I shake my head.
“No, no, it's nice,” I tell him quickly, and Rex is beaming again, in an instant, bouncing up and down in place as he picks up the block of cheese and just starts biting chunks out of it, chewing once or twice before he swallows.
My cheeks are flushed, burning, from Rex's revelation that Grim thinks I'm pretty. In an effort to distract myself, I glance around the kitchen. Despite the somber basement surrounding us, this is a decent-sized setup, with long metal counters, three restaurant-sized refrigerators, three ovens and twelve burners. I open the refrigerator closest to me and peer inside to inventory the ingredients.
Wow.
Someone likes lunch meat.
Because it kind of looks like that someone bought out the lunch meat section of the grocery store. And the cheese section.
Hmm.
Nary a vegetable in sight.
Maybe one of the other fridges is designated for veggies. I open the other two in succession, but I only find more of the same: meat and cheese, cheese and meat. Actually, the last fridge is stuffed with pre-cooked rotisserie chickens. Like, twenty of them in their clamshell packaging. No vegetables. Nothing but cheese and meat.
“Okay.” I draw in a deep breath. “Rex? Do you know where Ms. Grim is?” I turn around to face Rex and find that he has obliterated that whole block of cheese. And I'm assuming Mr. Cheese didn't help that much.
He shrugs and points toward the ceiling. “Upstairs somewhere. I dunno.” He shrugs again. “Can you make me a sammich now?” And he says it exactly like that: sammich. I glance dubiously inside the fridge that I'm still holding open.
“Maybe? What kind of sandwich do you want?”
“Ham!” he practically sings.
“Right.” I take down a deli package of chipped ham and grab a jar of mustard off of the door. The door shelves are filled with nothing but jars of mustard, shoved in haphazardly, some upside-down or on their sides.
“Do you know where the bread is?” I ask Rex, and he looks at me a little funny.
“Bread?” he pronounces the world as if he's never spoken it before. Then he laughs. “No, no, no! I don't need bread! Just put some mustard between the slices of ham.” When I don't respond, he stares at me as if I've grown another head, and then he becomes a little pompous. “I mean, come on, Pretty! You've never made a ham sandwich before? What kind of cook are you?”
I smile weakly. “All right. Why don't you show me how you like your sandwiches? Then I'll know for next time.” I put the mustard and meat on the counter in front of him. Rex snatches up the ham, tearing the packaging open with his teeth, and he starts to chew on the entire stack of ham slices.
“Actually, I don't need it in sandwich form,” he informs me airily. “Thanks!” And then he runs out of the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the concrete floor.
Mr. Cheese and I gape at each other.
A moment later, the mouse runs down the side of the counter and disappears under one of the refrigerators.
I'm alone in this strange basement kitchen full of meat, and I have no idea where to find Grim. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. I'm already in over my head…
Well, there’s no use feeling sorry for myself, as Pam would say. I’ve just got to go explore this giant building and hope that I run into Grim...somehow.
I realize suddenly that I’m scared, after having lost my diner job, that I’m going to mess up, lose the prospect of this position, too. Even though I'm not really sure I want this weird job at all.
Gripping my purse on my shoulder, I grit my teeth and head toward the open doorway...
And—thank goodness—I hear footsteps.
They’re far away, but I can tell that they’re aiming in this direction.
And, as I stand a little straighter, cocking my head to one side, Grim rounds the doorway, walks down the stairs, and enters the kitchen.
Chapter 5: The Odd Welcome
My new boss and I lock eyes, and though her neutral expression doesn’t change—or even flicker—I think she’s a little surprised to find me here. Grim is wearing tall black boots over skinny jeans with a narrow t-shirt that shows off her arm muscles and the strong curve of her shoulders. I take this in quickly, because it's her face that draws my attention the most: her wide mouth and her eyes with their deep, golden brightness.
Some people might not consider Grim to be conventionally attractive. There’s an almost lupine length to her nose, and she often has her jaw set, her teeth gritted (or, at least, she did in the diner). Her muscles always look tense, as if she might leap at you if you say the wrong thing. I wonder if that was the quality that rubbed Pam the wrong way...
I realize now that Grim has a long, puckered white scar trailing the length of her right upper arm to her forearm. I’ve never seen it before—she usually wears a jacket in the diner—but now that it's right in front of me, I almost think it's a tattoo. It's so long, so visible. But...no. Her skin rises on either side of what appears to have been a serious wound. And...God, there’s a scar on her chest, too, though her shirt rises too high to see it clearly. I don't know. Maybe it's a trick of the light.
Given the fact that Grim is naturally serious-looking, that her face is strong, almost masculine...no, she isn't conventionally attractive at all.
But there’s a power to her. This raw power: in the way that she walks into a room, claiming it; in the way that she uses her body to prowl, rather than simply walk. Even Andrew seemed cowed by her. She moves through the world like a predator, as if everyone else could be her prey, if she so chose.
It’s intense. No, that’s not the right word...
Fierce, maybe. Potent.
Extraordinary.
Grim arches a brow and puts her head to the side slowly. She reaches up and carefully runs her fingers through her hair, moving it out of her flickering amber eyes.
“I see you found your way to the kitchen,” she says gruffly, with a small, fleeting smile. “Good. I need a hundred deli meat sandwiches with cheese, spread thinly with mustard, as soon as you can make them, please. Everyone's very hungry.”
“Oh...” I open my mouth and shut it, digesting her words. Did she say a hundred? I mean, I know she did, but...who am I feeding? An army? “Yeah. Sure. Okay. What would you like me to put on the sandwiches?” I ask, gesturing to a fridge. “All I could find in there was meat, cheese and mustard. Is there any bread? Lettuce?”
“The bread is in that room.” Grim points toward a narrow door that I didn't notice before. “No lettuce, no tomatoes. Our tastes are simple here.” There's a softening to her mouth. I can't help but notice, though, that she seems more aloof today, and that makes me feel uneasy.
Worry nags at the back of my brain, but I can't quite define it: am I worried that she dislikes me? That she regrets hiring me?
I'm attracted to her. There's no denying that fact. And I guess I just enjoy it when she's nice to me, like she was yesterday afternoon when she offered me this job in my time of distress. But I'm working for her now; she's probably just stepping into her role as my boss, probably thinks she should be a little more distant, formal.
I nod slightly, suppressing the questions on the tip of my tongue.
God, I don't want to make any mistakes; the situation is...less than normal, so there's a high possibility that I'll mess something up here.
Grim is already walking away—offering me no more instructions, as if I've done this a thousand times before. As if I know where to take the sandwiches after I've made them.
Frustrated, I'm left alone in the kitchen with a hundred pounds of deli meat, a lot of mustard, and all of my self doubts.
I open the door to the room where she said I'd find the bread, and there I find bakers' shelves lining the walls, laden with unwrapped loaves. The soothing scent of yeast and warm bread washes over me. I realize then that the room is a sort of warmer for the bread. The space is probably insulated, and the bread was likely baked earlier today; it's still wa
rm. These aren't grocery store-bought loaves. Someone made these from scratch, probably at the bakery here in town. I take the nearest loaf down from the shelf and realize I'm going to have to slice all of the bread by hand.
Right. No time like the present.
But I pause, then, noticing another door—this one far back against the wall, in the darker part of the basement. It likely leads outdoors. I make a mental note to explore that door later; it'll be nice to be able to step outside and get a breath of fresh air every now and then.
Back to my task: I begin to assemble one-hundred sandwiches. I'm just winging this thing, but sandwiches are kind of foolproof...
Half an hour or so later, once my hand is sore from slicing and I've finished putting together the food, I find a pair of silver trays that were lying on top of the fridges, and I stack the sandwiches on them—pretty high—filling the two trays with a hundred meat-cheese-and-mustard delights. MCMs, I decide to call them, groaning at myself.
I pick up one of the trays; it's heavy but manageable. After all, my arm muscles are used to this, from years of carrying heavy trays at the diner. I draw in a deep breath and heft the other tray, balancing it carefully against my free shoulder, and then I begin my ascent of the stairs. I reach the upper level, but, of course, there’s no indication as to where I’m supposed to go, no sign pointing out the dining room or cafeteria. Logic would indicate that the eating space would probably be near the kitchen...
I flip an imaginary coin in my head and then set off to the right, hoping that luck is on my side.
A rush of relief floods through me when I hear voices. I pause, tilting my head toward the sound. And right there, a few paces away from the top of the staircase, a door is slightly ajar; it’s easy to push it open with my hip.
The door creaks wide, and then I’m standing in the doorway, feeling like a ninny. Yeah, I’m assuming this is a cafeteria of sorts, or maybe an old restaurant. There are worn wooden tables arranged in lines throughout the room, vaguely reminiscent of the dining hall in the Harry Potter movies. Large, heavy-looking paintings decorate the walls, their frames thick and covered in gold scroll work. The scenes depict idyllic landscapes, forests, and—oddly—flocks of sheep. Actually...most of the paintings depict flocks of sheep. Hmm. Yeah, it's an art collection of sheep-centric paintings.
Interesting...
Giant chandeliers dangle high above, light bulbs flickering dimly. Next to some of the walls stand life-size statues of women—no, goddesses. In their arms, they hold stone scrolls and torches, and one of them is cradling a lamb, gazing down at it with an expression of adoration.
There are far too many tables for the amount of people in the room right now, and the room is far too big for the very few people in it.
And I'm holding way too many sandwiches.
I don't see Grim, but Rex is sprawled on one of the tables, merrily playing on a 3DS game system, tinny sounds piping out from its speakers. There are two other people present, both adults, and they're lounging on the narrow wooden benches pulled up to the tables. And I do mean lounging. The nearest one, a guy, is lying on the bench like you would on a mattress, one arm slung across his eyes.
Save for the video game noises, the room is quiet. Everyone stopped talking when I came in, and they’re all staring at me now.
“Hello,” I say, then wince a little as my right shoulder twinges from the strain. “Um...where should I put these?”
The woman leaps up and advances toward me so aggressively that I take a step back, moving out into the hallway. My heart hammers in my chest as she pauses with her hand on the door. And then she does something strange: she tilts up her nose, and she sniffs the air.
Immediately, I worry that my super-strength deodorant (it smells like lilies and butterflies, or so the packaging would lead me to believe) isn’t working, and I want to discreetly sniff myself, but I can’t since I’m carrying two enormous trays of sandwiches on my shoulders and staring at a woman with blazing amber eyes—eyes that remind me, unmistakably, of Grim’s.
This woman has long black hair that falls over her shoulders in a messy tangle. Is that a branch in her hair? Yeah, I think it's a large twig... She’s wearing torn jeans and a t-shirt that says something about the winter Olympics. Her clothes are almost as dirty as Rex’s. She has no makeup on her face, but—despite the messy hair and filthy ensemble—she’s a knockout.
Her full lips sneer at me. “Who are you?” she asks, her voice low, a growl.
“Moooooooom,” Rex moans, rolling his eyes and then glancing sidelong at the two of us without moving from his place on the table. “Be nice.”
The woman straightens. She casts a confused look at Rex. “Wait a second—you know her, Rexie?”
“Yeah, Ants hired her! She’s the new cook!” Rex closes his 3DS with a snap, practically throwing himself off of the table and into midair. Thankfully, he lands on his feet. Then he sniffs around me, too, lifting his nose a little higher than his mom did. “Sandwiches!” he squeals with glee. He’s darting forward…
And the kid snatches one of the trays of sandwiches off of my shoulder as if it weighs less than a bag of potato chips, and he drops it onto a table. Grinning, he grabs three sandwiches, stacks them on top of each other, a la Scooby Doo, and proceeds to unhinge his jaw (I swear) as he takes a big bite out of all three at once.
He says something, but since his mouth is so stuffed, it’s impossible to make out his words. But his mother manages to understand him somehow, because she turns toward me and puts her hands on her hips, arching a brow.
“Come on in,” she says begrudgingly, as she steps out of my way and motions me back into the room.
Well, that wasn’t the warmest welcome, but they’re probably private people. If you weren’t expecting a stranger to be in your home, you'd be a little surprised, too. Comforting myself with that thought, I move forward and put the second tray of sandwiches on the table, next to the first one.
“So, Mel hired you?” Rex's mother asks. She still sounds pretty suspicious. I nod, offering her a small smile, but she doesn’t smile back at me, only crosses her arms and frowns. “She didn’t tell me that she was thinking of hiring anyone,” she begins, but a snort from the guy sprawled on the bench interrupts her.
“Lucile, come on,” he groans, and then he sits up, swinging his legs under the table. He rakes a hand through his hair and gazes around loftily. “Grim's been talking about hiring a cook for weeks. You just don’t pay attention.”
The woman, Lucile, huffs, seating herself across from him. “Why do we need a cook? We’re not fancy.”
I find myself chuckling a little at that, and I hold up a hand when she glares in my direction.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No, no. It's just... I’m not fancy. Far from it. I’m a diner cook.” I feel like I should probably introduce myself, but the guy is watching me with a very bored expression, acting as if he’s about to say something.
I regard him thoughtfully, squinting.
“Hey, do I know you from somewhere?” I ask.
He looks so familiar... His hair is arranged in the nineties “flop.” You know, the way that guys in boy bands used to wear their hair, with a bit of it falling in front of their eyes in this devil-may-care, hairsprayed-to-death fashion.
As I stare at him, I blink.
Boy bands...
Yeah, it isn't just the hair. There's something else about him that makes me think of boy bands.
“Holy crap,” I whisper then, as he leans against the table, sighing long-sufferingly for what feels like five minutes.
“Go ahead. Get it out of the way,” he says, amber eyes flashing. “Yes, I'm him.” He waves his hand in a regal manner.
I recognize him now, but I'm more than a little shocked to run into him in the old Ambassador Hotel.
So, there was this boy band in the nineties. They got pretty popular; maybe you heard of them. They were called Boy Aggression and had five heartthro
bby members. Most of my classmates were obsessed with the lead singer, Jordan. I never quite understood the attraction. I mean, in most of his photoshoots for the teen magazines, he looked like a jerk—and that was actually what he was known for: being a jerk. He trashed hotel rooms, broke equipment on stage, was always getting bad press. He was even kicked out of the band after he set fire to a gazebo in a park, but, ultimately, they took him back. The teenyboppers demanded it.
The primary reason he's famous, though, is not for his tenure in Boy Aggression but because he was caught on tape buck naked in the middle of Times Square one night. He swore up and down that it was part of a prank, but rumors spread that he was on drugs, and the fans stopped making excuses for his eccentric behavior. He had a public meltdown, left Boy Aggression, tried to start a solo career, and flopped so hard that the magazines still call him Flop Boy—and they aren't referring to his hair.
I take in the guy's expectant expression: he's acting faux modest, as if he thinks I'm about to ask him for his autograph. But I was never a fan. I was into Melissa Etheridge and had no interest in boy bands, unlike my straight friends...
But Jordan wants a reaction from me, so I smile at him and nod, standing there awkwardly as I try to think of something to say. It would be rude to tell him that I wasn't into his music. So I clasp my hands together and blurt out the obvious: “Wow, I've never met a famous person before!”
I can only hope that sounded sincere. Even though he was a jerk way back when, surely he's grown up over the years, realized the error of his ways.
“Thing is, I'm uncomfortable giving autographs to employees. I hope you understand,” he informs me airily, and he leans back on the table with a smug grin.
Then again...some people never grow up.
Rex—bless the little guy—snorts, pausing in his sandwich inhalation. “She doesn't want an autograph from you, Jordan,” he guffaws. “You're a has-been! Isn't that what it says on the Internet? I saw you Googling yourself this morning.”
Beauty and the Wolf Page 6
