Two Wolves For Lizette

by Jessica Miller

  Word really does travel fast. “That’s correct,” I say, the glare from the sun forcing me to avert my eyes.

  “Well, I have another piece of information for you,” he says. “It could be life-changing. I’d be happy to share it with you under one condition.”

  Oh, great—one of the high-end types who thinks he can buy me. “Oh yeah, what would that be?” I ask.

  “Put out your cigarette.”

  I smile at my poor lack of judgment and oblige. “Okay, so what might this information be?”

  “I just so happen to be holding interviews in the next hour or two for an open position. I’m seeking a personal, professional chef. Do you think that is something that would be within your job set?”

  ***

  I don’t bother driving to Burbank since the interview is at his mansion in Beverly Hills. I don’t have money to waste gas like that, so I just sit in my car and wait until I have to drive over there. What are the odds that I run into a job opportunity moments after getting canned?

  I pull up to the palm tree lined gate to his mansion. It’s one of the buildings that takes up its own block. There is a camera at the gate and it shifts into focus while my car idles. The gates open automatically. What is the purpose of the camera? Is he expecting me?

  I pull up onto the drive where a tall woman with tan skin and long, chestnut hair stands in a black chauffeur’s uniform. Behind her is a jet black Rolls Royce, and when she sees me walking up, she opens the back door for me to enter.

  “Hi, um, thank you,” I stammer awkwardly. “I’m here for the interview with—”

  Crap. How did I not even get the guy’s name? I typed the address to the mansion in my phone but in the moment totally blanked on formalities.

  “Mr. Phillips would like you to see the grounds before interviewing,” she says warmly. “I will be your guide. If you are still interested in the position afterward, Mr. Phillips will see you.”

  I get into the back seat and she closes the door. We drive in silence up to the building, and when she lets me out I take in the towering modernist design of the mansion. For once in my life I feel like I’m out of my element. Did she say Mr. Phillips? Wait; was that delicious man the Denver D. Phillips? I thought he was just a colleague. I’m about to interview for a billionaire? Things just got a little more real.

  ***

  The tour of the mansion ends after walking around its entirety for nearly two hours. I feel like I’ve been gallery hopping with all of the gorgeous art and textures around me. Still, I wasn’t prepared for this long of an event and I haven’t eaten yet.

  “Mr. Phillips will be home soon,” the chauffeur says, reading a message from her phone. “It seems he is running a little late. Feel free to relax in the kitchen. I’m sure you will feel at home there.”

  She smiles and turns to the entrance, and I hear the Rolls start up and take off down the drive. I walk around the kitchen admiring the array of knives and various cutleries. Whoever set up this kitchen really knew what they were doing. The walk-in freezer is bigger than my apartment, and that is no exaggeration.

  When I walk out of the freezer, a woman of my height with thin, long blonde hair is standing in the kitchen tinkering with one of the filet knives. “Hi, stranger,” she says through a Bordeaux colored smile. “You must be the new chef.”

  “Just interviewing for the position, I think,” I say, the freezer door slamming behind me. The young woman walks over to me and puts out her perfect, pearl-toned hand.

  “I’m Jill, the housekeeper.” She gives my hand a piercing pinch with her acrylic nails. “You look like the kind of gal who would like a drink.”

  She releases my hand, grimacing down at it when she lets go. Taking a couple wine glasses from the cabinet, Jill stretches her body out as if trying to impress me with her amazing physique and expensive clothes.

  “Do you know how long until Mr. Phillips returns?” I ask, looking out the window and hoping to see the Rolls pulling in. “He said the interview was earlier, but the tour took a long time.”

  “The first thing you need to know about working here,” she says, filling the glasses with a light-gold chardonnay, “is to never put too much expectation on Mr. Phillips. Denver moves at his own pace. I’m sure you’ll find that out rather soon.”

  With the last remark she hands me the wineglass, and it’s impossible for me to tell if she’s being facetious or welcoming. She clinks her glass against mine and we both sip. As the wine hits my lips, I catch her surveying me from the corner of her eye.

  *****

  “I don’t care,” Denver says. “It’s been a long day. Surprise me.” He takes his suit jacket off, drapes it around the chair, and slouches down. Three hours and two bottles of chardonnay and chatting with Jill and Mae Lin, Denver’s secretary, I learn a lot more about what the job entails.

  Jill and Mae Lin are both Denver’s Live-Ins. They live in the mansion and work around the clock to be available whenever Denver will need them. The chauffeur is a Live-In as well—her name is Gloria. It sounds crazy, but from Jill’s attitude the amount they get paid is enough to keep me interested in the position.

  “Okay, what are you in the mood for?” I ask.

  A drawn out yawn escaped his mouth. I can see the bags under his eyes. He must be jetlagged or something. With the stubble coming in, his clean-cut handsome has escalated to full-on sex icon.

  “Look, Tara,” he says, almost slurring, “I don’t know what I’m in the mood for. That’s why I am going to pay you so much money. Understand?”

  My eyebrows shoot up and my lips pucker into my face. I try not to look taken back, but it’s hard when he’s being so blunt.

  “Yes, sir,” I say robotically, “I understand, sir.”

  “Good,” he lulls.

  I turn around to the counter and pick up a knife. Looking down at the blade, I tell myself to cool it and think of a recipe. It’s three in the morning and he’s been awake for seventeen hours, and as soon as he eats this he’s going to pass out. I need something light and relaxing.

  I decide on shrimp salad with cranberry vinaigrette and reach into the fridge for the romaine and baby kale. By the time I turn around Denver is asleep at the table, practically drooling already.

  “Denver!” I say, just loud enough to bring him back. “Are you still hungry?”

  He looks at me like I’m a stranger. Maybe he’s stuck in some insomniac daze. “No food,” he mumbles, “just sleep.”

  I can’t deny that he is adorable right now. I want to just walk over, wrap my arms around him, and smell his brown but peppered-with-gray hair. Get a grip, Tara, I think. It’s your first night on the job and he’s already paid your entire salary up front.

  “Mr. Phillips, would you like me to help get you to bed?” I ask.

  “Yes, please, Tara,” he says.

  I go over to Denver, who is about to fall out of the chair, and put my arms out. At first look someone would think he’s on some serious pills—but I know that he works himself to the bone in order to accomplish what he loves. That is something I can respect.

  He wraps his arm around me and I hoist him up.

  “Alright, Mr. Phillips, which way is your room?” I’m about to choke with how tight his arm is around my neck.

  “That way,” he points to the corner.

  “Denver, are you okay?” I ask. “Should I get some help or call 911 or something?”

  A light bulb turns on in his mind and he looks at me with his eyelids wide. “Never call the cops, do you understand me?” My cheeks are squished in his fingers and his blue eyes are inches from mine. “Do you understand me?” he asks again, squeezing tighter.

  “Yes, I understand,” I say with my lips protruding.

  The first instinct burning through me is to do like my father taught me and sucker punch him in the stomach, kick out his knee, hit him in the neck and run. However, I’ve learned to put that Tara at bay, and so keep still as he stares into me.

&nb
sp; “I need to sleep,” he says. “Please help me.” For life of me I can’t decipher what his eyes darting back and forth from my left eye to my right eye means—but I do know that I don’t want it to end.

  “Follow me, Denver,” I say, taking his cold hand. He smiles and obliges, tagging along as we exit the kitchen. Since he didn’t answer my question about the bedroom earlier, I assume he won’t answer it now and take him to the library where I remember seeing a giant green couch from the tour with Gloria.

  It’s pitch black inside and impossible to find the light switch while also keeping Denver from falling. I set him against the doorway, balancing him like a picture frame. “Don’t move,” I say, leaving him partly askew.

  In the darkness I wave my arms in front of me blindly, scanning the wall for a switch. “Not on wall,” Denver whispers. Okay, the switch isn’t on the wall. You’re a lot of help, Denny. I step into the void of the library and try to find some kind of lamp, and by shear miracle I bump into a desk and catch the shape of one in the dim moonlight from the window.

  I flip the switch and the room lights up—revealing the walls and walls of books. Hustling over to Denver, about to topple over, I think about my crappy little place in Burbank and I just want to go home. I didn’t expect my interview to become my first day on the job.

  With Denver in my arms, I guide him over to the green couch and set him down on the soft, velvet cushion. His head rocks back against the neck rest and I about pass out thinking that I accidentally killed the man. I take his head in my hand like I’m holding a baby and guide his entire body until he’s flat on his back.

  “Stay with me,” he mumbles. With his eyes clamped tight it’s hard to take him seriously. I’m willing to bet if I left him like this he would sleep for ten hours straight without waking once. As I turn to the doorway something latches at my wrist, keeping me from stepping forward.

  It’s Denver’s hand—his fingers and palm warm around my skin. “Stay with me, Tara,” he says with an urging tone, pulling me toward the couch. In the dim light, and after such an exhausting day, I can’t think of an argument strong enough to debate him. He takes my other hand and with the force of both dragging me down, it feels so right to let my body succumb to Denver’s gravitational pull.

  *****

  It’s my first night as Denver’s personal chef and I’m expected to plan and prepare for a party of fifty. Normally I would be sweating right now, but Denver has made it perfectly clear that there is no cap on the budget. This is the kind of opportunity most chefs dream of. His kitchen is already fully staffed, which only makes me wonder what happened to the previous one.

  “You think you can handle this?” he asks. I look over to Jill who rolls her eyes, returning to her cleaning duties.

  “I’m already brainstorming,” I say, trying to pull any kind of theme or recipe I can imagine out of nowhere. “This may sound tacky but I could literally make everything heart-shaped.”

  I haven’t had an idea this bad since grade school, and when Jill lets out a snort I want to hide my eyes from Denver for suggesting something so dumb.

  “It is tacky,” he says, nodding. “But I think people will love it. By ‘everything’, what are you thinking?”

  Okay, Tara—improvise: “Heart-shaped pizza, macaroons, red velvet crepes, ravioli, and with certain exceptions, specialty cocktails.”

  “Sounds perfect. Make it happen.” Denver gives me a cheesy thumb’s up and turns sharply to exit the kitchen.

  “Is he always that awkward?” I ask Jill.

  “Only when he wants something,” she says, stretching the blue gloves off her fingers to follow him.

  Left alone in the kitchen I can’t help but feel like I’m being left out of a bad joke. Don’t worry about them, I think, your job is to cook.

  ***

  The party is in full swing and so far I am keeping up with the guests’ rapid consumption of gourmet heart-shaped food. With my hands busy I cannot keep my mind off the way Denver caressed me when we were tangled on the library couch. Yesterday seems like a blur but I am enjoying every second of freedom in this lush environment.

  I spent the day learning the ins and outs of the mansion while Denver attended to business. As I slide another round of pizzas into the oven I am surprised by how familiar this kitchen already feels to me. I go to put icing on the red velvet cupcakes when Mae Lin approaches me from behind, wrapping her arms around my waist. I have only spent but a few hours with her but the smell of tequila on her breath explains how touchy-feely she is.

  “This is the most amazing food that I have ever tasted,” she says spooning a dollop of icing into her mouth with her finger. “I’m so excited for you to be a part of this family!” Her sorority-like demeanor is the complete opposite of the guise she displayed earlier.

  “Ladies,” a voice bellows from the kitchen doorway, “look how acquainted you two have become.” It’s Denver walking toward Mae Lin and me with his arms stretched open.

  “Denny!” Mae Lin squeals at the sight of him. She releases me and gravitates towards him like she hasn’t seen him in years.

  “Mae,” he says, hesitantly putting an arm around her, “I was wondering if you could run to my office and type up that memo I was telling you about.”

  “Oh,” she says, her entire posture deflating. “You want me to type up the memo now?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” he smiles.

  “Right, sir,” Mae Lin says, forcing a smile back. “I wouldn’t want to make you unsatisfied with my employment situation.” She swallows hard then hugs me goodbye before exiting the kitchen.

  “Tara, things are going great but I was wondering if I could have a word with you?”

  “Sure, Denver,” I say obediently, since this is still day one.

  He waves his hand for me to follow him into the closet. Once we’re inside, he locks the door behind us and pins me against the wall, my wrists above my head, and presses his soft lips to mine.

  *****

  “If we’re going to do this we have to leave Los Angeles, and we have to leave separately,” Denver says, his lips against my ears. “We can’t be seen together leaving, traveling, arriving, or departing. We will both use false names. Do you understand, Tara?”

  My lips quiver in the darkness of the closet. All of these clothes smell of lavender and I just want to fall asleep in his arms. “I don’t understand why it has to be such a secret,” I whisper. I really I wouldn’t have gotten us trapped in here. “What are you trying to hide from me?”

  “I have nothing to hide. If you want me, that is the only way you can have me,” his teeth clench my earlobe as his fingers massage my neck.

  I feel him growing harder through both our pants, his hips rubbing against me slowly. I do want him, and I’m not going to play his games. My hand dips into his pants, searching for his shaft through the briefs.

  Before I can unlock the button, his hand is around my wrist, pulling me away from him. “No,” he laughs. “The fact that I’m even here right now is riskier than you realize. You’re lucky that you turn me on.”

  Before releasing my wrist he gives it a strong pinch, and then presses his index and middle fingers against my lips. Without another word he opens the door and light floods the small closet along with the sharp clamor of laughter and conversation. The party outside is a sea and if I step out I will drown. I don’t want to know what happens to you when Denver D. Phillips is ‘unsatisfied with your employment situation’.

  The door closes with a soft click and it’s quiet again—dark, cold. How long am I supposed to wait in here before I can come out? After the party ends? Damn you, Denver.

  “Tara, I want you to live here. I don’t care what it takes or how much it costs. Name your price.”

  “You like my food that much?” I ask, unable to stop my smile.

  “It’s not that I like your food, Tara. I need it. I need your food for every meal of every day. I need you to be here anytime I might
need you.”

  “That sounds like a lot of commitment,” I say, trying to envision what that kind of lifestyle would entail.

  “It’s not only a commitment,” he says, withdrawing a checkbook from his inside breast pocket, “but also an investment opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “When you say ‘name my price’, you mean—”

  “I mean name your price, Miss Rogers.” His fingers hold a pen to the checkbook.

  “Are you asking my price per hour? Salary history? I’m sorry this - it’s just new to me.”

  “It’s new to me, too,” he says, searching my eyes like there might be something more valuable to him than money.

  “Tara, I want you to look deep within yourself and tell me how much it would take to get you to be at my every beck and call? For culinary purposes, of course,” a twinkle of white flashes in his eyes.

  I’ve never thought about something so absurd, a billionaire about to write a chef a blank check because he liked her denver omelet that was made as a play on said billionaire’s name. “So you’re saying you basically never want me to leave?”

  His laugh is quick—one precise chuckle. The thing is my question was not intended as a joke. “Miss Rogers, please,” he says, “under my employment you will have equal opportunities, if not infinite opportunities, to explore your own liberties and endeavors as you please. I have my needs, as your employer, but I think that you will find working here to be what some might call a dream come true.”

  *****

  It takes 45 minutes for me to escape the party unnoticed after Denver exited with some business excuse. With the energy continuing without him, it was hard to wait to slip out—but now I’m on my way to a hotel in Malibu where he’s waiting for me. I drive with the windows down, the cool air tickling my skin. How is this happening? This weekend feels like a surreal dream.