Crave

by Margaret McHeyzer

  What the hell happened?

  Why are so many different things coursing through my body? There’s a constriction around my chest, tears threatening to erupt, and my mind is in a state of confused, manic commotion.

  My fingers leave the soft skin of my lips, and rake through my hair as I close my eyes and just give myself a moment to stop, breathe, and centre my thoughts.

  I can’t allow this to go unanswered. I deserve an explanation from Pierre as to what just took place.

  Feeling my body loosen and my mind begin to slow back to a normal pace, I take in a huge breath and slowly let it escape past my lips.

  The clock doesn’t seem so loud now, and my shock at the magnitude of our actions has begun to fade.

  I stay in the office for a few more moments, trying to think on the best plan of action for talking to Pierre about what happened.

  Once I begin to feel some normality creep into me, I leave the office and go to the kitchen. Pierre is at his station, continuing with what he was doing before he ripped me out of here into the office.

  There’s a look on his face, a mixture of anger and frustration as he continues to stir the pot.

  He looks up at me, and for a fleeting moment I see something else flicker in his intense eyes. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is exactly. Possibly shame or embarrassment, but it’s there. It’s begging me to not say anything; it’s written all over his face.

  I can’t help but lean up against the kitchen wall and just watch. The way his shoulders tensed the moment he saw me, or how his squared chin flexed, most likely from grinding his teeth together. Or even the way his chest rapidly rises and falls while he tries to not let what happened in the office affect him.

  “Pierre,” I say as I take a step closer to him.

  With his eyes still attached to mine, he shakes his head and then lowers his gaze.

  “Pierre,” I say again, taking another step closer to him. “We need to talk about this.”

  “You need to leave my kitchen, and go serve.”

  “You can’t avoid me.”

  “Oui, I can. Please get out of my kitchen.”

  “It won’t go away, and neither will I.”

  He continues stirring his pot, shutting me out, not acknowledging me.

  “Pierre…”

  “Order up,” he yells as he turns his back to me and walks to the pass-through. He shoots a look over his shoulder at me, essentially telling me this conversation is over.

  And it is, for now.

  Leaving the kitchen, I walk to the pass-through and look at the table number and the food. Great. Table ten, the obnoxious, drunk businessmen. All I need is to go back to that table.

  “Not you. You leave that table to Angus or Andrew. You do not go back there,” Pierre says. But it’s more like a command, a direction I’m supposed to follow.

  “You can’t talk to me but you can issue an order and I’m supposed to do what you say?”

  He looks at me, his eyes dark with anger, his face hard and emotionless. “Oui.”

  A chuckle bursts from me, not intentional, but really. “Okay then. I’m off to table ten.” I pick the plates up and head toward the table.

  “Get back here.”

  Rolling my eyes, I keep going, a plate in each hand, heading for the drunk arses at table ten. Hopefully they’ll keep their hands to themselves, eat, and leave.

  I reach table ten, and avoid Mr. Handsy. The other guys are ribbing him about the way I shot him down and he’s sitting back in his chair nursing what I suspect is another tumbler of scotch while watching my every move.

  “She’s cute,” I hear one of the guys say as I turn and walk away.

  It’s a restaurant Holly, be calm.

  When I get back to the table, I place Mr. Handsy’s meal in front of him, and I see how his eyes take in the contour of my breasts through my jacket. His tongue peeks out and he wets his lips, before his eyes travel the length of my body. Admiring me like a stock animal, sizing me up to see if I’ll do for him for the night.

  I don’t bother asking any of them if they want cracked pepper over their food, they can shove that up their arse.

  “Hey sweetheart,” Mr. Handsy calls as I walk away.

  I still, and turn slowly to look at him. Plastering my professional smile on my face, although I’m thinking he can go screw himself, I turn and look at him. “Yes?” I don’t ask what he needs, because I’m sure he’ll dirty it up and say something inappropriate.

  “Bring me another scotch.”

  “Sorry, Sir, but we’re unable to provide you with any more alcohol. According to the New South Wales Responsible Service of Alcohol Act, I’m unable to provide any further beverages to patrons I believe are intoxicated. And I thoroughly believe your consumption of alcohol this evening allows me to refuse you on those grounds.”

  His peers snicker and a few even let out huge belly laughs.

  “Bitch,” I hear him say as I turn to leave.

  I go behind the bar, and Angus comes in with me. “Hey, I heard table ten is giving you stress.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Did Pierre tell you?”

  “Yeah, he marched up to me and told me to take the table from you. To say he was pissed off is an understatement. What’s going on with you two? He’s been demanding every day I fire you, and tonight his tune has changed and he now demands I protect you from the guys at table ten.”

  Hmmm, really?

  I make the drinks for the orders that have backed up, but I remain quiet. There’s not really much I can say. I can’t tell Angus about that kiss, because I don’t even know what that was.

  When the drinks are caught up, I go over and continue to help serving food, preparing the bills and cleaning the tables.

  It’s close to ten and the restaurant is quiet now, with only a couple of diners left. The rowdy, drunk guys left over half an hour ago, and Mr. Handsy didn’t even look at me again for the rest of their dining experience.

  He even left me a tip. He gave Andrew a hundred dollars and told him to give it to me, saying, “She deserves it.”

  I put the tip in the communal tip jar the staff have in the break room when no one was looking. I don’t need the money, so it may as well go to the others, who are younger and most likely not as financially secure as I am.

  By the end of the night, I’m exhausted, and an emotional mess.

  Pierre ignored me, and when he did lift his head to look at me, he’d scowl and go back to his work. His moods are explosive, whether it’s flat-out agitation at whatever imaginary crap is flying around in his mind, or the fierce, all-consuming passion when he kissed me. He’s definitely spirited but also hurt and lost.

  His passions lurk beneath layers of his exterior armour. The harshness is what everyone can see, the repugnant coldness of the shield he tries so desperately to hold on to. For what reason, I don’t know.

  But that kiss. It meant something to him. I could feel it as he took possession of my mouth. Something passed through him when his soft lips connected with mine; it was there trying to burst through the surface. A raw, brutal need he keeps repressing, pushing it further down and not allowing it to surface.

  “’Night,” I call to Angus, and whoever else wants to answer. Andrew and Justine have already left, leaving only me, Angus, Pierre, and Eric.

  “Drive safe, and thank you for coming in on such short notice,” Angus says from front of the house. I walk past the kitchen and see Pierre tying the end of a garbage bag. Who knew he did menial tasks like taking out the trash? I assumed he’d think it was beneath him.

  He lifts his head in bare recognition of me even being here. I feel so small; it’s over my head. Not even two hours ago he was sweeping his mouth down on mine, drowning me in a desirous kiss. And now, his guards are up, his hate is clear, and the anger rolling off him is near sizzling.

  I reach the back door, and take a deep breath, leaning my forehead on the cool of the steel door just to allow myself a moment
to calm down.

  I don’t think Pierre’s problem is with me, but with himself. But he won’t talk to me to tell me what’s happening, or why he kissed me the way he did.

  I punch in my code and unlock the door. I wait ‘til it closes behind me and start toward my car. I approach it and unlock the door with my key fob.

  In a split second, I feel two strong hands grip my hips, and I’m pushed up against the side of my car.

  “Pierre, you can’t do this,” I say. He pushes further into me, his erection thrust toward my bottom.

  “Who’s Pierre?” I smell the heavy scent of scotch, and I hear the slur of table ten’s very drunk Mr. Handsy.

  My blood stops flowing, my heart jumps into my throat and tears automatically start to spill.

  Emma, I have to be strong for Emma.

  “HELP!” I yell as loud as I can possibly scream.

  He lets go of one hip, winds his fingers in my hair and rips my head to the side. My back arches in an unnatural curve and my neck snaps to the side.

  “HELP!” I scream again, mustering my breath to make it as loud as possible.

  “Shut up, bitch. I expect service for that hundred bucks,” he says. Suddenly, he’s not sounding so drunk.

  “HELP!” I scream for a third time.

  He fists his hand in my hair, and slams my face onto the car. The edge of the car’s roof connects with my eye and the bridge of my nose.

  It sends my senses off for a few seconds as I feel warm liquid falling along the side of my eye.

  But before my mind can comprehend what’s happening, Mr. Handsy has let me go.

  I turn and slump against the car. A furious, violent Pierre has the guy by the lapels of his business suit, draws his arm back, and punches the guy in the face.

  The guy stumbles back a few steps, alcohol still impairing his balance. He trips over his own feet and falls back, collapsing to the narrow alleyway.

  “Holly.” Pierre runs to me, squats beside me and gently caresses my hair. “Your eye,” he says. He’s gone from ferociously angry to calm and gentle in only a few heartbeats.

  I lift my hand to touch where I was hit, and wince in pain. “Is it bad?” I ask Pierre as he strokes my hair, but keeps a watchful eye on the guy who tried to do…well, whatever it is he had intentions of doing.

  “Oui, it is bad. You will need the hospital.”

  My gaze travels to the drunk jerk on the asphalt and then back to Pierre. “Thank you, Pierre. He scared the shit out of me.” A coldness falls over me, as I shake and notice the intensity with which my hands are trembling.

  “I must call police and ambulance. You will be okay here for a moment?” His face has changed again, it’s even softer. He’s morphed from the tainted saint to a caring and compassionate man.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say as I sit and let the car support me.

  I close my eyes as I hear Pierre on the phone. I can feel the warm blood that keeps dripping down my face, and soaking through my jacket.

  Within a few seconds, the back door bursts open and Angus strides over to me.

  “What the hell happened?” he yells. I’m not sure who he’s addressing.

  With my eyes still closed, I just relax against the car and remain quiet, listening to Pierre retell the story.

  My head starts to swim, small black butterflies begin to slowly descend as I feel myself slightly sway.

  Pierre and Angus are having a semi-heated argument, and sirens are screaming in the distance.

  The darkness is getting more restrictive and closing in on me. I can feel my breath becoming ragged, and the gasps coming from my throat are small and laboured.

  “Holly,” I hear someone say. “Holly!”

  I open my eyes to see Pierre’s haunted grey gaze intensely lock onto mine. He gently grasps my shoulders and I lean into his touch, soaking up his softness and kindness.

  “Pierre,” I manage to say with my raspy breath. My eyelids become heavy, and I recognise I’m shutting down. I’m unreachable, even to my own self. I can’t touch any part of me.

  “Holly,” I hear one last time, before all my senses cease to co-operate with me.

  Chef Pierre: Chapter 10

  Pierre

  “Holly, please stay awake. I have called the police and an ambulance. They’ll be here in a few moments.”

  “Pierre, what did he do?” Angus asks as he takes a step toward the drunk passed out on the road.

  I look over to Holly and see her eyes begin to roll back in her head. Even though she’s sitting on the ground and leaning against her car, she’s swaying and can barely keep upright.

  “Holly,” I say as run to her and kneel in front of her. She’s desperately trying to hold on, but I can tell she’s just about to slip away. She may well have a concussion from where that drunk fucker slammed her head against the car.

  The thumping sound as her face met with the cold steel of her car was sickening. I almost threw up when I heard it.

  “Holly,” I say again, more desperate for her to open her eyes and look at me.

  “Pierre,” she murmurs. I run my hand down her face and try to keep her awake. A small appreciative sound escapes past her cherry lips, as she leans into me. “Pierre,” she says once more as her body collapses in an unsophisticated way. It just slumps as her head rolls forward and she awkwardly collapses.

  “Merde!” I yell and I catch her before her head unceremoniously hits the dirty, cold asphalt.

  “Fuck!” Angus roars as he lunges toward Holly to catch her before she falls. My arms have already encompassed her before he gets there.

  “I can hear the police coming,” he says as he straightens and turns to look down the alleyway. “I’ll go out to the street and direct them back here.”

  “Holly?” I say, trying to wake her by gently rubbing her shoulders.

  She lets out a small groan. It’s not enough to tell me she’s completely okay, but at least I can hope she’s in no imminent danger.

  The sirens get closer and within minutes there are two police cars abruptly stopping in the alleyway.

  “What’s happened?” a police officer asks Angus, as I sit with my back against Holly’s car, cradling her in my arms. I’ve moved her so her entire body is sitting in my lap, her head tucked under my chin, her arms limp beside her body.

  I can feel her warm breath gentle against the skin on my neck. It’s comforting to know she’s breathing. Maybe her mind has gone into shut-down mode. The rich crimson liquid dripping down her face has slowed to a mere trickle but her clothes are stained with the blood from over her eye.

  Around me I can hear the police questioning Angus, and an ambulance soon rolls to a stop behind the police car.

  An ambulance officer looks over at me cradling Holly, then the drunk out cold on the ground.

  He quickly comes over to me, and squats down beside us.

  “What happened?” he questions me.

  “That beast put his hands on her. He smashed her head into the side of her car,” I tell him, though I can feel my jaw tighten as I look over to the unconscious man.

  “I’ll get the stretcher.” The young paramedic stands and goes to the back of the ambulance were he gets a stretcher bed and wheels it over toward me.

  He doesn’t look like he’s in a hurry, and it’s pissing me off that he’s taking his time.

  The other paramedic comes over and they both try to lift Holly from my arms. “I will do it,” I say, shooing them away.

  I stand, still cradling her, and place her on the very uncomfortable-looking bed. They strap her in and begin wheeling her to the back of the ambulance. Holding her hand, gently stroking the skin, I walk with them toward the ambulance.

  “Are you her partner?” one of them asks me.

  “Non,” I respond.

  “You won’t be able to come with us.”

  “Merde! Of course I can.” I can feel my eyebrows draw together as my jaw clenches and my shoulders stiffen.

  �
��Um…” He looks at me, then over at his co-worker. “I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

  “Fils de salope! I will not let her go alone. When she wakes she will need someone she knows,” I almost yell.

  “What’s the deal, man?” the paramedic asks, looking between the two of us.

  “There is no ‘deal’. I am coming, end of discussion.” I can hear my voice become more passionate, more threatening toward him. And so do the police as one of them starts to walk over to us.

  “Let them do their job. If you want, go to the hospital to see her, but you’re not helping her acting like this,” he says as he stands beside me.

  “Non, I must go too.”

  “Look,” he starts as his voice lowers, to a soothing more serene tone. “I understand you probably like her, and you want to look after her –”

  “Non, I do not like her,” I say interrupting him.

  “Huh, really? Well then, she’s not your concern.”

  We stand off for a few seconds, but I retreat and let her hand go.

  I do not like her. She is an imbécile, just an employee at the restaurant. A woman who gets under my skin by trying to challenge me, nothing more.

  “Pierre,” Angus calls me, snapping me out of the mental turmoil. “Let them do their job. I need to call her family.”

  The next few minutes fly by quickly and the drunk guy is also wheeled away on a stretcher bed from another ambulance. His wrist is handcuffed to the bed, and the ambulances leave rapidly. The police car stays behind so the officers can to talk to me.

  Angus disappears inside and I’ve been left in a whirlwind as I look down at my blood-covered clothes. There’s a card thrust into my hands, and the cop’s asking me questions, trying to ascertain exactly what happened.

  It takes what seems like forever, and after many useless questions, the cops finally leave.

  I’m free to go to the hospital and make sure Holly is okay.

  Without stopping, I turn and run for my car. My keys are already out of my pocket and in my hand.

  The hospital isn’t too far from the restaurant, around fifteen minutes, and when I get there the car park is almost empty. Parking out in the front, I run into the emergency department asking for Holly.