The sound of a hand slamming down on the desk made me jump. Sonya seemed to take it all in stride. “There’s nothing I can do, Lucas. Contact the police. Maybe one of them can escort you in to collect your things. I. Can’t. Help. You.”
I scrambled back in surprise when the office door whipped open and a twenty-something, skinny as a scarecrow man came barreling out of the office. He didn’t even notice me there, just kept stomping away, throwing the front door open and letting it slam into the wall as he stormed out. It took me a few seconds to recover from the whole incident.
Sticking my head into the office, I asked, “Everything okay?”
“Oh,” Sonya said with drooping shoulders, “just more of the usual insanity of this place.”
Not wanting to get involved at all, I changed the subject. “Did you get the batteries?”
Sonya’s whole being lit up with glee. She yanked open one of the desk drawers and grabbed out a handful of nine-volts. “Not the most common battery type, but I managed to scrounge up enough from the residents that we can get started.”
“What if they’re not low enough that the smoke detectors start making that annoying beeping sound?”
“Oh, it’ll work,” Sonya said with a laugh. “The toys and electronics these were in would barely even turn on. As soon as we pop one of these into the smoke detectors, residents will be calling Baxter nonstop until he gets it fixed.”
“And then we replace another one with a dead battery,” I laughed. Driving Baxter more insane had become my sole goal in life, and with Sonya’s help we were going to make this good. Of course, there was the slight concern that Baxter would figure out I was involved and his ridiculous temper would lead to me being the next body carted out of here by the police. I tried not to think about that as I took the batteries from Sonya.
“What time will you be home today?”
I ran through my schedule in my head. “Uh, I think my classes end at three today. I’ve got to start looking for a job soon, but we can get started on this first.”
Maybe accidentally flooding Baxter’s bathroom should have been enough as far as revenge went. I had a feeling that with Baxter, it would never be enough.
Rushing off after a quick goodbye to Sonya, I raced for the subway entrance. I nearly tripped over some guy sitting on the steps, or maybe he was sleeping there. It was hard to tell. I caught myself on the handrail, but then wished I had just taken the fall when my hand came away covered in gum. Staring at it in disgust, I cursed my luck. It could have only been stuck there a few minutes earlier to still be sticky. Of course I would grab the rail in that exact spot! Not knowing what else to do about my horrible luck, or the gum, I just held my hand out from my body and kept going. Being late on the first day of real classes probably wouldn’t make me stand out in a good way.
Getting through the turnstile was interesting with only one non-gum-covered hand, but I leapt onto the subway at the last minute, barely managing not to get my sweater caught in the doors. I got more than one weird look standing there with gum stuck all over my fingers, but I was too nervous about starting classes that I didn’t have much left to put toward focusing on it. It was a relief to get off the train and dash through the crowd toward sunlight again.
Of course, that didn’t solve the gum problem, but it did get me away from the smell of sweat and urine. I shivered. What a pleasant array of smells to be surrounded by on my way to culinary school. It seemed unlikely I’d be able to smell anything but the subway for at least a few hours.
Shortly after bursting into the campus building where I had classes that day, I spotted a bathroom and ran for it. Getting the gum off was more difficult than a simple handwashing, but I managed to scrape the mess off with paper towels and scrub away what was left with about a gallon of foaming soap. Knowing I was cutting it close had me sprinting from the bathroom to where I was pretty sure my first class was being held.
I barely stopped myself before slamming into the door. Haste made me sloppy and I yanked the door into my foot instead of open wide. The squeaking sound of my tennis shoe being shoved across the floor drew several heads to turn in my direction. Being shoved out of the way as someone barreled past me drew a few more.
“You’re in the wrong class,” the rude guy snarled.
“What?” I asked. Trying to right myself, I only got a chance to look at him once I peeled myself away from the wall. His coat and chef’s hat made me cringe. “I mean, what did you say, chef?” Was that right? Was that how I was supposed to address all the instructors?
Glaring down at me, the man jabbed a finger in my direction. “You are in the wrong class. Get out. This is International Cuisine, not Fundamentals. You have no business in this room.”
Glancing past him, I realized I didn’t recognize a single person from the previous day’s orientation. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I must have gotten turned around.”
He made a shooing motion before turning his back on me. A couple students snickered. One, a brunette girl who looked younger than me, covertly pointed me in the right direction before turning her attention to the angry chef taking up position at the front of the room. Offering a hasty smile, I ducked out of the room and ran in the direction she’d pointed. Still uncertain of where I was going, I was relieved to see the super tall guy who’d sat next to me during orientation. I picked up my pace and slid into the room behind him.
“I was wondering if we’d scared you two off, yesterday,” a less hostile voice said. He still seemed annoyed we were late, but at least wasn’t being an ass about it. “Find an empty station quickly. The rest of us are ready to begin and I won’t repeat myself if you miss instructions.”
Believing him, I hustled over to an empty prep station and dropped my backpack at my feet. A few seconds later I had a notepad and pen ready for notes. I knew this course would go over all the fundamentals of what a professional chef needed to know, but I wasn’t completely sure what to expect. Noticing that most of the other students were sitting on stools, I looked around and found mine in the alcove where I’d shoved my backpack. I pulled mine out and sat, glancing around for anything else I might have missed.
“How many of you have ever had food poisoning?” the chef asked. I tried to remember his name, in case I needed to address him, but came up blank. He looked around the room at the hands slowly raising. Mine shot up when I realized he was looking at me. Nodding, he motioned for everyone to put their hands down. “That is exactly what we want to avoid. Today’s lecture will focus on food safety and sanitation. You will be expected to keep your stations clean and safe. If you do not, you will not pass this class. Not making your patrons sick is an essential part of being a successful chef.”
I spent the next four hours taking notes on bacteria, temperature requirements in cooking and refrigeration, proper disposal and cleaning techniques, and horror stories that made me want to puke even without having food poisoning. By the time we broke for lunch, everyone’s appetite had been thoroughly ruined.
After pawing at a salad for an hour as I reviewed my notes, I checked my map and successfully made it to my next class. As soon as I walked in, I felt myself release a held breath. The cold kitchen class hadn’t sounded terribly interesting, as sandwich and platter production wasn’t flashy, but the smiling chef at the front of the classroom put me at ease.
“Good afternoon, class. I’m Chef Lauren Cadence. This class is going to focus on all the basic cold dishes you’ll be asked to prepare in many restaurants. Pattes and sandwiches may not sound all that exciting, but banquets and parties are a big part of catering as well as restaurant production. The right salad sets the stage for diners, and is often your first chance to impress a patron. I’m going to make sure you’re all capable of making that first impression a good one.”
She was still smiling as she launched into the finer points of garnishes. I thought I was going to finish out the day on a high note until she took us on a tour of the pantry. While discussing the intricacies
of choosing the right type of onions for a Sicilian salad, she looked around the shelf we were all standing in front of and put her hands on her hips.
“Where did all the Vidalia onions disappear to?” she demanded. “They were here yesterday.”
“Um, Chef,” the tall guy behind me said in a thick South American accent I couldn’t quite place, pointing above her head.
Chef Lauren was not a tall woman. The bag of onions perched on the top shelf were well beyond her reach. Huffing, she turned back to the guy who’d spoken up. “Raphael, right?”
He nodded, but hesitated. “I usually go by Rapha,” which he pronounced as Haffa, then explained, “It’s Brazilian. R’s make an H sound.”
Chef Lauren’s eyes lit up. “Brazil, huh? Wonderful culture for food. Perhaps you can share some recipes with us later. But for now…” She gestured at the onions. “Could you please get those down for me? They do not belong up there.”
Rapha, who was taller than anyone else in the class, easily had the reach to rescue the onions. He had them in hand, but as soon as the mesh bag left the shelf, half a dozen sweet onions came spilling out from a hole in the bag. I ducked, but I was standing right in front of Rapha, exactly below the bag of onions. The first one hit before I could react. The other five followed.
Somewhere in the middle of being pummeled by onions, I tried to step away. So did everyone else, which made me stumble, which put my foot directly on top of an onion, which was round, which rolled. I yelped as I fell, but it was either too comical, or too fast, for anyone to help me. Landing on my backside, and Rapha’s foot, I was too shocked to do anything but stare at the onions rolling around on the ground with me.
“Are you okay?” Chef Lauren asked. She was in my face a moment later, brushing onion skins out of my hair. “I am so sorry! I don’t know who’s been messing around in here, but I am definitely going to find out.”
She held a hand out for me and I took it about the time Rapha’s hands slipped under my arms. He did most of the lifting, almost toppling Chef Lauren when she tugged on my arm to help me up and found little resistance. The entire class was staring at me once I was back on my feet. In that close of a space, it freaked me out and I backpedaled right into Rapha. One hand gripped my hip to keep me from tripping over his foot, and the other one landed on my shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, sorry.” Blushing, I took a quick step away from him.
Taking charge and drawing attention away from me, Chef Lauren said, “I will have this all cleaned up by next class, and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” She muttered something under her breath that didn’t sound complimentary, but I didn’t catch who it was directed at. “We’ll wrap up a few minutes early today, but please look over the next section in your textbook. We’ll be working on prepping vegetables next class.”
Most of my classmates went straight for their stations to collect their backpacks. Rapha lingered, but that might have been because I was in his way. Before I could move, Chef Lauren was in front of me, apologizing and making sure the onions hadn’t done any real damage. I practically had to run away to escape her concern.
Hurrying out the door and into the hall, I fell against the wall and rubbed at my head. I wanted to go home, take a bath, and have a glass of wine. My plans to get back at Baxter pushed into my mind and I shoved away my wallowing until later. Revenge before dinner. Wine and a bath after.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” a voice asked, startling me into jumping.
Spinning in the direction of the voice, I tried to come up with an appropriate response. Words seemed a million miles away as I stared at him. I couldn’t even remember his name. Which was seriously a shame. I’d noticed him the day before. His dark blue eyes had never once met mine, and I would have bet he hadn’t even known I existed. One corner of his mouth turned up as he waited for a response.
“Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”
His smile grew. “Really? Because you look like you’ve got a headache from getting brained by onions.”
“Nothing aspirin or a strong drink can’t fix.”
“A drink,” he said as his dark eyes brightened. “I might be able to help with that. There’s a great pub not too far from campus. It’s a little early for dinner, but I didn’t eat much after Chef Harper’s disgusting lecture.”
Was he asking me out? Panic squeezed my entire body. Maybe a little excitement, too, but mostly panic. I hadn’t been on a date in, well, forever. This guy was definitely not unattractive, but his invitation scared me. Why was he interested? Entertainment? Attraction? Boredom? Grasping for a reason to tell him no, Baxter came back to mind.
“Maybe another time,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the relief in my voice. “I have to meet a friend in half an hour.”
I was pretty sure he thought I was lying. His teasing smile was more than enough of a clue. He stepped toward me. Panic took over then, and I flattened myself against the wall. I didn’t know what to do when his hand reached for my hair. He paused when I sucked in a breath and stopped breathing, smiling even wider at my reaction. He had to know he was freaking me out, but he closed the distance between us with another step.
“Before you meet your friend,” he said, his fingers gliding through my hair and sending a shiver down my spine, “you might want to get the rest of the onion skin out of your hair.” He pulled his hand back, offering several dried bits of the skin as proof. He chuckled at the blush racing across my face.
Maybe the blush told him I needed a little space. It might have been the fact that I still hadn’t taken a breath, too. Either way, he stepped back but kept his smile. I finally took another breath.
“I’m Sean, by the way.”
He offered his hand, though it seemed a little late to be so formal. Shaking it, I said, “Eliza.” I meant to shake briefly and break away, but the way he held my hand did something to me. His grip was gentle and strong at the same time. It felt something like safety, but not without a hint of danger in there somewhere. I found my hand still in his when we’d both stopped shaking.
“Eliza,” he mused. “I like that.” Slowly, his hand slipped from mine. “I’m going to hold you to that raincheck on dinner and a drink.”
“I, uh, okay.” My head felt fuzzy. Did I just agree to go out with him somehow?
Sean grinned. “This weekend?”
Now he wanted a firm date? Scrambling for a way out, even though I wasn’t sure I really wanted one, I latched onto the only valid excuse I had. “I don’t know. I’m trying to find a job this week.”
“A job?” He looked at me more closely. “You’re planning to work during the program?”
“I have to. I won’t be able to pay my rent if I don’t.”
Sean’s charm-oozing posture eased up for a moment as he considered this. “This program isn’t easy. Working, it will make it even more difficult. You might want to consider taking out student loans instead.”
“Is that what you did?” I asked as politely as I could manage. Like I needed him to tell me there were easier ways to get through school. I’d always known it was an option I might have to turn to, but not one I was eager to pursue. Checking out of modern society for five years didn’t exactly build credit. Getting a loan would mean finding a cosigner. I wouldn’t turn to my parents for help, ever. Bernadette would do it in a heartbeat, but she’d already done so much. Asking for more seemed ungrateful.
Nodding, Sean said, “Yeah. I have a lot riding on this program. I don’t want to screw it up working the night shift as a fry cook and having no time for homework or practice.”
He had a good point, but I wasn’t ready to give in quite yet. I shrugged, not really feeling the need to justify my decision to him. He seemed to think I was being intentionally difficult. Sighing, he took a pen from his pocket and grabbed my hand. Before I could ask him what he was doing, he was writing an address on my palm. A phone number followed.
Poking the palm of my hand, Sean said,
“If you’re intent on finding a job, try this place and tell Saul that I sent you.” His finger trailed across my skin, less antagonistic and more seductive. “And this, is my phone number. For this weekend.”
Swallowing hard, I nodded. I wasn’t sure if I was just acknowledging what he’d said or officially agreeing to a date. I mostly just hoped he’d leave me alone now so I could jumpstart my brain. Slowly, Sean did move back, smiling with each step.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Uh huh.”
Sean chuckled and I felt my face heat up. I needed to get out of here.
By the time I stepped off the subway and made it back up to ground level, I’d almost managed to put my encounter with Sean behind me. I intended to ask Sonya for advice as we swapped out batteries in the smoke detectors. Usually Bernadette would be my first choice for advice, but I knew what she would say. Don’t get involved. Focus on your classes. I knew she would be right, but a small not-as-frightened-as-I-should-have-been part of me didn’t want to listen and hoped Sonya would have something different to say.
All thoughts of dating crashed into one another as I turned onto my street and spotted another cop car in front of the building. It was just one this time, not a whole squad, but I felt my heart rate rise as I picked up my pace. When I reached the car, I found it empty and rushed into the building with a dozen questions on my lips.
Stymied when I found Sonya’s office door locked, I glanced around the lobby. It was surprisingly quiet. Figuring the next logical place to find both Sonya and the officer was upstairs in Ms. Sinclair’s apartment, I sprinted up the stairs two at a time. Hope that there hadn’t been any other murders was repaid with relief when I reached the second floor landing and saw Ms. Sinclair’s door partway open and the police tape pulled away on one side.
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