small talk. She had to do this now or never.
Tiffany’s eyes widened. “I…you…I don’t know that a knife is the solution to your problems right now.”
“Jules?” a familiar voice asked.
She turned and Javier was standing there. “I need a knife.”
He didn’t hesitate. He got his kit and rolled it out. “What type, sweetheart?”
“Are we sure about this? Sean, have you looked at her? You’re the one who’s always pointing out the crazy eyes,” Macon said, walking in behind her.
“The chef’s knife,” Jules replied.
Sean shook his head Macon’s way. “No. I’m not sure about anything except I’d like to see what happens next. Sometimes crazy is the only way things get done. Let her have it.”
Javier passed her his beautifully kept chef’s knife. The handle felt a little odd in her right hand. She was so used to it in her left that it sent a wave of melancholy through her. Fuck it. She would always miss her damn hand but she couldn’t let it hold her back.
She’d learned it once. She could fucking learn it again. One door had closed and another had opened. She could choose to walk through the open one, to have another life. It would be an easy thing to do. Or she could bust that closed motherfucker down and take the life she’d always wanted.
“I need an onion.” She turned, knowing without a doubt that Javier would provide one for her. He would find one here or he would go out and scour the damn city until he could bring one back to her. Because he was that kind of man. The kind she could count on. The kind she could build a life with if she only believed she was worthy.
There it was. The cutting board built for her because there was zero question in her mind that this hadn’t been one of Javier’s plans. He’d been trying to ease her into practicing, into taking back this part of her life. There was no one-armed chef coming in. There was only one of those at Top, and she had to prove herself. She had to do the work all over again. Start at the bottom and work her way up. And she would do it because this life was worth it. Because he was worth it.
“Here you go.” Javier had a bag of plain white onions. There had to be thirty in there. They were likely meant for some ceviche or to flavor a sauce on the menu. It would be selfish to ruin them as she was likely to.
She took the first one because sometimes she had to be a little selfish.
“Let me show you, sweetheart,” Javier said.
Chef stepped in. “No, she’s not your sweetheart here and now. She’s a chef and she’s gotta learn.” Sean Taggart stared at her, as intimidating as any master chief she’d ever had to face down. “I want a medium chop on that onion and you will not leave your station until I am satisfied with your performance. Am I clear?”
Fucking military men. What the hell would she do without them? He was giving her a shot. “Yes, sir.”
“Proceed.”
No one was going to baby her. No one was going to help. Not this time. Later they would be all about family and friends and pitching in, but this first time it had to be her. She had to stand on her own two feet and acknowledge that while her world had changed, she could hold fast to what mattere
d.
She could find herself. She could know who she was. She could choose who she wanted to be.
A badass bitch who wouldn’t let a damn onion beat her.
This was what Javier had been doing. He hadn’t learned it all to try to show her up or be better than she was. He’d learned it because he loved her and wanted to know what she went through. He’d tried to force her today because he’d known she would never be happy without this.
She used the prosthetic to stabilize the onion and started to cut it in half.
It flew out of her fake hand and tumbled to the floor.
Everyone was watching her. She would look like a fool.
Or she would look like a fighter.
Juliana leaned over and picked up the onion and began again.
Onion number three. Jules winced as she damn near sliced off her prosthetic thumb. She looked around at the wide-eyed crowd. “No blood. No foul. I’m fun to play with.”
Onion number ten and the tears were rolling down her eyes. An hour and she’d barely managed a shit cut on the fuckers. She’d ruined ten of them, and everyone was still there. Still standing silent and watching. Her audience. She made the side cut and split this one, cracking it.
Onion number fourteen. Her hand was going numb. This was stupid. Her mother had offered to buy her a high-tech new hand and once she’d mastered that she might not even need the stupid cutting board. She groaned, her lower back aching as she made the mid cut. Not too thin. Not too thick. She had to get it right or the onion would fall apart when she started to chop it.
Onion number seventeen. Jules stepped back, presenting the veg to Chef.
Sean stared down. “Do you call that a medium chop? Would you want huge chunks of onion in your soup?”
She bit back a groan and tossed it all in the garbage.
Onion twenty-three.
Two o’clock in the morning and Ally was asleep on Macon’s lap, her head resting against her husband’s chest. Javier looked grim as he took the second to last onion out of the bag and passed it to her.
“You know Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he said.
“Chopping an onion isn’t building a city,” Sean shot back. “Do you think I want to be here at two in the morning? I do not. But I will stand here until she shows me a medium chop. She’s not done.”
She was. She wanted to cry because she was so fucking tired. Her eyes were dry from the fumes. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to throw that damn onion in Chef’s face and let Javier carry her home.
But she wasn’t about to let Taggart beat her. No fucking way was she giving in. He thought he could stand there all night, well, she could show him.
Which, she believed, was exactly his point.
Press down. Hold. Center cut.
Press down. Traction. Begin midline cuts. Easy and slow because she wasn’t good with this hand yet, but, oh, she could be. She felt it now. Even when her every muscle wanted to give in, she could feel the habits reforming. Time. Effort. Work.
All even cuts. As uniform as could be. She started from the outside now and worked her way in until it was done. Until she had a beautiful pile of onions, ready to be used in one of the finest restaurants in town.
She turned to her boss.
Chef looked down and picked through the pile, looking for pieces that were too big or too small. He finally nodded. “Juliana, you’re fired.”
“What?” Javier said, his shoulders straightening as he stood up.
But she knew what Chef was doing and her eyes weren’t dry anymore. Everything hurt in the best way possible. “Yes, sir. When do I start my new job, sir?”
“Tomorrow. You’ll do the prep work for me and Javier. I’ll leave you with a list of what we’ll need. When you’re done prepping our dishes, you’ll work on salads the rest of the night. We’ll give it a few months and see where it goes.” Sean put his hands on her shoulders. “And welcome to Top, Jules. You always belonged here. You simply needed to prove it to yourself.”
Tiffany smiled as she popped open a bottle of champagne.
Ally sat straight up, her eyes flying open. “Did she kill the onion?”
Macon put an arm around his wife. “She killed it good, babe. Now we’re having champagne.”
“Ah, I woke up for the fun part,” Ally said with a smile.
This was her new family and they’d stayed to support her, to celebrate with her. But she really only needed one more thing to make the night complete. A kiss from her man.
“I’m happy for you, Jules.” Javier gave her a smile and started to step back. “You’re going to be a great member of the team.”
She frowned even as she was given her glass.
It looked like her fight wasn’t over yet.
Chapter Ten
Javier walked alongside her, his whole soul sagging. He knew he should be elated. It had worked. She’d done it and she’d done it in spectacular fashion. This was exactly what he’d wanted for her all along.
But it was hard to be happy because she wouldn’t be his. She would be in the kitchen now, closer than ever, and never more far away from him.
He opened the door to the building, allowing her to walk in first. “After you.”
She walked past him, a tired smile on her face. “Thanks for giving me a ride.”
“Of course.”
It was past late. The lobby was completely silent and he could see Harold busy napping in the back. He needed to find a place with better security. He needed to find a new place, period, because living close to Jules and not being able to have her was going to be hell. She needed to focus on her career. She needed to be safe, and being around Rafe wasn’t safe.
What the hell was he going to do about Rafe? Besides talk to him and ask him flat out what he was doing. If Rafe lied, he would go through his brother’s things. It wasn’t fair, but he had to know. If his brother was in trouble, he needed to find a way to get him out.
“So are we not going to talk anymore?” She settled her duffel bag over her shoulder. He’d asked if he could carry it for her, but she’d been stubborn. Sometime before they’d left she’d gone into the locker room and taken off her prosthetic, slipping it into a bag she kept in her locker for such an occasion.
“What do you mean? We’ve been talking the whole way home.” They’d talked about the menus for the next week, what they would need, how she would adapt the board to be able to properly prep each veg. She’d talked about getting a new arm with a more technologically cutting-edge hand. Her mother was helping her pay for it.
How long would it be before her mother realized Jules could run her kitchens? How long before she snatched her daughter back?
“I meant are we going to talk about us?” Jules asked.
He sighed and started down the hall. “I thought we decided that earlier tonight, Jules. There’s nothing left to talk about. I meant what I said. I’m not going to hurt you anymore. The truth is I’m not good at commitment.”
He’d wondered if she would be on a high from the night and want to revisit that particular subject. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it before. Women sometimes came looking for him because they’d gotten a promotion or done something they’d only dreamed of, and they went to a club, high on the adrenaline and pride, and looked for someone to celebrate with. A little present to themselves. He hadn’t minded then. It had been a fun game, and hey, if a lady wanted a prize, he could give her one.
It wasn’t a game with Jules.
“You aren’t good at commitment?” Jules asked.
This was what he’d come up with. He would give her the truth. It was what he should have done in the first place, but he hadn’t been honest with himself, either. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I have quite the reputation.”
“Getting bored already?” There was a suspicious tone to her voice.
He stopped in front of the elevator. It would be the best way to cut the ties between them. He could look her straight in t
he eyes and tell her he wasn’t getting what he needed sexually, that he couldn’t imagine living the rest of his life with only one sex partner.
He couldn’t do it. Not only was he a shitty liar, he couldn’t look at her and willfully make her heart ache.
“Of course not.” How to make her understand? “It’s not about the sex. I think I’ve made it clear how much I enjoy making love to you. I’m not good at relationships. I haven’t had many, and the ones I have been in didn’t last for long. I wish it could be different, but it’s not, and that’s obvious to me.”
And he’d fumbled with her. He’d pushed her when he shouldn’t, stepped back when he should have taken control. He was a mess when it came to her.
“Awesome,” she replied, pressing the button to go up. “I was worried it was something serious. I’ve got a solution for you, babe. Try harder. I think that was your advice to me and it worked perfectly.” She breezed into the elevator and turned, leaning against the back wall and giving him a sultry smile. “I’m sure you’ll work it out. Until then, try to think of our intimate time together as playing. If you need boundaries, we’ll talk about it. We’ll negotiate. That should get you through the rough first part.”
He hopped on before the doors closed, knife set in his hand. It was rolled up and tied. He’d already thought about getting one for Jules. She needed a new one, one that was personally hers, used and taken care of by her. He didn’t like the idea that she would have to use one of the restaurant’s sets. She should have the best. Perhaps he could convince her Top always welcomed a new chef with a thousand dollars’ worth of knives.
Yeah, she would buy that.
“What do you mean ‘rough’ part?” She wasn’t making a ton of sense, but then they both needed sleep.
“The part where you pretend you never said you loved me, never spent days and days practicing to cook with one hand. The part where you decide to let me go for my own good, but we still end up in bed together because I intend to be naked around you as often as possible and you’re not great with the self-control thing. That part.”