Logically, he should’ve known better. I went to culinary school most nights of the week. Why wouldn’t I know my way around a kitchen? As always, the realities of life gnawed at me. If his prejudices won, it wouldn’t matter what I did. He’d likely blacklist me for ruining his business. I found little comfort in the six-month limit to career blacklisting. When the ruins of the United States finally fell and states became monarchies and kingdoms, I wondered what would happen to people like me.
I put my head down and worked, but my thoughts refused to focus on the spices I knew how to blend by heart. The United States still had a president, but not for long. Everyone knew the truth. The royal families ruled. They’d ruled since the end of the second civil war. The government had lost the few controls it had tried to keep over the years.
People like me would fall through the cracks as the royals rose to higher power, and towering over them all were the monsters of Montana, who kept everything from falling apart completely.
No one was foolish enough to test them.
As I had since the first time I’d heard of Montana and its royal family, I wondered. Were they truly monsters? I doubted I’d ever find out, but I’d listened to the whispers on the street.
People of my caste dreamed of a chance to move to Montana. People like me could become something more than chaff tossed aside.
Alas, I couldn’t afford to move to Montana, not that I’d qualify for the visa required to move there. Every state had closed its borders during the second civil war, and magic helped each state enforce their immigration rules. While a Texas citizen, I couldn’t get a passport.
Like everything else of importance, I couldn’t afford it.
“Barbecue?” my boss asked, dragging my attention back to reality.
Without any interference on my part, my hands had done their job, dividing, measuring, and blending the spices I’d need to transform fatty pieces of chicken into a delicacy. I shrugged. “It’s what I’m good at, sir.”
“Fair enough. What’s going with it?”
“Yams and cornbread.”
“And if they don’t like yams or cornbread?”
I lifted my head, my brows rising. “I thought they wanted the full lower caste experience, sir.”
“They do.”
I hoped my boss fired me on the spot to spare me from a slow death at the hands of royalty. “Then they’ll eat what they’re given and like it.” I grimaced at the annoyance in my tone. “Sir.”
“How are you planning on plating it?”
I pointed at the large metal pans the boss used for pizzas. “They’ll plate it themselves, sir.”
“Huh.”
My boss, who was two castes higher than me, didn’t understand barbecue? “Are you sure you’re a Texan?”
“Don’t get mouthy, Pat. Nobody likes an ass. Don’t you screw this up, you hear?”
I understood; it was his restaurant license on the line. My success meant he kept his license. I likely lost no matter what happened. Even if he fired me and had me blacklisted, I’d only lose six months of work within the food industry.
A black mark from a royal was a lifetime shame, one he’d never escape. I sighed.
For that reason alone, I’d do my best.
Chapter Two
Time passed differently in the kitchen; there was only one of me, and my boss closed the restaurant during my preparations. Sometime since yesterday, he’d lost his mind. Even working to prepare food for twenty, I didn’t take up that much space. After the initial rush, I waited and babysat the ribs, which I slow cooked while hoping for the best.
From the outside, I supposed my work appeared complex, but I kept a list of everything I needed to do in my head, systematically tackling every task. Timers helped, cuing me for when something needed to be taken care of. If I left the chicken to marinade for too long, it wouldn’t cook how I wanted. If it didn’t marinade long enough, it would lack in flavor.
Timing was everything.
The only thing missing from dinner was dessert, but the freezer would save me. My boss kept enough ice cream on hand to feed an army, but to be on the safe side, I’d bake three cakes. To give them the caste experience they desired, I’d use the crap, pre-made icing I loathed but my skinflint boss insisted was edible.
Had I wanted to be authentic, I would’ve made the cake from a box, too.
Alas, I refused to lower my standards beyond the lethally sweet icing. The cake would be good, much better than what most in my caste ate. I’d ruin my efforts with the crap icing, as it would murder the tastebuds of any who ate it and induce a sugar high of the likes they’d never experienced before. If they could choke the stuff down, I’d be entertained watching them from the kitchen, assuming my boss didn’t send me home to prevent me from coming into contact with the royals and elites.
I expected to be headed home within sixty seconds of finishing my work.
On the other hand, as I’d rather be home, I’d accept the loss of a few hours if it meant I could preserve my job. The six-month blacklisting would worry me until the dust settled. If it happened, it happened.
I’d manage somehow. I always did.
In reality, running into the heir in the convenience store had been enough exposure—and food poisoning—for one lifetime. I hoped she wouldn’t show, as I expected she’d flee to find something else to forage with potentially disastrous results for her digestive system.
The crowd of twenty showed up a half hour before their reserved time, fitting perfectly in line with my plans. The cornbread, fresh out of the oven, would tide them over while I added the finishing touches to the mountains of barbecue I’d prepared. Somehow, corn on the cob had slipped onto the platters. I wasn’t sure where he’d gotten so many ears of corn without me noticing their appearance, but he’d begged me to cook them up.
At six on the dot, I rang the bell to notify my boss everything was ready, even the cake. I’d checked the largest piece of chicken to confirm it was done, setting it aside for my boss with enough of the sides to satisfy even him.
“Why’s that out?” my boss barked, pointing at the piece.
“It’s for you, sir. It’s the tester chicken to make sure the batch cooked through. I’m finished.” I waved at the various platters waiting to be served, including the iced cake. “Back to doing dishes?”
“Go on home. I’ll handle the cleaning. You have off the next three days.”
I did? Shit. I knew my schedule. Yesterday, I’d been assigned to a two week hell shift covering for two other dishwashers who’d claimed unpaid time off to handle personal matters. My anger sparked, but before it could take hold, I smothered it.
I could think of a hundred different reasons my boss would be angry. I’d done exactly what he asked of me, something someone of my caste shouldn’t have been able to do. To add insult to injury, I’d probably done the job better than he could. If he’d stopped long enough to think about it, he’d understand why.
I attended one of the best culinary schools in the city. He’d either been passed over for the program or had taken advantage of his caste to bypass schooling.
I worked hard.
That made me a risk to him and his business. Without fail, he recognized I had skills he didn’t. As only a dishwasher with a cooking hobby, I hadn’t been much of a threat to him.
His expectations and reality didn’t align. I was supposed to be beneath him.
As I’d done all of my life, I accepted what I couldn’t change with a weary sigh. “Understood, sir. Have a good night.”
I should’ve done a lot of things, including inform him he’d still have a restaurant by the end of the day because I’d put him over any desire to claim credit. Instead, I took off my apron, gathered my things, and left before I said something I’d regret.
Men dressed in suits loitered outside of the restaurant. Through the window, I got my second look at the Texan royals. The heir sat with the king and queen, her expression an interesting blend of neutr
al and infuriated. Given a chance, she’d probably beat her royal parents with her chair.
Puzzled, I stared longer than I should have. A glint of something metallic drew my attention to the heir’s feet. A handcuff around her ankle tethered her to the table leg.
No wonder she looked ready to kill somebody.
Then again, after having run into her at the convenience store, I understood why the king and queen might leash their daughter to keep her from wandering off.
One of the men cleared his throat.
“If ya don’t want no starin’, don’t be leashing the poor lass,” I countered before shaking my head and turning away from the window. “I reckon I wouldn’t be trustin’ that lass with a plastic butter knife right now.”
They stared at me like I’d stared at her, and I didn’t stick around to find out if I’d pissed them off with my deliberate drawl or my commentary. The irritation over seeing her treated like a horse hobbled so it wouldn’t wander off annoyed me almost as much as my lost three days of pay.
I couldn’t fix the heir’s problems. Hell, I couldn’t fix mine. Losing three days of pay would set me back for months. No money meant no to a lot of things, and I’d have to choose between my apartment, classes, and half-decent food. With my schedule in the air, I’d be spending my next few days finding another job while running a high risk of needing to move back in with my parents, something that happened to everyone in my caste at least a few times.
I’d done well for myself; it’d be my first time running home to my parents with my tail tucked between my legs.
Hell, that I remained single counted as an accomplishment. Most only got married because it made paying the bills easier. To sweeten the deal for couples, Texas paid families for having kids in tax benefits, a lump sum, and anything else they could think of to keep the working castes robust.
No kids meant no workers, no workers meant the elites might have to get their hands dirty, and that would be a downright shame.
As it always did, reality hit hard, fast, and without compassion or remorse. If my boss took the high road and didn’t blacklist me, it still might take months to find work in another kitchen. That left me with no options I liked. Survival meant enduring, and I had the skills for the work most in my caste embraced out of necessity.
I could clean.
The laws favored my boss in most ways, but I had a loophole I could use. As long as I filed my notice within twelve hours following an involuntary loss of a shift, I could find a new job without penalty for leaving early and gain access to the database of time-sensitive job openings.
I wouldn’t enjoy the work, but I could be employed within twenty-four hours if all went well. With another job, I wouldn’t have to go crawling home to my parents. I might be able to eat something healthy rather than gorging on empty calories. Most importantly, I could keep attending my classes as usual.
I wouldn’t like working as a janitor, but I could keep moving forward. It would have to be enough. Unless the entirety of society was turned on its ear and rebuilt from scratch, nothing would change. People like me would never be readily accepted by the upper castes. People like me would work hard in the false hope of advancing.
I’d advanced, but not in the ways most desired.
I could cook, but I wouldn’t have anyone to cook for. Yet, despite knowing the truth of my situation, still I tried. I acknowledged my tendency to reach unobtainable goals. I challenged too much. I worked too hard.
I did a lot of things, and I chided myself for being surprised I’d been cast aside for exceeding expectations.
In one day, I’d gone from dedicated employee to being a threat.
Maybe a change of scenery would help. It wouldn’t hurt. I’d seen the game played. My boss would ruin me through cut shifts and shit hours—if I let him.
I wouldn’t. As always, I’d find a way.
The thought of the Texan princess leashed to the table coaxed a grin out of me, and I wondered if the monarchs truly believed they could catch a wild west Texas wind with something as simple as a pair of handcuffs.
Maybe I was from a low caste, but I recognized trouble when I saw it, and I wished them the best of luck caging her. They’d have better luck wrangling a twister.
I only regretted I couldn’t stay and watch the show.
Despite being a member of a lower caste, I had a surplus of Texas pride. On the walk from my soon-to-be former job and the nearest library, I’d made several decisions. First, until I had an eviction notice in hand, I refused to accept the inevitable. Such refusals to give in had won me extended education at a culinary school, and I wouldn’t give that up without a fight. Second, I’d try to keep my chin up rather than my head down.
Keeping my head down hadn’t preserved my job. Changing tactics might blow up in my face, but I couldn’t be blacklisted from all career options being a stubborn mule.
Finally, if I ever ran into a princess in a convenience store again, I’d do something other than bumble around like an idiot. I’d at least tip the brim of my hat and act like a gentleman rather than stammer like a damned fool.
I laughed at myself for even considering the possibility of meeting her again.
The two mile hike to the library cooled my temper, and I made use of the public computers to file my loss of hours, filing my intent to quit and requirement to find a new job. To be fair to my boss, I listed a special event required by members of the elite caste as cause for my lost shifts. The gesture, such as it was, didn’t impair my ability to quit.
The last step, which confirmed my resignation in the system and lost me my ideal work, wasted twenty minutes, annoyed me into clacking my teeth, and began the process of enrolling me into the queue of the unemployed seeking new work. I drummed my fingers beside the keyboard while I waited for the system to finish and show what level of access I’d get for my job search. With a little luck, I’d gain access to the twenty-four hour queue, which would have me interviewing by tomorrow morning for a new job.
It took ten minutes for my status to change in the system, which unlocked my ability to browse through the open jobs on offer. As expected, there were no jobs for members of my caste available in the food industry. Between the opportunities for free meals and higher than average pay, only an idiot voluntarily gave up the best work our caste had to offer.
If I didn’t get into the expedited queue, my life for the next few weeks would be interesting. Working under the assumption I wouldn’t be in a good position to get a new job, I filtered the available jobs by the pay and hours I needed to continue going to school. Fortunately, because I was in a government-sponsored program, my class schedule was listed as a part of my resume, and the system automatically assumed I couldn’t work during classes.
After removing all jobs I wasn’t qualified to do, I checked the resulting list, which was sparse enough I considered buying the cheapest bottle of tequila money could buy. Drowning my misfortunes in a drunken haze seemed like a good idea for five whole minutes before I remembered how much I hated hangovers.
I just couldn’t win.
Ten minutes into my search, the system notified me I was eligible for a handful of jobs from the expedited queue.
The entries didn’t fill me with confidence, and of my choices, a janitorial position at a skyscraper downtown, a ten minute walk from my school, was the best I could do. I’d be paid more, which would make my life easier down the road, the employer guaranteed shifts that didn’t conflict with education, and as a rare bonus, they capped the number of working hours per week to manageable levels. The real lure was the possibility of promotion and a provision that the company would provide appropriate apparel.
Anyone else in my caste would fight for a chance for the job. It wasn’t work in a kitchen, but when I considered it would let me keep cooking, I’d manage. I marked it as my first choice, picked every other job I could stomach as secondary choices, and headed home.
The blinking light on my answering machine informed m
e it was full, something that hadn’t happened since I’d moved out of my parents’ place at eighteen. I checked the first message to discover it was timestamped ten minutes after I’d left work. Wrinkling my nose, I pressed play.
“It’s Dougland. I’m confirming your schedule change—”
I hit the delete button.
The next message began to play. “It’s Dougl—”
I deleted that one, too.
Five deleted messages later, my mother had left a message informing me she wanted a cake for her birthday. My eyes crossed as her birthday wasn’t for another five months. Did she really think it would take five months to plan a chocolate cake? I deleted her message, shaking my head and laughing at her antics.
Only my mother would be so worried about the one day of the year she was guaranteed to get a chocolate cake fit for a king. I wouldn’t tell her the cake’s recipe had come from the royal kitchens, and everyone in my class had made off with the recipe in a state of utter glee.
I specialized in my barbecue, but I loved the challenge of baking the perfect cake, and I’d accomplished my goals with only a few modifications to the recipe I’d gotten from that one special class.
If things worked out with my job search, I’d have to invite my parents over and treat them to the kind of food the elite typically kept for themselves to celebrate.
I returned to deleting messages, shaking my head at the ridiculous number of times my now ex-boss had called and left messages.
If he had wanted to keep me, he shouldn’t have presumed I’d stick around after losing three days of work, especially not after busting my ass to cover his.
I recognized my pettiness, but I didn’t care. With my ex-boss destined to keep calling, I enabled Caller ID so I could dodge his calls. It would cost me an extra fifteen a month, but it came bundled with the ability to block callers if necessary. After the dust settled, I’d disable the features, but for the moment, it was a splurge I needed to preserve my sanity.
Storm Called Page 2
