Kitchen Gods Box Set

by Beth Bolden

  Kian was outright laughing now.

  “Trash!” he echoed Bastian’s voice. “This is trash!”

  Bastian glared but kept eating. He ate the whole slab in record time and shoved the plate away. “I think you’ve ruined me.”

  Kian’s glance felt like a caress on his cheek. “Then we’re ruined together. Exactly as it should be, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I suppose I should put aside my snobbery and try these too,” Bastian finally said with a sigh, pointing at the pancakes.

  Kian just nodded, looking on with unabashed interest. “I’ve been waiting. Maybe you could even give Chef René a few helpful tips.” Chef René had been trained in Paris under the masters of French pastry and even considered Christina Tosi, of Milk Bar fame, an imposter.

  “If I told Chef René, he’d probably fall over dead,” Bastian said with a rumbling laugh. Despite the oddness of the cuisine, this was one of the best mornings he had in a very long time. Definitely the most fun, because fun hadn’t really been something in his vocabulary until he’d met Kian.

  “He does eat a lot of butter,” Kian replied very seriously, his eyes twinkling.

  Bastian cut into the stack of pancakes, making sure to get some of the melting frosting onto the wedge of pancake on his fork. He put it in his mouth and promptly spat it back out, the first thing he’d been unable to stomach since they’d arrived.

  “Oh my god,” Kian said, and he was laughing so hard, he nearly fell out of the booth. “Were they that bad?”

  “Worse,” Bastian said with disdain, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I feel violated.”

  “Well, I think that’s our cue to leave,” Kian said with a little hiccup. “I’ll go pay the check?”

  Bastian grabbed for the receipt the waitress had left but Kian was too quick. “I invited you here,” he insisted, which was maybe something he shouldn’t be bragging about right now.

  “And I think this is something I can pay for,” Kian said with a quick roll of his eyes. “I’ll meet you outside at the car.”

  * * *

  Even days later, Kian couldn’t believe that Bastian had really taken him at his word and brought them to the one brunch restaurant he was sure they wouldn’t be recognized.

  Bastian’s expression of wonder, followed by the one of ultimate disgust, had already been filed away in Kian’s vault of special memories. They were still figuring out how a relationship worked between them, and he wasn’t naïve enough to believe that a relationship fraught with as many difficulties as their own, was guaranteed to survive forever.

  But if it ended, he’d still have all those memories to warm him later. There would be good, mixed in with the heartbreak, and that was what Kian was determined to take from this.

  “Chef, that’s smelling a little . . . burned,” Mark offered, his voice for once somewhat deferential.

  “It’s supposed to be,” Kian said, jiggling the sauté pan with a practiced movement.

  “What are you working on?” his sous asked. They were nearly done with prep for the day, and Kian had ducked out of his official responsibilities a tiny bit early to work on a recipe he’d been toying with in his mind. Something that echoed the hash browns he and Bastian both unexpectedly loved.

  “Spin on tortilla Española, with a little bit of a patatas bravas twist,” Kian said, referring to the Spanish potato dishes. “Might be a possibility for a new vegetarian entrée.”

  “Yeah, like Aquino would ever let you put a dish on the menu,” Mark muttered under his breath.

  Kian was afraid of the day he’d finally decide it was okay to say his bullshit to his face. For a second, he considered informing Mark that Kian was either directly or partly responsible for about half the Terroir menu, but ultimately he decided it wasn’t worth it.

  The bare facts were unappealing to him; to Mark it didn’t matter if he was wrong, he’d already formed his opinions and it was going to take a lot more than a single sentence to change his mind.

  “For a French-inspired restaurant, you guys do some weird shit,” Mark said, louder this time, so clearly Kian was meant to respond to this comment.

  “Adapt or die,” Kian said succinctly, which was one of Bastian’s favorite sayings. He slid a thin metal spatula under his potato cake and lifted it slightly, checking its crispness.

  “You’re literally becoming his clone,” Mark huffed. “I’d never have imagined you’d end up here, parroting him instead of developing your own point of view.”

  Kian rolled his eyes. “What do you call this? You just said we were doing some weird shit. How do you know that isn’t my point of view?”

  “Good point.” Mark leaned against the edge of the stove. Kian belligerently hoped his coat would catch on fire.

  “I like to filter unexpected dishes through a French perspective,” was all Kian said. None of this is going to change his mind, Kian reminded himself, but it was hard. He didn’t enjoy being disliked—though in reality, who really did? Maybe Bastian. Except that even that long-held belief was slowly fading away in the face of his sweeter, softer side.

  Maybe Bastian didn’t enjoy being disliked after all. Maybe he just tolerated it because that was the cost of running a restaurant like Terroir.

  “Maybe you just want to filter yourself through Aquino’s perspective,” Mark said, waggling his eyebrows in a grotesque re-enactment of what he thought might be going on between them.

  Kian barely held back a shudder. “You are fucking crazy,” he said succinctly. “Bastian isn’t a filter.”

  He only realized his mistake that would probably be his undoing when an unholy light lit up Mark’s face.

  “Oh, it’s Bastian now, is it?” Mark said, his eyebrows working double time now. Kian glared. He hoped he’d get an eyebrow cramp—if that was even a thing, and Kian believed it should be.

  One of the reasons why Kian had hated Mark so much at culinary academy was the way he could scent the blood in the water, and when he did, he’d pounce harder and faster. It wasn’t like Kian hadn’t learned to be tough during his two-plus-year stint at Terroir, but Mark was a different animal.

  He had all the pieces. He probably wasn’t going to put them together quite right, but in the end, that wasn’t going to matter. The right way—we’ve been in love with each other forever—wasn’t nearly as interesting as the story Mark would no doubt concoct.

  “You’re just jealous that we’re friendly,” Kian tried to deflect, but it was a bad excuse.

  “Yeah, real friendly,” Mark said, his sly insinuation unexpectedly painful. “I wondered how you managed to convince Aquino to make you chef de cuisine at twenty-fucking-three. Now I know. You did it on your knees.”

  “I did it on my two feet, Chef,” Kian retorted tightly. “And this conversation is over.”

  It had only been a five-minute conversation, but it had eroded away any headway Kian had been making to establish himself from a position that Mark might, in some faraway, possible future, respect.

  He’d wanted to believe that Kian was under-qualified and out of his depth, but before he’d only had gossip. Now he had ammunition to back it all up.

  Dinner service was a tense disaster.

  Kian gave himself a pep talk prior with a reminder that he didn’t want to be the irrational asshole Bastian could be sometimes. He didn’t want to yell or throw things or generally be a dick. The problem with that strategy was it assumed you already had your underlings’ respect, and while Kian might have had most of the kitchen behind him, he didn’t have it all.

  He threw his first plate at 7:31 PM and instantly felt sick with guilt. Mark had deliberately goaded him into it by mishearing on purpose the orders and the instructions Kian was shouting out over the regular kitchen noise.

  “I thought you said four scallops,” Mark said, his tone genuinely apologetic, but Kian knew better. Mark didn’t have bad hearing and he definitely wasn’t stupid; he was trying to push Kian past his breaking point.


  Unfortunately, he was succeeding.

  “I said five scallops,” Kian ground out, his voice rising despite every effort to prevent it. “Are you fucking deaf tonight?”

  “Not at all, Chef,” Mark said.

  “Then get another fucking pan going,” Kian yelled. “And apologize to everyone else because they have to figure out how to fucking hold the rest of the dish. Times four.”

  And when a minute later, Kian asked for the scallops, Mark shot him a bewildered look. “You already have the four up there. What do you mean?”

  The tense air in the kitchen shattered when Kian swept the bare plate, no scallops to be found, off the counter and to the floor, where it exploded in a thousand tiny white shards of porcelain.

  He’d always believed that it must have made Bastian feel better—after all, if it didn’t, if you only felt worse afterwards, why the fuck would you continue to do it?

  Kian couldn’t answer that question, because he definitely didn’t feel any better. Somehow he felt even fucking worse, and like he was slowly beginning to lose his grip on his self-control. He’d broken a plate today; what was next? Mark’s nose?

  When service finally ended, he hid out in Bastian’s office again, burying his pounding head between his hands, and wondering how the hell everything could have devolved so quickly. The kitchen was a tense, fraying mess, and everyone was clearly affected. There’d been other issues tonight, at other stations—stations that Kian would have depended on a hundred percent before tonight—and at the head of everything, he felt like the very worst offender.

  He couldn’t tell Bastian how quickly everything had fallen apart. Bastian had trusted him with his restaurant and believed in him completely. How could he go to him, the man he loved and the man he respected more than any other, and confess that he’d fucked it all up?

  He couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t.

  Michel had been the one to approach him, not Mark, even when that was clearly outlined as Mark’s job. “Kitchen’s cleaned, boss,” Michel said, voice gentle and quiet as he stood in the doorway.

  It was the first time Michel had ever used that particular nickname, he’d always used the respectful and traditional “Chef” title with Kian, like he appreciated how difficult it was for Kian to fill the shoes Bastian had passed down.

  Kian told himself it didn’t mean anything, Michel still respected him, but the thought felt empty. He felt empty.

  He’d thought being the boss would feel more like it had before, when he’d been doing a lot of the same things, but with Bastian’s tacit permission. But it didn’t, and now it was hard not to face the fact that a lot of the kitchen staff weren’t as completely behind him as he’d thought.

  Probably they’d thought the same thing Kian did—that he wasn’t really qualified for this job, and maybe even knowing what they did about the close working relationship between him and Bastian, they’d made the exact same assumption Mark had.

  “Thanks,” was all he said shortly.

  He knew Bastian would be waiting for him at his home, for their food followed by sex evening tradition, but Kian wasn’t sure he could even face him tonight.

  It was a cop-out, and Bastian would know that, but he texted him anyway, begging off. Hard day today and I’m tired. Going home and passing out.

  To his surprise, when he drove home, Xander’s car was in the driveway, and he was actually sitting on their beat-up couch in the living room when he walked in.

  “You look like shit,” Xander said. “Is that why you’re not at Bastian’s?”

  Kian collapsed onto the couch and bit his lip as hard as he dared, praying the pain would keep the tears at bay.

  He couldn’t cry, and he definitely couldn’t cry in front of Xander. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he ignored it. It was probably Bastian, and the very last person he wanted to talk to right now was him.

  “You’re home early,” Kian said dully, eyes on the TV, even though he wasn’t really watching it.

  “Seriously, you don’t have any clue when I get home,” Xander pointed out. “You haven’t been here in weeks. Not since you finally got into Bastian’s pants.”

  Kian clamped his lips tighter together.

  “Though, I know how hard being in a relationship is when you work crazy hours,” Xander continued, like he didn’t even realize Kian was right on the edge of breaking down. “You’ve got to make time while you can. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here, not there.” He glanced over at Kian, and he realized his mistake. Xander knew.

  “I threw a plate today,” Kian said slowly. “Maybe Mark is right. Maybe I am becoming Bastian.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe the Bastard isn’t all bad. He has a few redeemable qualities. Ones you have too. If you threw something today, it was because you were at the end of your rope. I know what that feels like.” Xander paused. “Feel like talking about it?”

  Did he want to talk about it? Kian wasn’t really sure he did, but he thought he should.

  “I feel like raiding Nate’s good wine stash,” Kian muttered.

  Xander stood up and gestured towards the closet Nate, a sommelier and their fellow roommate, was always threatening to lock. “Pick your poison,” he said.

  Kian stood up too, and walked over to the closet, opening the door. He almost pulled out a pinot noir that he knew was really good, but the last time he’d drunk pinot had been with Bastian, and he didn’t want to think about Bastian right now.

  Instead he chose a cabernet and walked to the kitchen to grab the opener.

  “So, what happened today?” Xander asked as Kian opened the bottle with a few quick, efficient movements.

  They didn’t really have wine glasses, so Kian pulled two mugs from the cabinet and poured a few healthy glugs of wine into each, handing one to Xander.

  “Do you remember anything about a guy from culinary school who’d made my life a living hell?” Kian asked, figuring they were going to need to go back to the beginning.

  “Yeah, Bart? Was that his name?”

  Kian took a long gulp of wine. Nate was probably going to kill them for stealing this particular bottle, because the wine was full and rich on his tongue. “Mark, actually. Two weeks ago, Bastian hired him as my sous.”

  Xander looked stunned. “I’m sorry, I thought you just said Bastian hired your sous.”

  Kian shot him a wry look. “Don’t worry, he’s already apologized for that one.”

  “And he should still be apologizing,” Xander said. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure you’re wrong.” Kian looked down at the wine in his mug. “He’s got control issues, which you know better than anyone.”

  “At first, I thought it would be gratifying and a little bit funny to watch Aquino’s control issues go head-to-head with Damon’s dad. Now I’m not so sure,” Xander said, as he opened the patio door off the kitchen, and they stepped outside, settling down at the old, worn-out picnic table they’d dragged into their backyard one day.

  “It’s not gratifying or funny?” Kian asked.

  “No, it’s fucking insane and it makes me worry about you. What happens when this falls through, because we all know it will, and Bastian goes back to Terroir? You’re demoted? Mark takes your job? I don’t fucking know. I don’t know how you’re handling all this. I’d be a wreck.”

  “How do you know I’m not a wreck?” Kian asked quietly, staring out in the dark night.

  “Are you?” Xander sounded startled.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I should be able to handle Mark. I should. But he keeps getting under my skin, and I gave him some fucking good ammunition today.”

  Xander had always been the smartest guy Kian knew. He figured it out in under ten seconds. “Oh Jesus, he found out you and Bastian were sleeping together. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  “Of course I didn’t fucking tell him,” Kian said bitterly. “I’m not an idiot. I told Bastian we needed to keep it quiet.
I don’t want anyone to know.”

  “Listen, everyone’s favorite gossip subject has always been Bastian. That’s not your fault. You slid into his orbit and poof, it happened. You got that job at a really young age. People are gonna talk about it.”

  “It’s like Mark looks at me, and he sees me, the me inside that’s quaking and afraid and fucking terrified. And he calls me on it. Constantly.”

  “Easy solution. Fire him and hire someone you actually like. Or promote Michel. I’ve always liked that guy.”

  “Bastian thinks he’s too quiet. Too contained.” Two things Bastian could never understand. “And I can’t.”

  Xander scrubbed a hand over his stubble. “Fucking hell. He told you not to.”

  There was a part of Kian that didn’t want to sell Bastian out to Xander. But Xander was his best friend, and Xander had always wanted the best for him. Not for Terroir, but for him. For all the talk of his soft side, Bastian hadn’t done that, and Kian didn’t believe he ever would. He needed to be okay with that, and aside from Mark, he was. But Mark was the wrinkle that was fucking everything up.

  “If it helps,” Kian muttered into his wine, “he made a few very good points.”

  “It doesn’t.” Xander sounded annoyed. “He’s supposed to be creating an environment where you can succeed, not dragging you down by putting you in a bad spot.”

  “I don’t think he sees it that way,” Kian said with a heavy sigh.

  “So what are you going to do?” Xander asked finally.

  Kian tipped the rest of the liquid in his mug into his mouth. It helped, a little. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m guessing you have no intention of telling him how tough Mark is making things.”

  “How can I? Xander, he told me he believes that I can do this. He trusts me, completely. How can I go to him and say, I can’t? You know how Bastian would take that. It would ruin everything.”

  Kian couldn’t actually bring himself to say it would not only ruin his future at Terroir, but their relationship. But he knew it would. Bastian might not exactly have him up on a pedestal but he did. He believed that Kian could do anything he set his mind to. He believed in his superiority over puny little insects like Mark. How could Kian say, you were wrong while preserving the things Bastian loved about him?