The One You Can't Forget

by Roni Loren

  “Ugh. You’re not going to be naked. That would be a major kitchen hazard. Just…shirtless. And hey, with all your tattoos, you have some added coverage.”

  Christ. This was what his life had come to? From four-star restaurants to this? He’d thought teaching at an after-school program was a giant tumble down the staircase from his chef dreams, but this was a new level. The basement. At least with the kids, he could convince himself he was training future chefs. Here he would be the special of the day. “I don’t know.”

  She reached out and grabbed his hands, her face earnest beneath the fringe of bright-pink hair. “Come on, Wes. My other guy called in. Shirtless Chefs is just getting off the ground. If I have chefs no-showing for parties, I’m going to catch hell in the online reviews, and the business will tank before I really get rolling. You’ve got the skills. You’ve got the blond bad-boy thing going, which is going to rock their socks off. And once upon a time, you could charm the ladies, so I know you’re capable. Plus, you said you needed the extra money. This is easy cash. Win-win.”

  Wes grimaced. He hated needing the money. Hated that he was anywhere near that place he’d been so long ago, where he’d had to scrape together every damn dime. He’d thought he was far past that, and then boom, life had exploded. But need wasn’t even the right word. He had enough to live on right now with his teaching gig. He knew how to stretch his dollars. What he wanted the money for was a stupid idea. Something he shouldn’t be messing with. His family would kick his ass if they even knew he was thinking about it.

  Still, he couldn’t help closing his eyes and picturing the beat-up school bus his friend Devin had shown him last week. The old bus had looked like it’d been rolled off the side of a rocky cliff and set on fire, but Wes had been able to see the bones beneath, the potential to be converted into a food truck. He’d gotten that itch he’d tried to ignore since he’d lost everything. The what-ifs.

  He’d found himself inquiring about a loan at the bank. He’d known the answer before asking, but he’d asked anyway. And he’d put out feelers with his friends, telling them to give him a call if they had any extra catering or temporary cooking gigs.

  Of course, Suzie had been the one to call, and she hadn’t told him exactly how her new private chef business worked or the name she’d chosen for it until he’d arrived. She was smart enough to know he would’ve run in the other direction.

  But now he was here and she needed his help. And dammit, he wanted the money. He tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “What am I teaching them to make?”

  When she didn’t answer immediately, he lifted his head, finding her biting her lip.

  “Suze,” he said, warning in his voice.

  She held up her palms. “Don’t hate me, okay? There’s a bruschetta recipe and a bourbon nut brittle that you’re going to love. But some of the other stuff is…themed.”

  His shoulders sagged in acceptance. “I’m making dick-shaped things, aren’t I?”

  “Um…” Her nose wrinkled. “There may be recipes for Big, Meaty Balls and Eat My Taco Dip.”

  “I fucking hate you.”

  She grinned and stepped up to pat him on the cheek. “You’re the best, Garrett. If I didn’t want to put lipstick on the merchandise, I’d kiss you.”

  “You say the sweetest things, Suze. I just feel showered by your sweetness and affection.”

  “Right?” She pinched his hip. “Now go in there, be nice, and look pretty.”

  He gave her a look. “You treat all your employees like cattle?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Only my friends who won’t sue me.”

  He let out a tired breath. “I won’t sue you, but if you tell anyone about this…”

  “I won’t.”

  “I could lose my job.” Not to mention whatever shreds of dignity he had left.

  She mimed sealing her lips and tossing the key. “Your secret’s safe. I swear.”

  “Fine. I’ll go in.”

  She did a little celebratory clap, but then her smile sagged a bit. “And you sure you’re cool with alcohol being at the party? I mean, I know I’m pushing you to do this, but for real, if that part’s a problem—”

  “I told you it’s not an issue,” he said, cutting her off, anger trying to surface. “Tonight, that’s the least of my worries.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Okay. Good.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, resigned. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Right.” She swept an arm out toward the door. “Godspeed, my friend.”

  With one last steeling breath, he stepped past her and pushed open the door. All eyes turned his way, and the blond woman with the penis hat grinned widely and clapped her hands together. “Ooh, y’all got me a stripper?”

  Wes almost reversed his steps right there. Three. Two. One. Right back out the door. But he gritted his teeth and kept moving forward.

  “Even better,” said a tall, dark-eyed woman at her side. “He doesn’t just strip. He cooks for us!”

  “Yum!” another of the group said, and Wes couldn’t tell if that was about him or his food.

  “Hello, ladies.” Wes forced a charming smile and then unbuttoned his black chef’s coat as a little part of him died inside. “Who’s ready to get some hands-on lessons?”

  All the women eagerly raised their hands, laughing as they made their way over to the long bar in the kitchen. His ingredients were neatly arranged, his mise en place set up by Suzie ahead of time, and the recipe cards were stacked in front of each chair at the bar along with colorful Jell-O shots and flutes of champagne.

  Wes inhaled a deep breath as he took in the festive atmosphere, trying to center himself.

  This was a party. Someone was getting married, and this was their fun night with their friends. Maybe the last fun night if this chick’s marriage went anything like Wes’s had. They didn’t need some grumpy-ass dude ruining their evening.

  He tried to keep that in his head as he laid his chef’s coat over a chair and reached back to tug his T-shirt off.

  The ladies made appreciative sounds and comments as the cool air hit his bare skin. Their reactions should’ve stroked his ego. If he’d been his younger self, he would’ve rolled around in that kind of attention, would’ve egged them on and played it up. If he’d been that guy, he would’ve sidled up to the bar with them and knocked down some of those shots, found a hot single woman in the bunch and charmed her into his bed for the night.

  But right now, looking at all the pretty faces and roving gazes, he couldn’t find an ounce of interest in anything but the booze. Since his divorce, that part of him had died as well. All he saw when he looked at women now were trouble, drama, and disaster waiting to happen.

  No, thanks.

  One of the ladies leaned over and poured him a tall glass of champagne. “What’s your name, handsome?”

  My name is Chef Wesley Garrett. I trained under renowned Chef Amelia St. John, and for a half a second, I owned the restaurant of my dreams and was going to be the next big thing in the city. “Roman.”

  “Ooh, nice name. You speak Italian?”

  “No. Spanish.” Because that was what his adoptive mother spoke and was the language of half his former kitchen staff. But he’d be damned if he was going to perform it like some circus trick. “I’m rusty, though.”

  “That’s okay, darling,” said an older lady from the far end of the bar. “We didn’t hire you to talk.”

  A few of them laughed, and the muscles in the back of his neck tightened. The light scent of the champagne drifted his way, and though he’d never been a champagne drinker, his throat became parched. He closed his eyes for a second, breathed through the urge, and focused on why he was here.

  Money in the bank. Money in the bank.

  He picked up a knife, pasted on
a smile, and grabbed a bowl of ground beef. “All right, who’s ready to handle some balls?”

  chapter

  THREE

  The garlic scent wafting up from the bag of takeout made Rebecca’s stomach rumble as her heels clicked along the broken pavement. She shouldn’t have worked so late without eating something. Her bad knee was aching because she’d forgotten to tuck her flats in her bag today, but she tried to keep up the pace. Her limp would be visible tomorrow after pushing herself like this, but at least on a Saturday she wouldn’t have to hobble around the office. Plus, she only had a few more blocks before she got to her house, and she was so starved that she was strongly considering finding a bench and digging in.

  She resisted the urge, knowing this part of Austin wasn’t bad but it was late and quiet, the businesses on the street closed for the evening. She’d taken a different path home than normal so she could swing by the restaurant, but now she missed the bustling street of bars and quirky shops she normally took on her way home. She switched the sack with the bottle of wine to her other hand and fished a piece of bread out of the takeout bag. She took a big bite, groaning at the buttery taste, but didn’t stop walking. The sooner she got home, the sooner the chicken marsala was all hers.

  But as she crossed another street, she heard something behind her. Not footsteps exactly but something light and quick. She tensed and turned her head, ready to crash the bottle of wine over someone’s head, but instead, a scruffy black dog the size of a Lab but with fluffier hair stared back at her.

  She let out a breath in relief but took a step back anyway in case the dog wasn’t friendly. “You scared me, pooch.”

  The dog eyed her bread, and his tongue lolled out in a pant. If his expression could talk, it would say, How you doin’?

  “Oh, no you don’t,” she warned. “This isn’t for you.”

  He trotted closer, looking more goofy than aggressive, but she wasn’t going to trust that. He wasn’t wearing a collar, and though he wasn’t skinny, he looked like he’d been living the hard life for a while. He dipped his head and bumped the takeout bag.

  “No,” she said, moving the bag away from him. “This is expensive Italian food. It’d probably make you sick.”

  He moved closer, his nose angling for her ankles. He sniffed her like he was searching for gold up her pant leg.

  “Ugh, not you too. I’ve been canine assaulted enough today.” He probably smelled Prince Hairy on her. She gently nudged him away with her shin. “Come on, Scruffy. I’ve got to get home.”

  He barked, a soft woof that seemed to come from deep in his chest, and then stared up at her with big, black eyes.

  She let out a heavy sigh. “Well, damn. You’ve got that look down pat, don’t you? You’ve charmed someone out of their dinner before.”

  He plopped his butt on the ground and panted, some dog version of a smile on his face.

  She groaned. “Fine. You win.”

  Rebecca tossed him the bread. He opened his mouth to catch it in the air, but it bopped him on the snout and then fell to the sidewalk. He didn’t seem to mind a little dirt. He wolfed it down in two bites and then sat again and looked up.

  “That’s all I’ve got for you, buddy. The chicken’s for me.”

  He woofed.

  “This is not a negotiation. I’m hungry. I need to eat, too, and I have nothing in the fridge at home.” She looked to the stars above and shook her head. “I’m arguing with a dog.” She peered down at him. “You shouldn’t try this with me. I’m a very good lawyer. I’ll win.”

  He dog-smiled again.

  “Fine.” She grabbed the last roll from the bag. “You’re right. You win. Now go.” She tossed the bread far down the sidewalk and watched as he chased after it. She turned and headed the other way before he could waylay her with those puppy eyes again. She needed to get home. She couldn’t do anything else for him. But a pang of guilt went through her, and she grunted in frustration. When she got home, she’d call the animal shelter and let them know his description and where he was so they could pick him up.

  “Look for the dog with buttery garlic breath,” she muttered to herself.

  The dog didn’t follow her, and she walked for a few more minutes, listening to the sounds of a car playing music in the distance and enjoying the cooling night air. She was only a few blocks from home when she heard something shuffle behind her. The back of her neck prickled. She paused, planning to turn around and have words with the dog again, but before she could, an arm banded around her from behind.

  Her body went rigid, and everything dropped from her hands, the wine bottle shattering on the sidewalk, the bag muffling the sound. She opened her mouth to scream, but something cold and hard pressed against her temple. All her words evaporated.

  “Make one noise, and I pull the trigger,” someone said against her ear, his voice shaking but his hold firm.

  The gun cocked, and the distinct sound flipped a switch inside her, sending a cascade of cold dread through her. Familiar dread. Click. Boom. Click. Boom. The sound loop was one she recognized. One she still heard in her nightmares. Only this time, the bullet wouldn’t lodge in her leg. This time, there was no Finn to throw his body in front of the bullets. It’d land where it was meant to.

  Click. Boom.

  She’d be on the news again. This time with a sheet over her face.

  The mugger said something in her ear. Something angry. Demanding. She heard nothing but a few disconnected words. “Kill… Now… Bitch.”

  But his voice morphed in her head. Became someone else’s voice. Other words.

  You think you’re so much better than me. You’re so fucking pathetic. I can’t believe I actually let myself give a shit about you. You’re just like the rest of them. An empty-headed sheep.

  Click. Boom. Her ears started to ring like the gun had already gone off.

  She closed her eyes, everything going still inside her. Not fear. Not terror. But…inevitability. Of course this was how it would go. She’d escaped when she wasn’t supposed to. Now it was time to pay off that debt.

  “Are you listening to me?” The guy shook her and pressed the barrel of the gun harder against her temple.

  But she hadn’t been listening. She couldn’t. All she could hear were screams and bullets pinging into lockers, shots hitting flesh, calls to get down, get down, get down.

  “What the hell is wrong with her?” a second voice asked.

  Oh. There were two.

  Of course there were. How could it be any other way?

  A hand yanked at her purse strap, ripping it off her shoulder. “Give me your watch or you’re dead, bitch.”

  She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her muscles had forgotten how. One of the attackers shoved her to the ground. She hit the concrete hard, and pain shot through her reconstructed knee, the shock of it briefly breaking through her sticky thoughts. She needed to react, to give them what they wanted, but she couldn’t make her limbs work. The gun jabbed into her back.

  They were going to do it. Shoot her right here on this street to get her anniversary gift from the firm, a TAG Heuer watch she rarely wore, and she couldn’t make herself move.

  Click. Boom. Click. Boom.

  She closed her eyes, bracing for it, but a different sound came instead.

  A vicious snarling ripped through the air, and the press of the gun disappeared. Her attackers shouted at each other, cursing, and Rebecca rolled over in time to see a big, black ball of fur leaping at a tall, thin assailant. The docile dog from earlier was gone. In his place was a wild animal with bared teeth and wolf hunger in its eyes. He knocked the guy with the gun to the ground.

  The other took off down the street, his baseball cap falling off behind him, but the one with the gun was flat on his back and blocked from her view, wrestling to get the dog off him and crying out when the animal sank his teeth in
to his arm.

  Rebecca tried to push herself to a stand, wanting to help the dog, but pain stung her as glass from the wine bottle cut her elbows.

  “Hey!” A deep male voice shouted from a distance. Footsteps pounded against the street.

  “Gun!” Rebecca yelled, the word coming out in one big gasp. She needed to warn whoever was coming closer. She couldn’t have another death on her hands.

  She crawled forward, but before she could reach the fray, the gunshot went off like a firecracker. The sound echoed in Rebecca’s ears, reverberating down to her bones and hurtling her deep into terrifying memories. But the high-pitched yelp of the dog snapped her back into the moment. Her stomach lurched. “No!”

  Her attacker—a thin, white guy in a hoodie—got free and took off in a stumbling run. The dog collapsed, blood already pooling beneath him. Rebecca crawled to his side, frantic.

  Whoever had yelled finally reached them. She heard him skid to a halt next to her. “Jesus Christ.”

  Rebecca pressed her hand to the dog’s head, and he whimpered. Tears jumped to her eyes, and everything that had been moving in slow motion in her head jolted into full speed and bright colors. “Oh God. No, no, no.”

  “Shit.” The man stepped closer, the soles of his black Vans touching the edge of the blood and his breathing labored from his run. “You’re bleeding. We need to get you—”

  She shook her head, trying to get words out.

  “Ma’am, I think you’ve been shot. I’m going to call for help. Just—”

  “No. Not me,” Rebecca said, finally managing to make her mouth work. “The dog.”

  “The dog?”

  “He’s dying.” She didn’t recognize her voice. She sounded hysterical. She never got hysterical. “Do something!”

  “We need to call the police. Those guys—”

  She grabbed the leg of his jeans. “No!”

  “But—”

  “He saved me.” She looked up at that, finding light hazel eyes staring down at her, worry etched into a serious face. “We need to help him. Now.”