The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs

by Cat Kelly

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2013 Cat Kelly

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-241-8

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: JS Cook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Polly

  THE TRUTH ABOUT NUMBNUTS AND CHUBBS

  NYC Confidential, 1

  Cat Kelly

  Copyright © 2013

  Chapter One

  Perhaps turning her face up to the rain and screaming "Fuck!" wasn't going to solve her problem, but it felt good. It felt necessary. Even if, in the back of her head, she heard her mother exclaiming in shock that this was no way for a Chartered Accountant to behave. Yes, it was always capitalized when her mother said it.

  The cabby screwed his head around to yell through his safety window. "Hey, shut the door, lady, you're gettin' rain on the seat."

  Take a breath, Bry. Count to ten.

  She got to three. Almost. "I'll shut your damned door as soon as I get my heel out of this crack." Of course, he probably wouldn't care if he drove right over her foot. He just wanted to get on with his day and put her in his rearview mirror. A lot of people felt that way about her. It came with the job.

  Hands pressing on the roof of the cab for leverage, she tried again, but her stiletto heel was definitely stuck fast in a thin split in the tarmac.

  "Take your shoe off," the cabby suggested above the crackle of his radio.

  "And then what?" The distance to the canopied front of Leonato's restaurant behind her was at least twenty steps. The pavement was wet and filthy. And she had a thing about her feet getting cold. Probably something to do with her father storing his beer bottles in the end of her baby carriage on the way home from trips to the corner convenience store whenever he was left in charge.

  "Your feet ain't my problem, lady."

  "No, of course. How silly of me. You just sit there in your warm dry cab. Don't worry about it."

  "Ok." The cabbie cracked a smirk.

  Again she crouched to pull on her trapped shoe and while bent over the bubbling gutter, hard rain beating on her head and running down the back of her neck, she heard another male voice call out, "Can I get a ride to East 61st and fifth?"

  "Sure, if you can get Cinderella out of the drain."

  She looked up angrily, squinting as rain stung her eyes and probably washed off half her mascara. Unbelievable. Some guy actually meant to step over her and claim the cab. Gotta love New York.

  He'd already thrown a briefcase into the back of the cab and was looking down at his phone, thumbs working frantically. Apparently her presence had barely registered on his Richter scale. Why would it? She was not the type that warranted a glance in the street, let alone a second look from a man like him. Oh, she could sum him up in two seconds—the same amount of time it took him to dismiss her.

  But... wait just a goddamn minute.

  That face. That square chin. Those smiling, sensuous lips. The aquiline nose. Those dark, dark eyes.

  Bry's heart dropped, to be washed away in the gutter along with two dimes and a quarter that just fell from her coat pocket.

  This called for another "fuck". Sorry, ma.

  Swallowing a groan, she renewed the life and death battle with her uncooperative heel.

  "Excuse me," he said, somewhere above her. It wasn't an apology for being pushy, of course. It was his way of telling her to move.

  "Shoe's stuck," she hissed.

  "Perhaps you should take it off. The heel is broken now anyway."

  "Yes, it would seem a painfully obvious solution, wouldn't it?" she muttered at the ground. "But curiously I'd like to continue my day with two dry feet and both shoes. They do come in pairs for a reason." She bit her lip and kept struggling.

  "There's a tear in your shoulder," he added calmly. "At the seam."

  That would explain the ripping sound earlier and why her coat sleeve now felt loose. Oh, fabulous.

  Suddenly he hunkered down beside her. "Let me try."

  And there they were. Face to face after five years.

  "Miss Bryony Mulligan! As I live and breathe." Surprise flared bright in his eyes, but they quickly narrowed as a slow grin cracked across his face. "Chubbs!"

  "Benedick Numbnuts Petruska. Fancy meeting you here." Only nine fifteen and this day was already on its way to the record for humiliation. Couldn't wait to see what else fate would slide her way, just for kicks.

  But at that moment, as he put his hand on her ankle—completely uninvited—and gave a slight tug, faux Manolo and foot were released. Just like that.

  The heel was snapped and dangling, but she could hobble inside the building now. Obliged to mutter a "thanks", she did so with all the enthusiasm of a squashed, wet lettuce leaf on a depressingly uninspired salad. Which was exactly how she felt.

  "You going in there?" He gestured at the restaurant behind them.

  She clutched her bag. "Yes, Numbnuts. Why?"

  "It's closed. They don't serve breakfast anyway."

  "I know." Bry stuck her chin in the air, ignoring the fact that mascara trails were probably winding their way down her cheeks. Of course he inferred she was on her way to eat. What else would he think? "This is official business."

  "Oops." He winced. "Are they being audited?"

  "Not yet, but they need someone to put things in order."

  "Take care with that broken heel. Might be embarrassing. Wouldn't want you to get off on the wrong foot with the management." He laughed at his own joke as if it was so hilarious he might split his pants.

  Hobbling onto the curb she cleared the way for him to jump into the cab. He winked at her. "See you around, Miss Mulligan."

  "I hope not."

  * * * *

  Official business? In shoes like those? Hmmm that was the kind of official business he enjoyed best. Pity he didn't have time to stick around.

  As the cab pulled away, he watched her limping for the restaurant entrance, one heavy bag pulling her shoulder down—which is probably how she tore her coat sleeve—and a suitcase, tied together with ribbon, clasped tight to her chest. That woman ought to have an "out of order" sign on her back, he mused, shaking his head. Always had been an absolute mess and he'd known her since they were teens, when they met at their cousins' wedding sixteen years ago. He was a groomsman and she was the fat bridesmaid. There was always one. He got landed with escorting her down the aisle, because his girlfriend at the time wasn't in the wedding party.

  "You be nice to that young girl," his grandmother had exclaimed in her thick Russian accent when she saw his expression at the wedding rehearsal. "She's just what you need. Not like those sluts you run around with."

  "Grandma, she's thirteen."

  "A good age. Snap her up now." She was only half joking. His Grandmother had escaped a rural, impoverished Siberian village and, according to her, lived through more atrocities than he'd had dinners—hot or cold. Where she was raised, girls married young to bear as many children as possible and populate the labor force in the fields. Folk lived simply, but they took in every breath as if it might be their last. They clawed their way to survival. That was where he got his ambitious streak, no doubt.

  Bryon
y Mulligan's sulking face didn't trouble her either.

  "She's a fine, strong, healthy girl," his grandmother had said. "Hearty bones. Not one of these dirty girls you like."

  "That's not dirt, grandma. That's a tan."

  But, just to please the old lady, he'd tried to make his reluctant partner smile. And he soon found Miss Bryony Mulligan to be far more than just an awkward adolescent in an ugly, too-tight, shiny orange dress. She looked right through him with her wide, curious blue eyes and whatever she saw apparently amused her no end. A cynical laugh never seemed far from her lips and one eyebrow was quirked in permanent bemusement. When he quarreled with his girlfriend at the reception and received a bony knee to the groin, Bryony—who'd witnessed the attack and his subsequent girly squeal— joyfully christened him "Numbnuts". In retaliation, his seventeen year-old pride wounded, he called her "Chubbs", because he'd caught her stealing pastries in her napkin. The names stuck.

  He smiled, shaking his head as he thought of his grandmother, tirelessly trying to marry him off to a "nice" girl ever since kindergarten. Even at the end, when he visited her in hospital after her stroke, she was trying to fix him up with nurses, recommending him as if she worked a market stall and he was a cod she had to shift before he went rotten. Somehow he'd evaded all her sales ploys. Sorry, grandma. He was thirty three, single and loving every minute. It was his firm belief that man wasn't meant to be monogamous, just like a tiger wasn't meant to be a domesticated pet. If women understood that, everyone would be as happy as him.

  Ben looked down at his phone and quickly tapped out another text to the sous chef who was the only soul still inside to greet the rep from the accounting firm.

  Give her some cannolis.

  He pressed "send" and smiled again. That might keep Mulligan from imploding when she realized she'd just watched the owner of Leonato's ride off in a cab. Listen, wasn't his fault. Chubbs was fifteen minutes late and he was a busy man.

  The cab turned a corner and he got one last look at her through the grey lines of rain on the window. Should have warned her that her day wasn't about to get any better.

  Pity he couldn't hang around. It was always entertaining to have one of those arguments with her—gave him a burst of endorphins— and he'd missed that sneaky pleasure since the last time they met.

  It had been quite a long while. Apparently too long.

  'Cause Bryony "Chubbs" Mulligan was looking pretty damn hot these days.

  Chapter Two

  She dropped the files and one bulging binder on the already cluttered desk. "Let me get this straight," she exclaimed breathlessly, "Ben I'm-too-sexy-for-my-shirt Petruska just bought this restaurant? What happened to old Mr. Leonato?"

  The sous chef did a good impression of a puzzled Shar-Pei. He didn't speak much English. Just enough to explain that the new owner had left him behind to greet her, and offer a plate of cannolis. "They very good," he explained, setting the plate gingerly down on her binder, as if she was a wild animal and might bite them right out of his hand, plate and all. The devil only knew what Numbnuts had told him about her. "I get you coffee?"

  "No. Thank you." No point getting annoyed with him. "I just saw Mr. Petruska in the street, leaving."

  "Yes, miss. He had a very, very important meeting."

  I'll bet he did, she thought, furious. He'd deliberately gone out to avoid her, leaving this mess for her to sort out. Flinging her wet, torn coat over the chair, she looked at the plate of cannolis. "You can take those back," she snapped.

  "He said to give them. You like?"

  "Right." Of course, he thought he could butter her up with cream pastries. And that was a curious picture she'd rather not have in her mind at nine thirty in the morning. "How long has he owned this place?"

  "Just before I come. He said tell you the files, they all here." He proudly waved his arms around at the multitude of ring binders and notebooks piled on the shelves.

  Bry sat heavily and opened her laptop. No one had bothered to tell her the restaurant changed hands. Don Philips, the partner who had always handled Mr. Leonato's taxes, was now retiring—not before time. That was how the file got dropped on her desk, among a pile of accounts no one else wanted. As the newbie on staff she was given the worst jobs, but Bry preferred to look at it as a chance to prove herself.

  A quick survey of this small, cramped back room told her that Don Philips had never set foot inside the place, except to eat a large plate of linguine with clam sauce and drink a bottle of wine, probably on the house. Don did most of his work from a golf course. Bryony was more of a hands on person. She liked to attack the problem right at the root.

  So now this restaurant was another victim falling foul to that greedy Manhattan Marauder, Benedick Petruska. Otherwise known to her as "Numbnuts". Didn't he own enough properties yet? He was the sort of supremo ass no one wanted to play Monopoly with because he was ruthless and always won. He didn't play games; he just slaughtered opponents. She'd read that line about him in a Time magazine interview once.

  "I get you coffee," the sous chef muttered, backing out.

  "I told you I don't....ok," she sighed, "fine."

  Might as well drink the extra caffeine to get through this. She took out her glasses and slipped them on, waiting for her laptop to boot.

  Leonato's wasn't the usual sort of place Petruska targeted. It was a small, cozy restaurant, nothing fancy, not a hang out for the "in crowd", but a haven for regulars. She'd been there once on a wretched blind date, when she was, unfortunately, too conscious of her weight to be able to order what she really wanted. It was torture to sit in a restaurant with a rumbling stomach, knowing everyone in the place was looking at her, thinking maybe she ought to cut out the pasta and picking at their own food guiltily.

  Then she went through a self-punishment period when she ate only salads, but that was equally embarrassing since it made other diners look at her with surprise and then—worst of all—pity.

  "If you only eat salads," one little girl had said to her once at a baby shower, "why are you fat?"

  People assumed that because of her weight she loved food. Truth was, food terrified her. It had such a hold on her life.

  When the recession struck and her last firm downsized, she was one of the casualties. Bry knew that old enemy—food— was lurking in wait, offering solace, eager to make her feel less about anything else. Rather than run away from it by forcing herself onto another ridiculous, miserable diet, Bry decided to embrace her enemy. Much to her mother's horror, she'd spent a large chunk of her savings on a six month-long Cordon Bleu course... in Paris.

  "Got to hand it to you, Bry," her father said. "You never do things by halves."

  But if she was going to learn to cook, why not take it seriously? If she was going to change the way she did business, why not kickstart the process in an entirely new city and country? If she was ever going to take a sabbatical from work, why not do it while she was still young enough to enjoy herself? She was twenty nine. By the time she was thirty she actually wanted to be happy, not just existing in the same routine. Her night life had been non-existent for eight years so she had money saved and then she had a severance package too. Why not have one adventure to look back on?

  Her mother called it impulsive; Bry preferred to think of it as decisive.

  In Paris she was already a new person because no one there knew the old Bryony. She slowed down a lot, learned to taste flavors and enjoy smaller portions. On a tight budget, she certainly stuck to eating only at mealtimes. She lost a little weight, gained a lot of style and confidence, learned a new language, discovered a surprising love of fashion. Most of all she stopped worrying what other people saw when they looked at her. With an entire new wardrobe, she'd learned how to be comfortable in her own skin and it was a far better feeling than the fragile excitement of starving to fit a size someone else decided she ought to be. This feeling was one that lasted.

  Back in New York she got a new apartment, a new job. But she wa
sn't ready for a new boyfriend yet. That was a whole other set of potential bugs for Bry 2.0 to work out. For now she was focused on her job, aiming one day for a corner office, even "partner" on her business cards.

  All things considered, life was looking up for Bry. She was finally in charge, finally had a grip.

  Until her alarm clock failed to go off that morning, she couldn't get hot water in her shower, she lost the power cord for her laptop, the smoke detector went off because she burned the toast, and then her heel got stuck in the tarmac. Finally, Numbnuts tripped over her as she scrabbled about in the gutter. She sincerely hoped this wasn't the start of her descent into another maelstrom.

  Her phone rattled across the desk, vibrating with the rhythm of calypso drums.

  "Hello? Bryony Mull—"

  "Can you meet for lunch?" It was her cousin Helena, speaking in a tearful half-whisper, "I have to get out of here."

  She looked at the piles surrounding her. "What time? I'm kinda—"

  "Twelve. I don't care where. It's an emergency." Helena had a tendency to be dramatic. A broken finger nail or a lost earring could constitute an emergency. In all likelihood, by the time noon rolled around she would have gotten over it.

  "Ok. Hey, do you know Leonato's? Midtown west?"

  Silence.

  "Hell's Kitchen," she added hastily. "Theatre district."

  Helena sniveled into the phone. "I guess I can find it."

  "I'll be here." That would save her from traveling across town, she figured. Let Helena come to her for a change. Another sign of the newer, more confident Bry.

  Clearly, her cousin was upset about something or she would have suggested a ritzier place on the Upper East side—somewhere she was more accustomed to and somewhere Bry couldn't afford. Helena wasn't the sort to go out of her comfort zone. Usually.