by Anna Martin
By the time he arrived at Lumiere that afternoon, Remy was bouncing. He’d had a good morning and was in the mood to cook. He let himself into the restaurant via the front door, then checked through the building to make sure it was clean and up to his standards. It was, as always, which made him feel a little guilty for being a perfectionist.
The team of servers that worked at Lumiere were mostly part-time staff, and like most restaurants, he had a fairly high turnover on the front-of-house team. He’d had a few good kids who stayed for a while, mostly college students who liked the hours and the tips. Over the years they’d had some really amazing servers and some really terrible ones, so Remy always liked to double check that they had closed down properly. He liked to start his day knowing all was right in his world.
Remy ducked into the staff bathroom in the back hallway and changed into his chef’s whites and the sneakers he didn’t mind getting covered in food debris. The lighting in this bathroom was terrible, but even the cursory glance he gave the mirror reflected back the strain showing around his eyes, the flecks of gray at his temple.
Great.
Thirty and already going gray. He leaned in to the mirror, ignoring the old wives’ tale, and yanked at the stray hairs until they were gone. The bags under his eyes he couldn’t do anything about, and that soured his previously good mood.
The Lumiere situation was stressing him out more than he liked to admit, definitely more than he’d admit in front of the rest of the family. They didn’t need to know he was cracking under the pressure of running the place or what the additional pressure of Joe fucking Fitzgerald breathing down his neck was doing to his blood pressure.
Remy retied his hair in a ponytail, washed his hands, then made his way into the kitchen.
“Hey, big brother,” Andre said with a grin. He was stirring something that smelled spicy and delicious, so Remy moved through the small kitchen to stand behind him.
“Hey. What’s this? Looks good.”
“I don’t have a name for it yet. Some kind of curried crab… thing.”
Remy huffed a laugh and found a clean spoon to dip into the pan, sampling a little of the rich orangey sauce. He nodded. “Good.”
The dish was balanced well between the spicy flavors and the richness of the shellfish. He’d always liked the combination of curry spices with fish, something he thought too many people overlooked.
“I’d put rice with this rather than pasta or potatoes,” Remy said, leaning back against the counter.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I know what you’re thinking… but go with a yellow rice and cilantro rather than those crushed new potatoes.” Andre pouted, making Remy laugh. He tried to push his brother outside of his comfort zone when it came to cooking, though Andre had his favorites and tended to stick to them. “Oh, and you’re going to need to double that sauce to portion it right,” Remy added. “It’s good right now, but you need it to be thinner. Whatever you used for the sauce base, make that up in another pot and combine them.”
“Are you sure?” Andre asked, frowning.
“Andre,” Remy said, making sure he had his brother’s attention.
“What?”
“We have costs. Overheads. In order to break even on what you’ve made, we’re going to need to charge thirty bucks per order. No one’s going to pay that. Double the sauce, same size portions, rice instead of potatoes because it’s more cost-effective.”
“Cheaper,” Andre muttered.
Remy rolled his eyes and reined in his temper. “It’s a good dish, Andre,” he tried. “Really good. I’m happy to put it out there. But we still need to cost it right. You can easily double that sauce and still give people what they want. I’ll get it on the specials list.”
He moved away from Andre then, not wanting to get deeper into an argument with his brother, since those tended to go on forever, and checked on the gumbo Gerard had started earlier that morning. It was good, with a sausage base rather than fish, probably since Andre was using crab in his dish. They worked together seamlessly, knowing each other’s preferences and adapting silently to make sure the menu was balanced. It was one of the many reasons Lumiere worked so well—or the kitchen did, at least. Gerard had left after doing prep, leaving Remy alone with his sulking brother. Still, they could run Tuesday dinner practically with their eyes closed.
“You can go home for a while if you like,” Remy said as Andre finished wiping down surfaces. “Take a nap, be back by five.”
Andre regarded him suspiciously.
“No catch,” Remy said, holding his hands up in surrender. “We’re done here now, and there’s no point in us both being here. You’ve already done most of the prep. I just need to make dessert.”
“Okay,” Andre said, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “If you don’t need me, I’ll go shower and change. Christ, it’s hot in here today.”
“I’ll try and get the AC working again,” Remy said, the apology in his voice if not his words.
“Good luck with that,” Andre grumbled, then said good-bye and ducked out of the kitchen before Remy could change his mind.
Peace at last.
* * *
Joe had waited until lunch was over and the restaurant was cleared of customers before making his way down to Lumiere. He was expecting to have to get through the dragon at the gates—Andre—before he was allowed to talk to Remy, but as he approached he saw the younger Babineaux brother duck out of the front door and head back in the direction of their family home.
The sign on the door had been flipped over to Closed, but from previous visits Joe knew there was a side entrance leading to the patio—and kitchen—at the back of the building. That gate was unlocked, so he wasn’t technically trespassing by pushing it open and wandering through to the back door.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck!”
Joe paused with his hand reaching out for the door, wondering if his next move was going to be a good one, or a bad one.
From inside the kitchen, something crashed. Loudly.
“Hello?” Joe called, throwing caution to the wind and pushing the door open. “Is anyone there?”
“Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck do you want?”
For reasons Joe couldn’t explain, something tingled in his belly, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Once Joe was inside the building, he walked toward the doors to the kitchen, which were old-fashioned, swung in both directions, and had circular cutout windows. Someone had propped them open, probably to let the air flow, and Remy was standing on a chair with what looked like a butter knife in his hand, the front of the kitchen’s air con unit on the floor.
“Is this a bad time?” Joe asked, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.
Remy was a little sweaty, a little sweary, and undoubtedly pissed off. A few wisps of hair had escaped from his man-bun and were stuck to his face. He was wearing chef’s pants but had abandoned his shirt and was working—if it could be called that—in a tank top that might once have been white and was probably once not riddled with holes.
In short, he was delicious.
“Yes, it’s a fucking bad time,” Remy snapped. “You certainly know how to pick your moment, don’t you?”
“Are you trying to fix an electrical unit without isolating the electrical source? And using a knife rather than a screwdriver?”
“Screw you,” Remy said. “And get the fuck out of my kitchen.”
Joe folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re going to shock yourself.”
“Why do you care? If I die right now, you can step over my frizzy corpse and get my dad to sign the restaurant over to you within the hour.”
“I don’t want you to die,” Joe said, more than a little offended.
“Yeah, whatever,” Remy mumbled. He turned away and started poking at the unit with his butter knife again.
“Seriously,” Joe said, stepping forward. “You’re going to sho
ck yourself like that.”
“You’re here. I’ve already gotten a nasty shock, haven’t I?” Remy said with a sneer. “What’s another? Anyway, if I flip the breaker off I have no idea if what I’m doing is working or not. There’s some screws loose in here, and I just need to….”
He grunted and banged the side of the air conditioner hard. It coughed and spluttered, then started to whir softly.
“There,” Remy said triumphantly. “Now maybe my staff won’t drown in their own sweat tonight.”
“You need a new air conditioner,” Joe said as Remy easily hopped down from the chair, grabbed the front grate, and got back up to secure it in place.
“You need to fuck off,” Remy said easily.
Joe snorted. “Nice.”
“Look. Out of everything that needs to be replaced around here, how close to the top of the list do you think the air conditioner is? I’ll give you a clue. Not close. Not close at all.”
He flicked the last clip into place, hopped off the chair, and took the chair back out to the dining room. He paused before turning to Joe, leaning his perfect little butt against the edge of the table where he’d just slid the chair. Joe watched with a dry mouth as Remy reached up, pulled his hair loose, smoothed it all back from his face, and re-secured it. The action was quick and practiced, and it showed off Remy’s strong biceps and his toned pecs.
Joe licked his lips.
Remy gave him a long, even stare, as if he could read just how dirty Joe’s thoughts had suddenly become. Then he shook his head. “I have work to do,” he muttered, stalking back into the kitchen.
For a moment Joe considered leaving. But he didn’t want to leave, not really, so he followed Remy and resumed his position leaning against the propped-open door.
Remy was hauling stuff out of the pantry and dumping it on the stainless-steel island in the middle of the kitchen, seemingly not aware, or not caring, that he had an audience. He moved fluidly around the room, as though he knew by instinct how many paces between the pantry and the fridge, from the fridge to the countertop, and then to the sink so he could wash his hands. Joe was willing to bet if he blindfolded Remy, he would still be able to make his way around.
“Why are you here?” Remy said, pausing after moving a large digital scale to the counter but not looking up.
“I wanted to see you.”
Then Remy’s eyes met his. “Bullshit.”
“I promise you it’s not.” And it wasn’t. Sure, he needed to move on the property, but it didn’t hurt him one little bit to look at Remy. Joe wanted to slide his fingers up under that shirt and run the pads of his thumbs over the soft skin of Remy’s sides. That probably wouldn’t be a popular move. Remy might kill him.
“I don’t get why you don’t just give up. Move on.”
“Maybe I see something worth hanging around for,” Joe countered.
Remy’s eyes darkened, and he scowled, then looked away. “I have work to do,” he repeated.
“Tell me to leave, and I will.”
“Fitzgerald.” Remy’s voice rang loud and clear in the almost-empty kitchen. “Fuck off.”
Joe grinned. “Make me.”
Remy’s eyes narrowed, and he walked slowly, purposefully, around the steel island until he was nose to nose with Joe. They were around the same height; Joe was an inch or so taller, but Remy was bigger, broader. When he squared his shoulders, straightening his spine and thrusting his hips forward in an animalistic display of forceful presence, Joe felt it, right in his gut.
Fuck yes.
He leaned in the last half inch and stole the kiss Remy certainly wouldn’t have offered.
The bite he got in return—because it could only be called that, the way Remy captured Joe’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged—was enough to melt his knees, and Joe took two handfuls of his tank top and used it to yank Remy down into a real goddamn kiss.
“Fuck,” Remy growled. He spun Joe around and backed him up against the countertop.
Remy’s dark chef’s pants were elasticated at the waist, giving Joe plenty of room to grab and knead handfuls of Remy’s gorgeous toned ass, using the momentum to grind their cocks together.
It was the heat, Joe was sure of it, or something in the French Quarter air that was making him so goddamn hot for Remy, the way he tasted, the way he smelled, that stupid cocky attitude that was such a turn-on.
“Stay there,” Remy said and pulled sharply away.
“Huh?” Joe asked. His head was swimming with smells and tastes and Remy.
“Fucking stay there,” he repeated and ducked out of the kitchen and into an employee bathroom across the hall.
Joe understood a moment later when Remy stalked back out, his pants tented with his erection and a condom in his hand. Remy licked his lips, looked at Joe from under heavy eyelashes, then braced his hands on the counter and shot Joe a challenging look over his shoulder.
“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” Joe muttered, reaching around to grab the condom from Remy’s hand. He shoved Remy’s pants down around his knees, then put a hand between Remy’s shoulder blades and pushed until his chest was on the counter.
This time when he reached around, he took Remy’s cock in his hand, pumping it slowly as he moved his other thumb to Remy’s pucker and rubbed it slowly. Apparently this was the magic key to getting Remy to become pliant and obedient. He splayed his arms out on the work surface and pressed his cheek against the cool steel, and he whimpered.
“Good,” Joe murmured, unable to help himself.
Remy grunted and pushed his hips back.
Taking that as his cue, Joe split open the condom wrapper and rolled the latex over his cock, then rubbed it up and down Remy’s crack.
“You need lube?” he asked.
“Nah, just shove it in.”
“Jesus,” Joe muttered again, then spat on his hand to give himself at least a little slick before he pushed inside.
Remy moaned, long and slow, as Joe inched in. He watched as Remy’s fingers curled on the counter, and his body tensed, then relaxed, then he moaned again. Joe wrapped his hands around Remy’s hips, delighting in the sharp hipbones normally hidden by clothes but finally exposed to his touch.
When he bottomed out, Joe held there, his cock throbbing as Remy continued to make those low delicious keening noises.
“Fuck me,” Remy said.
“What?”
Joe had heard him just fine.
“Fuck me, you bastard.”
“Sorry?”
Remy planted his hands, arched his back, and thrust his hips onto Joe’s cock.
“Fuck me!”
Joe was taken aback, but he wasn't about to deny him. “My pleasure.”
It was hard and fast and messy and sweaty. Remy knew a lot of very colorful curses and he used them liberally as he bucked and writhed and demanded—
Fucking pushy bottom. Joe grinned.
It didn’t take long for Remy to reach down and take hold of his own cock, tugging it in time with Joe’s thrusts as he rested his head on his forearm and moaned some more.
Joe decided to play a little dangerously. He rolled his shoulder and let his hand fly, spanking Remy hard on the thigh.
Remy muttered something Joe couldn’t hear, so he did it again, landing squarely on Remy’s ass the second time.
“Fuck,” Remy cried. Joe knew that sound and grabbed hold of Remy’s hips again to keep pumping into him hard as Remy came in his hand.
It took less than two seconds for Joe to follow him—Remy’s orgasm apparently was the permission he needed to let go of his own. He clenched his fingers and dug into the soft flesh of Remy’s thighs. Joe gritted his teeth, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from them both before he pulled out.
For a moment neither of them said anything.
Then—
“Shit,” Remy murmured, breathing hard.
“What?”
“Now I’m really behind schedule.”
&
nbsp; Joe laughed and pressed a slack-mouthed kiss to Remy’s shoulder. “Can I help?”
“No.”
Joe rested his forehead on Remy’s back and inhaled the sweet smell of Remy’s sweat. Then he pushed away, carefully pulled the condom off his dick, and tugged his jeans and boxers back up to cover his bare ass.
“Maybe if you gave me a chance, we could get to know each other. Since, you know, we’re fucking each other’s brains out.”
“That was a temporary moment of weakness.”
“Two,” Joe corrected. He spied a pile of paper towels next to the sink and used one to wrap up the condom and toss it in the trash. “Two temporary moments of weakness.”
“The first time I didn’t know who you were.”
“Still counts.” Joe grinned.
Remy muttered something unintelligible and started to fix his clothes, cleaning himself up as he went. Joe crossed to the sink under the window and let the cold water run over his hands and wrists, then washed his face.
When he looked up, Remy tossed him an apron.
“I need a pound of pecans finely chopped,” he said. “There’s a knife on the wall. Wash your hands first and don’t, whatever you do, cut a finger off. You’re not insured, and I’m sure as shit not paying your medical bill.”
Joe silently tied the apron around his waist and, when he was sure Remy wasn’t looking, smiled.
Chapter Five
I can’t believe I did that. Again. It had been one thing when he didn’t know who Joe was, when he was just a hot stranger in a bar—that wasn’t usually Remy’s style, but it happened on occasion. He was human. It was another thing, though, when it was Joe. Joe, the guy who could fuck him and then fuck up his entire life up with one signature if he got his way. Remy wasn’t having it.
It was just after dawn. The quarter was pink and soft like always, barely waking up after a long, hot night, but it didn’t feel like a normal morning for Remy. Everything felt all crooked and weird after what he’d done in his own damn kitchen the day before. Then in Joe’s apartment. Twice. He couldn’t even blame alcohol. He had nothing as an excuse other than how much he wanted Joe despite everything he represented. How much Remy loved to muss his perfectly styled hair and mark his skin, make a dent in the shiny, perfect shell that he knew had to have a real man hiding underneath it.
