The meeting went as it usually did. I propped myself against the door while Mr. Simmons sat behind his desk and Chef Craymore, gesticulating wildly, complained of the general incompetence of the staff.
“But Ms. Delaware handled herself well tonight,” Chef Craymore finished.
I didn’t know who was more startled, Mr. Simmons or myself. The owner snapped himself out of his glazed, half-attentive stare and eyed me. “Ms. Delaware?”
Chef Craymore threw up his hands. “Is everyone in this city deaf?”
He turned to exit the room and I moved out of his way. His arm brushed mine as he passed by and I shivered a little at the sensation. It was a little less than earlier when I had placed my hands on his chest and arm to move him out of my way, but the sizzle was still there.
What is wrong with me? I thought, just repeat after me, Veronica: Ethan Craymore is an asshole. Ethan Craymore is an asshole.
I smiled at Mr. Simmons. “Sir, what are your thoughts on the evening?”
He shook his head and we started what I and others had dubbed the ‘real talk’. Ethan Craymore was one hell of a talented chef, but when it came down to the business of running a restaurant, he seemed more likely to pluck out his own eyeballs than engage in honest, rational discussion. I was the bridge for Mr. Simmons between the kitchen and the dining room. I broke down the shop talk and gave it to him straight, a trait that he admired and paid well for. It was one of the reasons I knew I could make a real go of it if I ever opened up my own place. I loved both sides of this business—the kitchen and the customer.
By the time the discussion was at an end—the night had gone rather well, on a whole, and Mr. Simmons believed we had made the right impression on the wedding party, which included some powerful people—the kitchen was almost all the way cleared out. Mr. Simmons left as soon as the meeting was over, and only Julio, Chef Craymore and I remained behind.
Chef Craymore was checking the inventory against the menu for tomorrow night and I let him be. I stopped Julio from his work on the rest of the dishes. “How’s your son doing, Julio?”
He smiled at me. “Much better, Ms. Delaware. The doctors are happy with his recovery.”
“That’s good. Why don’t you let me finish up here and go on home? I’m sure your wife and kids will want to see you.”
He thanked me and took leave without too much of an argument. Julio’s youngest son, little Anton, had been diagnosed with a congenital heart defect. Through his wife’s insurance, they were able to get him the best of care, but it had been a hard year for the man and his family. Another one that I’ll take with me if I ever have the money and the guts to run my own place, I thought. Employees should be treated as people first.
The kitchen was like a graveyard, all gleaming stainless steel, and polished tile floors. Everything was in its proper place. The knives hung on their magnetic strips, racks stacked with neat piles of dishware, and every surface gleamed. All but one of the dishwashers hissing as they cleaned the remaining dishes, and the cold storage machines clicked and hummed as they re-adjusted the temperature. I sighed and finished loading the last dishwasher before draining and wiping down the sink. It was so quiet that I had almost forgotten that I was not alone until someone spoke from behind me.
“It looks like you’re done for the night. Let’s lock up.”
I glanced at Chef Craymore. He had loosened the buttons at the top of his jacket and removed the red bandana he wore around his neck. I had never seen him without the full chef’s regalia. His neck seemed longer without the handkerchief, and he wore a swooped-necked undershirt beneath, stained with fresh sweat but still white against his tanned skin.
I realized I was staring and blushed. “Oh,” I let out a little laugh. “Of course. Yes. Just let me grab my things.”
I ran to the break room, pulling my own bandana loose and popping the top two buttons of my jacket so that I could feel the cool air on my skin. I grabbed my purse and coat, then took a moment to remove the clip from my hair and fluff it out. I caught a glimpse of myself in the little mirror affixed to the inside of my locker door and frowned. I am not trying to look good for that prick, I told myself in a firm voice, and then slammed the door closed, leaning my forehead against the cool metal.
“God,” I murmured. “Who am I kidding?”
I returned to the kitchen with my coat slung over one arm and my purse over my shoulder. “Okay,” I said. “I’m ready when you are.”
Chef Craymore gave me a quick glance and strode over to the back door of the kitchen. The front was already locked up. The double doors in the back were made of metal and led to the alleyway where we took deliveries and put out the trash. There were only four keys on Ethan’s ring, unlike my own, which was a tangled mess of charms and keys, half of which I probably didn’t need any more. I shut off the lights as soon as Chef Craymore unlocked the door for us, plunging the kitchen into absolute darkness.
I stepped outside first, the scent of fresh rain juxtaposed by the stench of rotting food. The garbage men were coming the next day which, it turned out, would save my neck.
I could not guess how long the men had been waiting for us, but one slapped a hand over my mouth the moment I was out of the restaurant. A second later my purse was wrenched from my shoulder and I was grabbed from behind, a vicious grip twisting my arm up and behind my back until I screamed against the fingers pressed to my lips. “Shut up!” The man hissed.
I didn’t. I screamed again, trying to warn Chef Craymore that there were people out here, but he stepped through the doorway. The whites of his uniform the only thing I made out in the dim, orange light that filtered in from either side of the alleyway. Someone moved toward him, something large in their hands, and then my boss began to move.
Chef Craymore caught the rebar pipe in one hand and pulled. The assailant stumbled forward and Craymore’s elbow came down on the back of his head. Another jumped him from behind and he bent almost double, throwing the man up and over to sprawl on his companion.
Craymore’s head jerked up when I bit down on my attacker’s fingers, eliciting a howl of pain. I kicked back, intending to catch the man in the balls, but he jerked my arm upward and I cried out, pain ricocheting up my elbow joint and into my shoulders and neck. His fingers tightened on my wrist, fingernails biting into the skin. Surely someone heard and is calling the cops, I thought.
Chef Craymore bent over. Through the tears stinging my eyes, I watched him rise, that rebar pipe in his grasp. His gaze did not leave my attackers. “Let the lady go, and you won’t end this night in crutches.”
The man who held me pulled harder, and I whimpered, furious with myself for the sound. “You son of a bitch,” he snarled. “What did you do to my friend?”
“He attacked first.”
The man yanked on me and I could not help a pitiful sound from falling from my lips. Ethan’s eyes flicked down to me and back to the assailant. The man whisper-shouted. “I can fuck her arm up real good before you get to me. How would you like to see your girlfriend in a sling?”
“Let her go.”
“Make me.”
Craymore stared at the man who held me. My attacker’s face was in shadow, but his eyes gleamed the same dull color as steel. Then he reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a wallet. He opened it one-handed and fished out all the cash inside. “There’s more than seven hundred dollars here,” he said. “Take it, and run. You should still have time to get your friend out of here before the police come.”
The man licked his lips, and through my hair and my tears I saw him jerk his gaze between the money and his friend.
The third attacker began to stir. He sat up, rubbing the back of his head. I saw the movement as he looked between us. The man handling me yelled at him, “Get the bastard! Get him.”
The third man stood on shaking legs, “No way, man. That fucker is nasty. Give him the girl and let’s go.” He began to stagger backward, his arm outstretched to balance against the b
rick wall. “Come on, man, this ain’t worth jail.”
“He’s right,” Ethan said, his voice as calm as though he were discussing stock options with a business acquaintance. “Live another day. Spend another dollar. Let the lady go.”
I could hear sirens. The man holding me snarled. He released me and shoved me forward simultaneously. I think he hoped that I would knock into Ethan and make him an easy target, but I stumbled on the uneven ground and went sprawling into the pile of trash bags next to the dumpster. I hit with enough force that some of the bags split. The stench was all around me, suffocating. I pushed up and looked, but Chef Craymore had stepped back from the man rising with his friend propped up on him. I noted that one of them was bald, the other with long black hair, before they shuffled out of sight, the weaker of the two gaining strength with each step.
My attacker glanced back once and snarled. “I won’t forget this. See you around.”
Ethan said nothing, only gripped the rebar pipe tighter in his fist.
I sat up. My white jacket was covered in filth. The colors were a washed out orange and gray coloring with the light, so I could not identify what was on me. I just knew I reeked.
The sirens sang closer now, but still a block or two away. You could always tell if you lived in a city long enough. “Are you alright?” Ethan asked, his hand reaching down to help me up.
I took it and stood. “I’m okay. My arm hurts a bit, and I’m fragrant, but I think I’m okay.” I took a shaky breath, “If those bags hadn’t been there, I would have probably cracked my skull open on the side of the dumpster.”
“Which arm?” He asked.
I held out my right.
He took it, moving the limb this way and that. “Tell me if anything I do hurts.”
Nothing did beyond a brief twinge, “It’s okay. I’m fine.” I pulled my hand out of his. Despite the smell, and the adrenaline leaving my body, touching him made warmth curl around my insides. “Thank you. I’m glad you were here, otherwise...” I let the sentence trail off. We all knew what happened when women were accosted in dark alleys.
Two patrol cars came to a screeching stop, one at either end of the alleyway. The red and blue strobes flooded the place with a weird, sickly light. The sirens cut off soon after the cars came to a stop, for which I was instantly grateful. They echoed something awful.
I looked down and swore, “Ah, hell. My purse!”
Ethan looked down and around the ground, “They took it?”
“Yes! God damn it. I lost my phone earlier, too.” I kicked a fish head that had rolled out of the pile of refuse. “This is not my fucking day.”
“Language,” he said, amusement obvious in his voice.
I glared at him, opened my mouth to say something, but then we were interrupted by the approaching officers.
“Is everything okay here sir, ma’am? We received reports of a struggle.”
I sighed and leaned up against the wall.
Nope. Not my fucking day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Veronica
The police wanted us to go down to the station the next day at our earliest convenience. I absolutely refused to go anywhere until I had had a shower. Which brought up another problem. Fiona had just switched phone providers and had been given a new number which, while programmed in my lost phone, I did not know by heart. Plus, she slept with ear plugs in because her neighbors were a noisy family of six that seemed to be awake all hours of the day and night. My keys were in my purse, as was my wallet, so my condo and a hotel were out.
Which was why, at almost one in the morning, I was riding shotgun in Chef Ethan Craymore’s BMW on the way to his place.
We drove with the windows down. All the windows.
At first, I had refused his offer of a place to crash and a shower, but after a few careful probes he had realized my situation and insisted on my accompanying him home.
“Your friend Ms. Helbourn will be at work tomorrow, and you can make new arrangements. For tonight, you need a shower and some rest, maybe some food.” After a pause he added, “This is not a come on.”
I had relented, finally, until faced with the BMW. “No,” I said as soon as he opened the passenger door. “No, I’m going to ruin your seat if I sit in there. I’m filthy. Just give me two dollars and I’ll take the bus.”
He took my arm and almost pushed me into the car. “It’s not a problem. Get in.”
I grumbled and sat. As soon as the car was on, the windows went down, but even so the stench was cloying. I was half-tempted to hang my head out the window like a dog, but it hardly seemed fair since I was the culprit and he, as the driver, was trapped.
We drove into downtown, and into an underground parking garage for one of the high-rise condominium towers. It was one of a half-dozen others that looked like a great wall of glass and steel. These kinds of places had their own security forces, and an HOA that was probably the same price as some people’s rent.
I got out before he parked so that he rolled the windows up without trapping any remaining gasses. The seat was probably ruined, smeared with enough offal and rancid sauce to merit a trip to the detailers. When Chef Craymore got out of the car and locked it, I said, “I’ll pay the bill to get it cleaned.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ethan said. These were the first words that he had spoken to me since he had insisted that I get in the car. What surprised me was not the sentiment but the tone. Gone was the belligerence of Le Poisson D’Azur’s head chef. There was genuine warmth in his voice.
“No,” I said. “I insist. It’s not fair that you saved me and you have to pay for it. It’s okay. Once I get everything settled with the credit companies and my bank, I’ll be able to reimburse you.”
Ethan shrugged and motioned toward a bank of elevators behind a glass-walled secure entry. “Fine. Can we go up? I’m exhausted.”
I nodded and followed him.
It was past two in the morning. We had spoken to the police for over an hour, a female officer separating me from Ethan so that she could ask, privately, if he had been the one to attack me. After much explanation and defense of his character—what little I could muster—I described in as much detail as I could the three attackers and their general appearance. From what I gathered overhearing Chef Craymore at the other end of the alleyway, he had been doing much the same thing.
Ethan swiped a card through the magnetic strip reader near the door, opened it, and motioned me in. We rode the gleaming elevator up to the twenty-third story. There were over fifty in the entire building, and my ears almost popped from our ascent. I followed him out and down a hall decorated in tasteful neutral tones, with nautical prints hung at twenty-foot intervals along the wall. He led me to the very end and used one of the four keys to open the door, holding it open for me.
Restaurant, car, and house. What’s the last key for? I wondered.
“The bathroom is down the hall to your left, the first door on the right. There are fresh towels and toiletries within.” He closed the door behind us and locked it.
I did not respond, too wide-eyed as I took in his condo. The place was enormous, the room a huge open space that blended seamlessly from the kitchen to the dining to the living area. The furniture was done in dark woods and deep, solid blues with a few white and gray pillows to soften the effect. Cooking magazines and books were strewn about, and there was evidence of his breakfast upon the three-person bar—a shallow bowl with a sliver of pineapple still remaining, bread crumbs on a white plate, a coffee mug, and a griddle on the stove.
I laughed. “You have my stove.”
“No, I believe that’s mine.”
I opened my mouth to explain but, when I glanced at him, noticed he was smiling. Actually smiling. We had an informal pool going back at the kitchen to bet what would happen first—meteor strike, rising sea levels, or a smile from the Master Chef?
“You’re going to catch a fly with your mouth open like that,” he teased, his eyes sparkling. He cl
eared his throat and looked away. “There’s the small problem of clothing. I have some, of course, but—”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine to sleep in,” I said and pointed down the hall. “And I presume you have a washer and dryer? If I clean these tonight, I should be able to wear them tomorrow. I’ll go over to Fiona’s first thing in the morning and get her to let me into my condo.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll get you some clothes.” He went to the hall down the right and I moved in the opposite direction.
I found the washer and dryer in a little room of its own, not an alcove like mine, and unbuttoned my jacket. The shirt underneath stank of sweat but, thankfully, nothing else. I threw the jacket in the washing machine and went back into the hall just as Ethan appeared, a folded pair of black sweatpants, a maroon t-shirt, and black socks in his hands. He started to hand it to me, hesitated, and said, “Maybe I should just put this on the vanity so they stay clean.”
I choked out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”
He did just that and pointed out the clean towels before exiting the room. I started the shower, adjusting the temperature as high as I could stand it, and stripped. I just stood under the pounding spray for a moment and sighed as the heat washed over me. I looked over the shower and through the glass doors to the rest of the bathroom and let out a snort of laughter. “His guest bathroom is almost twice the size of my mine.”
It was all gray mosaic tile, glass, and chrome. The shower had several jets and was adjusted for people of considerable height, of which I was an ashamed member. I bent my head back under the spray and sighed, then went about the business of scrubbing the filth and stench from my skin and hair. I doubled up on everything, just to be sure, and even though the shower was almost twice the length of my usual, the hot water never abated.
I dried myself and dressed, then gingerly carried my soiled clothing and shoes into the laundry room and started the machine on its heaviest cycle. I added extra detergent then said a small prayer that it would be enough to make the clothes somewhat presentable for the following day.
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