A Sure Thing

by Brit Blaise

  "You'll do just fine,” Betty said, just as Felicia walked into the lobby.

  "Thank you all for coming,” Felicia said with breathless dramatic flare. “If you'd follow me, we'll get started. Please remember to stand in the same place you did last week."

  As they walked toward the kitchen, Cara worried about her appearance. The new cream-colored suit she'd bought during lunch fit as though she'd had it tailor-made, but she worried it might be too plain compared to Felicia's vivid red dress.

  Just the thought of seeing Mike Nichols gave her a serious case of nerves and even worse ... wet thighs. Wet thighs that rubbed together when she walked. This time he stood waiting behind the counter, his eyes seeking hers as soon as she walked through the door. Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes locked and her blood began to warm as her body vibrated a silent message to his unique magnetic pull.

  No oil to worry about, but instead of two cameras, today there were three.

  Mike smiled at her and suddenly the edgy feeling the cameras caused went away and her confidence spiraled up. She took her place next to him and tried not to grin like a goofball.

  "Today we'll make chicken Kiev and an easy beet salad with goat cheese and walnuts. Felicia has already made sure the beets are boiled and ready to cut. So let's get started. Put on your aprons and your latex gloves and we'll first peel and slice our beets into bite-size pieces. Toss them into a bowl and then we'll make a simple dressing to marinate them."

  Cara quickly dispatched of her beets and awaited Mike's next instructions. He smiled at her warmly as he watched her. A heated glow began to radiate inside her as she began to relax about her cooking, even with a camera in her face.

  "Felicia will bring a trash bag around to dispose of your messy gloves, then we'll begin our dressing,” he told the class as he peeled his gloves off.

  As Cara began to remove her gloves, her heart sank. Somehow the beet juice had gotten through.

  "You must have sliced through your gloves when you cut the beets,” Felicia said as she took Cara's gloves.

  Cara shot a sidelong look at Mike, but he was talking to one of the blondes and hadn't noticed the color of her hands. The cameraman, however, seemed particularly interested.

  "I meant to do that,” Cara finally said as he failed to move the camera from her hands. “Beet juice is good for the skin, a natural moisturizer."

  Felicia handed Cara a towel. It did little to take away the shocking color.

  "Oh, my goodness,” Betty said once she noticed.

  The sound of his mother's voice must have alerted Mike. “What happened?” he asked her, looking ready to bolt out the door.

  "I don't have a clue. I must've accidentally cut the gloves."

  "You didn't notice your hands felt wet?” It seemed he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

  "Yes, I noticed, but I was concentrating on what I was doing. I didn't think I could be dyeing my skin. How long until it washes off?"

  "I have no clue how long it'll take to wear off. I can't understand how that much red soaked into your skin. Frankly, I've never seen anything like it."

  "Maybe I have porous skin?” Cara suggested, putting her hands behind her back so he would quit staring at her.

  Felicia buzzed around the room, helping everyone tidy their cutting boards and cleaning away remnants of the beets. Cara looked at Betty's beets, thinking they didn't appear to be as red as hers.

  "Let's continue with our salad dressing,” Mike said. His voice sounded anxious as he turned away from her. “You have an eighth of a cup of lemon juice, a fourth of a cup of extra virgin olive oil, a tablespoon of sugar, and a pinch or two of salt. Mix it together and pour half on your beets. We'll save the rest to pour over your greens when we get ready to eat."

  Mike stood ramrod straight with his square jaw unclenched only when he spoke. Cara couldn't help feeling sorry for him. She'd been in his class about five minutes before she'd let him down.

  "Now let's start our chicken Kiev. Felicia has given you each a piece of boneless chicken breast. We are going to pound it to about a quarter of an inch in thickness. Watch me. I'll do mine first, so I'll be available to help."

  Cara could have sworn he looked at her pointedly with his final statement. She screamed inside to stay calm. Could he be thinking she'd forgotten in one day's time how to make the chicken Kiev?

  Mike held his chicken in the air so everyone could see how thin he wanted it. “Please go ahead and pound your chicken."

  With the first hit of the mallet, Cara's chicken exploded into the air. Everyone within a five-foot radius was showered with chicken.

  "How did that happen?” Mike asked as he brushed pieces of chicken off his arm.

  "If I hear that again, I swear I'll scream,” she snapped. Her earlier confidence had blown up with the chicken. “How would I know how it happened? Do you think I do these things on purpose?"

  Cara turned her attention on the cameraman. “Will you get your camera out of my face? In fact, you should go clean the lens. I see bits of chicken hanging from it. You could get botulism or salmonella or whatever nasty bacteria you get from uncooked poultry."

  She struck a nerve. Her comment sent the man scurrying off, with his camera at arm's length, but he sent in replacements as another took his place. Cara gritted her teeth to smile at them when they rushed in for a close-up.

  Cara looked at sleeves and lapels of her suit not covered by the apron. At least chicken wasn't as bad as oil. Betty reached over to pluck off a piece hanging from Cara's hair.

  "Felicia, we could use your help here,” Mike said as he picked a piece from the other side of her head.

  Felicia arrived in a flash with her best showbiz smile pasted on her perfect, plastic face. “What happened here?” she asked and smiled at the camera. Cara swore the woman sounded amused.

  "I hit the chicken with the macerating mallet. I used the flat side and hit it exactly like Mike showed me last night,” Cara said feeling too foolish for words.

  "You macerated it all right. I think I see some hanging from the ceiling,” Felicia said. “Mike's giving you private cooking lessons?"

  Felicia spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear. All the Felecia clones stared at Cara suspiciously. One smacked her chicken like it was golf ball and sent it flying, without a doubt to get Mike's attention.

  Mike cleared his throat. “Ladies, I have a suggestion. Felicia, get us the oiled parchment paper and give everybody a piece. If you're having trouble with keeping your chicken together, fold a piece of parchment paper around it and you should be able to pound it until it is paper-thin. Hold your hand up if you need Felicia to bring you a new piece of chicken."

  Cara didn't have a problem with the second piece of chicken Felicia brought to her. It seemed peculiar to her, as so many of the other women now began to have difficulties and needing Mike's attention.

  "It would seem you're loosing control of your class, Chef Mike,” Cara muttered under her breath.

  "I heard that,” he answered, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “Everyone should have a small bowl of butter in front of them. Roll your butter until it is about two inches long and a half-inch in diameter,” Mike told the class. He rolled his own butter to show them.

  "This butter is too soft,” Cara said.

  "I'll bring you another,” Felicia said, appearing at Cara's elbow as if she'd been standing over her shoulder awaiting the next disaster.

  Cara thought about the mess she would have made with the butter if Mike had not shown her how to make the dish the night before.

  "Once your butter is formed, you'll find pre-chopped and measured chives, tarragon, and garlic. Mix them together and pour them onto a piece of parchment paper. Add a pinch of salt and white pepper and then roll your butter in the mixture. Try to coat it as thickly as possible.” He looked around for questions.

  "Take your coated butter and place it at on one end of the flattened piece of chicken, rolling it until the
butter is hidden inside the chicken and secure it with a toothpick. You have another small bowl with a couple of teaspoons of flour. Take your brush and dust the chicken with flour."

  Cara forged ahead of the class until she put the toothpick into the chicken. It broke. The second one broke, too. Cara leaned down to pull the broken end from the chicken, and couldn't find it. She started to unroll it when she heard Mike groan. She didn't budge as she felt him approach. She didn't want to see his face. Without a word, he popped the broken toothpick out and replaced it with another.

  Cara felt her heart drop in her chest. How could he help but be disappointed in her? Why on earth did she ever trust him when he told her she wouldn't be a bumbling nightmare again?

  "After the chicken is dusted with flour, beat an egg and brush the chicken with it. Then roll the chicken in your breadcrumbs. Next you'll deep-fry your chicken in oil. Feel free to taste your creation as soon as it's done."

  Cara dusted her chicken with flour and brushed beaten egg on it, rolling it breadcrumbs in record time. She was second in line at one of the two deep fryers, feeling somewhat redeemed. As much as one could be with bright red hands.

  As she lowered her chicken into the oil it ballooned in size and the coating exploded into chunks floating on top while her bare chicken dropped like a rock in the oil.

  Once again the cameras seemed to be ready to capture the debacle. The two other women waiting to cook their chicken began to complain about the mess Cara had made of the oil, and a crowd began to gather.

  As the pieces of coating began to turn dark brown, Cara began to see red. And it wasn't her hands.

  "What happened?” Mike asked as he pushed blondes aside to pull the basket from the deep fryer.

  "Why don't you tell me?” Cara demanded. “I did everything you said. Why did that happen?"

  "It shouldn't have,” Mike said sympathetically. “Ladies, this is not really interesting, so could you please give us some room here?” He dumped the contents of the wire basket on a paper towel and examined it.

  "You promised me you wouldn't let this happen again,” Cara whispered angrily. She didn't know who to be angrier at for once again becoming the laughingstock, Mike or herself. “This is worse than the last time!"

  Mike looked ready to deny her accusation. “I want the cameras out of here right now.” The TV crew didn't appear to hear.

  "Don't,” Cara said. “I don't need that kind of help."

  "Mike, please stay calm,” Felicia said as she rushed over to join them. “This is nothing to get excited about. Certainly no reason to stop filming."

  "Felicia, you can take the chicken and stuff it,” Cara snapped.

  "Be sensible. This isn't the end of the world. I'll clean up this mess. Mike, you can share your chicken with Cara. I've sent for some of our best wine to take the edge off,” she said cheerily.

  Cara stared at her in disbelief.

  "Would everyone like a glass of wine as we finish our salads?” Felicia asked the women.

  "I think I need something stronger than wine,” Cara said. She turned her back on them to walk back to her place at the counter.

  "That could be arranged,” Cara heard Felicia say. “Paul, bring Miss Thomas a..."

  "A butterscotch martini. Make it a double."

  Cara fumed through the final preparations of her beet salad, not even looking at Mike as he instructed the class. She ignored the occasional comments he directed to her as she swilled her delicious martini.

  Stirring the beets with a vengeance, she berated herself for stupidly trusting Mike Nichols. He made her think he cared too much about their relationship to let something like this happen. What a crock! He used sex like a carrot dangled so she'd attend the blasted class.

  "I hope you got what you wanted,” Cara said loudly. She didn't look up to see Mike's reaction.

  "Are you talking to me?” Mike asked from across the room.

  "No, I was talking to the genie in the vinegar bottle. The one who gave you three wishes. Wish number one—find a woman you can humiliate on your cooking show. Wish number two—get her crazy for..."

  "Cara, this is being filmed. Are you sure you want to keep talking?” Mike closed the distance between them, an incorrigible grin plastered on his face.

  Blasted man! “Fine, I'll just stir my beets and keep my mouth shut.” She stirred harder. Her head was spinning as fast as the beets in the bowl from the potent liquor she'd consumed on an empty stomach. She stopped to take another drink and found a new glass, so she had to stop and reflect. “There's nothing like the first, cold yummy sip."

  "Cara, you're getting beet juice all over everything. Your suit is going to be ruined if you're not careful.” Mike pulled the bowl away from her. “What is this?"

  "Is there another problem?” Felicia came over to look in the bowl he held.

  "Let's get this show wrapped up right now, unless you'd like to explain to me in front of the cameras how Cara's beets came to be doctored with food coloring?"

  "Ladies, we are running out of time. Let's finish the beet salad and see me for a hand-out on Friday's class,” Felicia told the class. “We have something special planned I'm sure you'll be delighted to hear."

  "Why is there food coloring in my beets? Weren't they red enough already?” Cara took care to enunciate each word carefully. She smoothed back an errant wisp of hair tickling her face and stifled a sneeze. Mike looked up from the beets to answer her question. The expression of horror on his face seemed exaggerated under the circumstances.

  "What did you do?” He appeared to be hyperventilating.

  "Are you trying to distract me from how angry I am with you? Trust me, it won't work.” Cara tried to sound angry, but her martinis were making her smile.

  "Cara, you've managed to get beet juice on your face."

  Torn between looking to see if the cameraman had noticed or making a mad dash out of the room, she ducked down and pretended to wipe something from her shoe. On closer inspection, she discovered she didn't have to pretend as she picked a piece of chicken from her toe. “How bad is it?"

  "On a scale of one to ten?"

  Cara heard a snicker in his voice and jerked her head up to see nothing reflected in his face other than concern. “Do you play poker?” She reached for her martini and downed it.

  "On occasion.” He broke into a charming grin.

  "This isn't funny."

  "I agree. It would've been nice if you could have gotten it on your cheeks instead of your nose."

  "My nose?” She tried not to shriek.

  "You could take a job with the circus until it wears off."

  "Just be quiet.” She grabbed for her purse and dug through it frantically for her compact.

  "What are you doing down there? Oh, my ... what's on your face?” Felicia interrupted, while Cara weighed the chances of evading a murder charge as she stared in the mirror at her colorful nose.

  "I'm staying down here until everyone is gone."

  "You do that,” Felicia said with a snicker. “I brought you another martini."

  Mike took it out of Felicia's hand. “Felicia, I think you might want to make yourself scarce under the circumstances."

  "Are you intimating I had something to do with this?” Felicia said.

  "She did this?” Cara couldn't believe anyone would do such a sneaky and underhanded thing on purpose. “You let her do this to me?"

  "Someone needs my help over there.” Felicia shot one last look over the counter to Cara. “I'll make sure you aren't disturbed."

  She moved closer to Mike and tucked back into the empty and spacious opening under the countertop. No one could see her with it enclosed behind her. Now how had she missed that? She was eye-level with the bulge in Chef Mike's apron. “Is there any way the camera can get behind you?"

  "No. The cameras can't get back here. It wouldn't make good TV if they could see this mess back here."

  Where's your mother?” she asked.

  "Across the
room with a couple of the women. Why?"

  "I've been wondering if this thing is really nine inches."

  "You've got to be kidding."

  Cara ignored him and grabbed hold of his apron to pull him closer. She was satisfied he was snug against the countertop, which made it impossible for anyone to see her there. Where she had hidden was plenty big enough to give her free range of movement. She lifted his apron and ducked under it.

  "You owe me.” She unzipped his pants and worked his cock out of the slit in his boxers. The sight of it made her hotter than she'd thought possible. Wow. This had to be the best looking piece of male equipment she'd ever had the privilege to see. His big cock-head was shades darker than the rest of his considerable length. The man hadn't exaggerated. She touched her tongue to the velvety cap. So soft. “You better hope the cameraman doesn't decide to go for a close-up on your face."

  She took advantage of having a long tongue as she teased the tag of skin, soft and wiggly. The musky smell of him, combined with his slightly salty taste, made her want to linger. But the longer she took, the more likely someone would interfere. If only she could see his face.

  She eased him in and out of her mouth, taking him a little deeper each time. Regretfully, his pants were too tight to get to his balls, so she jerked up and down on the rest of his considerable length with her hand.

  She fucked him with her mouth until he trembled. “Mmmm, better than crab legs. You got any butter up there?” Cara took him back into mouth and sucked harder.

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  CHAPTER 8

  "Felicia, I thought I knew you. I can't believe you'd go to such lengths to make money."

  "It isn't just about the money, Mike.” Felicia offered him her best pout, but she'd have to do better. He couldn't remember when he had been more frustrated with her. Maybe one other time—when she refused to believe he hadn't cheated on her.

  "What is it about then?"

  "You're falling for her, aren't you? Don't even bother to deny it. I can tell this one is different.” Felicia's face turned dark as she spoke.