The Masks of October

by MJ Compton

  She cracked a couple of eggs into the bowl.

  She’d been handy. That was all. She deserved more than being the breathing equivalent of a handkerchief.

  What would you have to lose?

  She was already teetering on the edge of disaster. Pulling down her panties for Tag Gentry might be the nudge that completed her destruction.

  Vanilla splashed into the bowl, dripping from her measuring spoon.

  Damn it all, I’m a professional. I worked a whole season surrounded by hot baseball players and never once crossed the line between fan girl and mature adult. It was a kiss. Only a kiss.

  Tag wasn’t the only player to attempt to play her, but she’d laughed them off as being teases and kept things light. Until Tag had been injured, she’d even ignored her crush as thoroughly as she ignored his plea for a good-luck kiss.

  Being in his apartment—maybe that was the difference. She’d looked at the sterile place and seen nothing of what she expected the man to be. Maybe this was what he considered home. The furnishings belonged to him. And now she was one of the kitchen appliances.

  And she planned to stay that way: unused by occupant.

  October 27

  World Series Travel Day

  Skye started her day arguing with the bank about the due date of her balloon payment. Their stubborn refusal to budge even one minute was what turned the conversation from a negotiation to an argument.

  “I would think you would want a late payment rather than a foreclosure.” But reason wasn’t working. “I will even pay you a late fee. That will make you money. A foreclosure will cost you.”

  It was as if she hadn’t reached a real person at all but rather just another “Press One for Dead End” option on the bank’s voice mail system. As far as Skye could tell, there wasn’t a difference.

  She’d call again tomorrow. Maybe she’d be connected to someone with a heart.

  She tucked her phone into her pocket and glanced around Skye’s the Limit’s kitchen. Dust motes drifted in the slant of sunlight creeping through the louvered shutters. The counters looked bare without the usual jumble of produce, small appliances, and meals-in-progress.

  Tag’s kitchen was nice, but it wasn’t hers. Here, she didn’t even need to think because everything was set up exactly the way her mind worked while she was cooking. Yes, she’d taken her own tools to Tag’s place and his major appliances were restaurant quality, but the layout hadn’t been designed with a working cook in mind.

  A knock on the back door startled her out of her reverie.

  She couldn’t imagine who would be there. As far as most people knew, the building was empty. She’d done nothing with the restaurant front except cover the windows so no one could peek in. The back door, the one to the kitchen, was in an alley, not a street. There was no walk-in traffic. She didn’t even have an index card tacked to the door announcing her business. The people who knew her would have called before dropping by. Few people knew she lived on the third floor of the building. She hadn’t reached the point of success where regular deliveries of anything were scheduled. Her business came from her website and referrals.

  A knock on the back door at nine thirty in the morning was…unusual.

  And yeah, repairing the doorbell was on the replacing-the-lock line of her strategic plan.

  Skye peered through a gap in the shutter. Her stomach lurched, and her breath hung up on her tonsils for a moment. Drake Dixon.

  She tried to remember if she’d brushed her teeth yet that morning. Her hair was down, as she wasn’t working on food prep yet, and it needed to dry from her cold shower. The only meals on the agenda for the day were for Tag and his entourage. The rest of the day was devoted to prep for Dixon’s Halloween party. And here he was. Outside her kitchen.

  He knocked again.

  Skye wiped her hands on the front of her jeans.

  “Mr. Dixon. What brings you around here this morning?” she asked as she opened the door. Her smile felt phony and awkward.

  “Good morning, Skye.” He stood a little too close, so she stepped back, which he apparently mistook as an invitation to enter.

  The kitchen had passed the Health Department’s last inspection, but it didn’t have the shiny, stainless steel look a lot of customers might think it should have. Skye wasn’t ashamed of the space. She just didn’t want to have to defend it.

  She walked around to the far side of the produce prep island and propped her elbows on the wooden surface. “What brings you around this morning?”

  He smiled. Smarmy. A mild excuse for the clenching of her stomach. “You seemed a touch stressed last night when we spoke, and I wondered if the change of date really was a problem.”

  “No. Really. It’s not. It actually gives me more time to work on it.”

  “Do you need an advance to purchase supplies?”

  Skye swallowed. Forced a noncommittal smile to curve her mouth. “No. Supplies are all set. In fact, I’ve already started a couple of things. But thanks.”

  What was he doing there? How did he even know where she based her business? Her advertising listed only her cell phone number, her website, and other social media contact information. His presence was more than a little creepy.

  “Business is good?” He settled on the stool across from her.

  “Yes. Besides the baseball games and your party, I have an election-night party on the books and the Jaycees’ Harvest Ball. Oh, and one of the players hired me to cater his wedding on Thanksgiving weekend.” The work was there. If the health codes, zoning ordinances, and building association didn’t catch up with her. Using Tag’s kitchen had to be breaking all kinds of regulations.

  “And Tag Gentry.”

  “Feeding Tag isn’t quite the scope of the other jobs.” He was more like feeding…a boyfriend. Not that she would admit that to Mr. Dixon. And she probably would have taken on the job for free. Something else Dixon didn’t need to know.

  Dixon reached across the island and placed his hand over hers. His skin was cool and paper dry. Or maybe hers was overheated. “Don’t work too hard. I wouldn’t want my favorite caterer to exhaust herself.”

  The man had a line. She would have to give him that.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  He lingered a few more minutes before leaving.

  After she closed the door behind him, she leaned against it. Her legs were shaking. Drake Dixon had given her a huge opportunity when he contracted with her for the clubhouse and luxury box meals before Gems games. There were any number of legitimate reasons he would be checking on her. Maybe.

  Just because she couldn’t think of one didn’t mean anything.

  * * * *

  “I’m bored.” Tag’s wheelchair blocked the entrance to the kitchen.

  She’d shown up late morning and in a pissy mood. Slamming around his kitchen like she owned it. “Call Bluto back and do some more PT,” she suggested.

  “That’s cruel.”

  “I’m the cook, not the entertainment.”

  “Who whizzed in your cereal this morning?”

  “You don’t want to know.” Her mutter was so low Tag wondered if he was meant to hear it.

  Containers filled with hard-boiled egg whites drenched in orange liquid covered every available flat surface. The entire penthouse reeked of sulfur.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m summoning demons to make you leave me alone,” Red snapped.

  “Ha. Ha. The Cooking Comedienne. We could get you a spot on the cable access channel. Why are you dying those eggs?”

  “Deviled eggs for a Halloween party.”

  “I like deviled eggs.” His mom made the best ones he’d ever had. Of course, the eggs she’d used were taken that morning right from the nests in the chicken coop. Nowadays, they’d be called organic or some such nonsense.

  “These are for a party. I’ll make you some tomorrow to snack on during the game.”

  “So what do you devil them with?�
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  Red stopped whatever she was doing with her big knife and stared at him. “Isn’t there a Thursday-night football game for you to watch or something?”

  “I hate football.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re a guy. You get off on violence.” She returned to jabbing at green stuff on her cutting board.

  “The game doesn’t start for a couple of hours yet. And don’t stereotype. It’s unattractive.”

  “I thought we cleared this up already. I’m not trying to attract you.”

  “You’re doing a lousy job.”

  A real lousy job. The more time he spent in her company, the more he liked her. And, pondering that, he was wondering just what they could do in a wheelchair. Or his bed. His right leg might be busted up and he might be doped to the hair follicles on his head, but last night’s hard-on had been real enough. And it wasn’t just a reaction to a woman’s soft ass resting on his lap. He’d dreamed about her most of the night.

  “I guess my knife-wielding persona isn’t scaring you off. Pity. I’ll be sure to wear a hag outfit tomorrow.” Her tone was neutral. “Now go amuse yourself.”

  He didn’t think an ugly costume would help. All he could think about was her naked with him inside her. Was she a natural redhead? He’d never slept with a real ginger before.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  “Don’t. Focus your energy on your leg.”

  “You’re a laugh a minute. Anyway, since you’ll be watching tomorrow night’s game here, why don’t you plan on spending the night?” That sounded innocent enough.

  Again, she paused in her chopping or mincing or whatever the hell she was doing with that knife to stare at him.

  “I’m just thinking about you.”

  “Thanks.” She sounded as sincere as his offer had been.

  “So what did you say the problem with your building was?”

  “I didn’t. And it’s nothing for you to think about. So if you’re so bored, tell me about yourself. Unload.”

  She resumed her task.

  “I will if you will,” he replied. “Actually, you can look me up on the team website. My official bio is there. But yours isn’t on your website.”

  “I’m just a cook. What you see is what you get.”

  Maybe she was brushing him off, but she’d given him an idea about what to do with himself.

  October 28

  World Series Game 3

  Why were baseball games on so late on the East Coast? Skye stifled a yawn as she added horns and wickedly angled eyebrows to a dozen deviled eggs. The day had been a long one.

  Tag had already been to the kitchen twice to remind her game three was starting at nine. “Seattle fans want to see their team play too.”

  Skye didn’t care about Seattle fans. They weren’t rooting for the Gems to win.

  Then she realized she shouldn’t be rooting for them to win either. She wanted the Gems to win the series at home. Where she’d be catering games six and seven. The bigger the down payment she could put on the stove, the less her monthly installments would be.

  If she could make the balloon payment. But worrying wouldn’t put the money in her bank account. Only a miracle could do that, and Skye hadn’t given up on miracles yet. Hadn’t the Gems made it to the Series? Hadn’t the biggest shareholder of the team hired her to cater his Halloween bash? Hadn’t her old stove finally given up the ghost so she was forced to purchase a new one?

  Oh. Wait. That wasn’t a miracle. That was bad timing. Unless she chose to look at it differently. And, just like her thinking during her could-have-been-miserable childhood, Skye chose to be positive.

  “Come on, Red. They’re singing the National Anthem.” Tag was in the doorway of the kitchen in his wheelchair. She could have sworn Franz had already moved him to his recliner.

  She said nothing as she sealed the tray of eggs with plastic wrap. Once the eggs had been refrigerated, Skye pulled out Tag’s baseball-watching snack for the night.

  “You go on ahead, and let Franz get you situated. I’ll bring the food.”

  Tag was definitely acting weirder than usual.

  She’d marinated bite-size chunks of chicken in a lemon garlic concoction and then skewered them on long wooden picks with chunks of mango, red bell peppers, and thick rings of sweet onion. Using Tag’s marvelous stovetop grill, she’d cooked them to perfection and then chilled them. She’d roasted the almonds herself to ensure their oil and salt content. And what was a baseball game without popcorn in a helmet? It had taken some doing, but she had connections at the stadium. The only difference was her popcorn was air-popped and lightly misted with real butter.

  She placed the food on the card table Franz had left next to Tag’s recliner.

  Tag didn’t say anything as he munched his way through five innings. The score was tied. The last thing Skye wanted to do was try to stay awake for extra innings.

  She almost wished she’d taken Tag up on his invitation to spend the night. She didn’t need heat yet, but cold showers were getting tiresome.

  The death of the stove had created a chain reaction.

  But she wasn’t going to mope.

  “All right!” she exclaimed when a Seattle player got on first.

  “What the hell?” Tag asked. “You’re rooting for the guys in teal, not the guys in white.”

  “No, I’m rooting for Seattle.”

  “Not in my house.”

  “Fine.” She stood up. “Do you want me to leave the food out for you, or shall I put it away before I leave?”

  “You’re not going anywhere until the game is over. That’s the deal. Remember?” Tag sounded grumpy.

  Skye sat back on the smooth leather. “Cranky.”

  The next Seattle batter advanced the runner. Skye punched the air with her fist but said nothing.

  Tag glared at her. “The Gems pay you.”

  “Not unless they’re home,” Skye replied. She desperately needed them back in Columbia.

  When Seattle scored the go-ahead run, Skye couldn’t help but whoop.

  “If Seattle wins this game, you have to pay a forfeit,” Tag said.

  Skye didn’t like the gleam in his eyes. “Says who?”

  “Your host and client. If the Gems don’t lose too badly, you’ll be safe. Because for every run they lose by, you have to forfeit an item of clothing.”

  Skye tried to suppress her laugh, but it escaped as a snort. “Strip baseball?”

  “Just think. We can start a new trend. Bring in more fans.”

  “Who’d only get bored between hits.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think seeing you without your shirt would bore me. Probably just the opposite.” His lips curved into a smirk. “And that could be a problem, given the fact I can’t do anything about, well, you know.” He even waggled his eyebrows.

  Skye didn’t try to hide this laugh. “You are so full of it.”

  “I’d rather be filling you with it.”

  It took a moment for her muzzy brain to process his crude comment. “You’re out of line.”

  “No more so than you rooting for my enemy.”

  So that’s how he wanted to play it. “Haven’t you ever heard the old saying, ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you’?”

  “Who’s feeding who? You’re being paid by the Gems to cook food the Gems are paying for to feed me, a Gem, in my hour of need.”

  Guilt slammed her. She couldn’t refute a single thing he said. Still, she attempted to excuse her perceived betrayal. “The fans deserve to see the Gems take it all at home.”

  “The fans deserve to see us sweep Seattle into Puget Sound. I deserve to see the Gems annihilate Seattle.”

  “Seattle isn’t responsible for what happened to your leg.”

  “My leg is responsible for the Gems being in Seattle.”

  She bit her lip. She wasn’t going to whine to Tag. His leg would heal. The bone would mend. And he had the entire off-season to recuperate. If she lost her
building, she might as well be losing her business. Yeah, Skye’s the Limit was her, not the address or even the stove, but without a place to ply her trade, she was nothing. She didn’t have an off-season. She had clients who trusted her to create the food of their fantasies.

  But none of that had anything to do with Tag Gentry. The Gems paid him massive amounts of money to squat behind home plate and paint his fingernails white. The Gems paid his health insurance. For all the rehab he was going to need. For Hans, Franz, and Bluto. All of that, above and beyond his obscene salary.

  If she got hurt at work, she was sunk.

  Tag was still a have-it-all, and she remained a have-not.

  Seattle beat the Gems three to two. Skye stood, took off her clogs, and threw them at Tag’s head. “Two for one.”

  “Hey! Good thing you’ve got a lousy arm. If one of those had hit me, I might have to rescind my invitation for you to spend the night here.”

  “I’m not spending the night here. I have my own place. Besides, my goldfish needs to be fed.”

  “You can’t afford a goldfish.” Tag scoffed. “You live over your catering business, and the power company shut off your gas.”

  Skye’s head jerked up. “I beg your pardon?”

  He smirked. “I’ve been looking you up on the Internet, Celeste. Who gave you that god-awful name? No wonder you call yourself Skye.”

  “At least you can’t make obscene rhymes with it. Tucker.” Her mouth was dry. What exactly was floating around about her?

  His smirk widened. “I have a brother named Hunter. The cheerleaders in high school had this chant—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “They got real creative with my brother Cooper’s name too.”

  “I’ll bet they did. Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You need a loan to pay your gas bill?”

  Skye squared her shoulders and headed for the foyer. “No. Thanks, though.”