by Claire Adams
“I can’t have a sous chef making more than my executive,” Jim says, “that’s a steaming vat of resentment I’d prefer to keep out of my restaurant.”
“I know, Jim,” I tell him. “That’s why you keep me below what you give to Wilks. With Cannon gone and your head and sous chefs cut back on pay, you’re going to be saving a lot of money, and I’m not out enough cash to screw things for me, either.”
“What’s the catch?” Jim asks, leaning forward. “You’ve never once said anything positive about Wilks. Why is he suddenly the golden boy? I don’t see what you get out of this.”
“I never told you about Wilks because, well, honestly, I didn’t want you to figure out that he’s better than I am and do exactly what I’m telling you to do now.”
“Why are you doing this?” Jim asks again.
“I want to keep my job,” I tell him. “I was getting a blowjob from this freak I’ve been nailing a few weeks in the parking lot of Yankee Stadium—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”
“Just listen,” I tell him. “I started to realize that I’ve spent all my life trying to get that quick release, that instant gratification, and it wasn’t until tonight that I realized that’s not really what I want. It’s never really been what I want, but that’s because I’m a coward. It’s just easier to take advantage of people than to put the best person forward and try to make things work with them.”
Jim laughs. “That must have been one terrible blowjob.”
“Actually, it was fantastic. She does this thing with her tongue—pierced, by the way—where she’ll—”
“I got it, I got it,” Jim interrupts. “You’d actually be willing to do all this just to keep your job?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, “but it’s not just about that. With me as executive, you’ll have the regulars and you’ll get solid reviews, but with Wilks, you’ll get something more. You’ll get an innovator, and I’m willing to bet you $10,000 that if you give him enough room to do what he wants to do, this place is going to be packed every night from here until you retire a wealthy, wealthy man.”
“You’ll be down something like $60,000 a year,” Jim says. “Are you sure you’re okay with that? I mean, why not just go somewhere else and do the executive thing there?”
“Because I’d rather stick with something that I love,” I tell him.
“I can’t just fire Cannon, though,” Jim says. “He’s been here as long as you have.”
“Yeah, but he’s worthless. I’m actually good at what I do and you were ready to let me go.”
Jim chuckles. “Is he really that bad?”
“He’s terrible,” I answer. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I have to have him redo a dish before it’s anywhere near good enough to send out.”
“And why is it that you didn’t tell me about that before tonight?”
“I figured that if you were going to try and replace me with someone, it’d be the sous chef. As long as that’s Cannon, I never really felt like I had anything to worry about. He’s never been a threat.”
“So, I’m just supposed to believe that all this is genuine and you’ve suddenly turned benevolent because a blowjob in a parking lot made you realize that there was more to life than screwing people over?”
I laugh. “Well, when you put it that way, anything’s going to come across suspect.”
“And you’re not yanking my chain about taking a massive pay cut?”
“If it’ll help get things turned around, then that’s what we need to do. When Wilks starts bringing in the hordes, you can always give me a raise.”
Jim scoffs.
“That must have been one life-changing blowjob,” he says. “All right, we’ll do it. I’ll let Cannon know at the end of his shift, and we’ll get Wilks started tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I tell him, and walk to the door. “You might want to make sure you tell Cannon outside the restaurant. He’s one of those predators that plays victim until someone really calls him on his shit. That’s when he explodes like a toddler’s diaper and all the shit starts oozing out.”
“Thanks for the visual, Dane,” Jim says, smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
For the first time since I can remember, I leave the restaurant in a good mood. I don’t mean to screw over Cannon, but the guy is pretty fucking useless on pretty much every level imaginable.
Oh well.
Now, I get to go home and do something I’ve been trying to convince myself I didn’t want to do.
Tonight, I’m going to tell Leila that I want to be with her.
I get to tell Leila that I’m single again—though, I’ll probably leave off the “again”—and that I want to see if there’s anything between her and I other than this growing hot pull in my chest.
The funny thing is that I still don’t really know her all that well, but what I do know is enough for the certainty that I want to know more.
I can’t wait.
First thing’s first, though: I’ve got to drop off the car.
That process takes over an hour, as the moron at the front desk can’t find the paperwork. Finally, he checks the open file that’s been right in front of him at least as long as I’ve been standing here, and we get it all taken care of.
The guy lets me call a cab, and I’m on my way home now, nervous, but feeling for the first time in a long time that I might just be onto something amazing.
I climb the stairs and imagine the worst possible scenarios.
Most people would tell me to be optimistic right now, but every time I’ve gone into something with high hopes, those hopes are dashed in the most horrendous way possible, so right now, I’m imagining her screaming at me, calling me an asshole and a womanizer, telling me that I’m never going to be anything more to her than a rent check.
I can’t help the fact that I’m still smiling.
When I get to the door, I take a breath, and take one final moment to imagine her hitting me over the head with a frying pan and kicking me in the ribs while I’m lying on the floor.
If my inverse-square law of hope has any validity, that thought should seal the deal.
I unlock the door and open it to find Leila and some guy sitting on the couch, making out.
I should probably clear my throat or say something, as neither one seems to have noticed my arrival, but I can’t do anything.
It’s been about an hour and a half since I decided I want to throw caution into the death machine and make the move to be with Leila, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen her with someone.
Inverse-square law, my ass.
I try to slowly back out of the door and leave the two in peace, so hopefully, they never know I was even here, but of course, that’s when my phone rings.
Leila and the guy who was trying to swallow her face jerk and look over at me while I fumble for my phone.
“Dane!” Leila spits. “When did you get in?”
“Just a second ago,” I tell her, still trying to pull the stupid fucking phone from my pocket. “I’m just going to take this outside,” I tell them both, finally, and walk back out the door, closing it behind me.
Once outside, I finally get the phone wrested from my pocket and look at the number.
It’s Wrigley.
This should be interesting.
“Yeah?”
“Dane,” she says, “I need to fuck someone and it needs to be now. You’re not mad at—”
“I’m on my way,” I tell her.
I was off to such a fresh start.
Chapter Eleven
The Favor
Leila
“Mike,” I tell him, “we can’t do this. You’re my best friend in the world, and I don’t want things to get weird.”
“Who says they have to get weird?” he asks. “I’m not talking about changing anything about our relationship. I just want to know if I’m really that bad of a kisser.”
“It’s weird just talking about it,” I tell
him. “I’m sure you’re a fine kisser. Can we leave it at that?”
“I guess,” he says, and turns back toward the television.
I know what he’s asking, and I know he’s really not trying to pull one over on me, but still: Mike is way too good a friend to even take a false step down that road. If things went pear-shaped between us, I don’t know what I’d do.
For a very long time, Mike is all that I’ve had.
Then Dane came along, but I can’t even think about that right now.
He’s off somewhere with that skank with the ridiculous name.
That’s all right. He doesn’t owe me anything; we’re roommates. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
“You know I’d do it for you,” he says.
“That’s because you’re a freak, Mike,” I laugh, and jab him with my elbow. “Just watch the movie and keep it in your pants, will you?”
“I never said I was going to take anything out of my pants, although I see where your mind is.”
He can be such a child sometimes.
“All right,” I tell him. “If I kiss you once and give you notes, will you drop it and never ask me to do anything like that again? I mean it. This is awkward enough as it is. We’re not going to start some weird sex clinic—”
“Easy there, girl,” he says, somehow thinking that talking to me like I’m a horse is going to help his cause. “I’m just talking about a kiss—one kiss. Give me some notes on how I can do better, and we won’t even talk about it again.”
“No tongue,” I tell him.
“Oh, bull,” he says. “How am I supposed to know if I’m doing it all right if you don’t let me slip you a little tongue?”
“Eww…” my body involuntarily shivers, and my eyes start to water like I’m stuck in a sewage pipe.
“Gee, thanks,” he says.
“You’re like my brother, Mike. This is too weird. No kiss, the whole thing’s off.”
“Aw, come on,” he whines.
He’s not only whining, but he’s actually pouting: the bottom lip is out and everything. It might be cute if it weren’t so stupid.
“No!” I tell him.
“But Mom,” he whines again.
“Yeah, like that makes it better.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening up and speaking normally again. “How about one kiss, 30 seconds—”
“Thirty seconds? Are you insane?”
“What the hell am I going to learn from a peck?”
“I don’t see why it’s such a big deal anyway,” I tell him. “So you’re a bad kisser. It’s not the end of the world.”
“How do you know I’m a bad kisser?” he asks.
“Because of the way you’re acting,” I tell him. “No self-respecting anything would put on such a bitch fest.”
“I’m not bitching,” he says. “I’m just tired of kissing my date goodnight and getting that look that just says, ‘that’s it? Seriously, I sat through dinner for that?’ It’s humiliating, Leila. Just one kiss, 30 seconds or less and a little bit of tongue—before you throw something, I don’t mean puppy tongue or rim tongue—”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Whatever. I’m talking just a normal amount of tongue as if we were out on a date and I’m trying to convince you with my mouth that your every problem can be solved by my penis. Is that so much to ask?”
“Yes!” I squeal, half in laughter, half in horror. “You’re making this so much worse than I thought it was going to be. I am not kissing you. Next time you walk a date to the door, just put out your hand and give a good, solid handshake. I’ll tell you what: I’ll help you practice that. Everyone needs to know how to give a good handshake.”
“Leila…”
“Seriously, it’s not just good for dates, but it’s good for business.”
I hold out my hand, and when he doesn’t grab it, I place his hand into mine and give it one good shake.
“See?” I ask. “Good pressure, only one up and down motion, and release. That’s a good handshake.”
“I shake hands with the best of them,” he says. “I think we both know that.”
“Watch the movie.”
“Leila!”
“Watch the movie!”
He crosses his arms and starts grumbling.
He’s actually sitting there grumbling.
“If I kiss you on your terms, will you shut up and drop the whole thing from here until the end of time?” I ask.
“Yes!”
I sigh and fold my arms.
“Does that mean you’re going to do it?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Can you keep your mouth shut before and after?”
“Of course,” he says. “This is great, Leila, you’re such a—”
“What did I just ask?”
“Oh, right,” he says. “So how do we do this?”
“You really are bad at this,” I tease.
“Shut up,” he says. “I mean, do we stand or do we sit? I’m assuming we’re not going to be rolling around on your bed or anything?”
I can actually feel the reflection of my death stare coming off of Mike’s face.
“That’s a no. Why don’t we just do it here,” he says.
“Don’t say that,” I tell him, covering my ears.
“Don’t say what?”
“Don’t say ‘do it,’ it makes me feel like flies are laying eggs in the back of my throat.”
“Now that’s a good visual for me to start with, kissing you,” he says.
“Shut up, Mike,” I tell him.
“What’s the ruling on hands?” he asks. “Like, where do I—”
“Nowhere near my body,” I tell him. “In fact, you should probably have them behind your back.”
“Behind my back?”
“Just nowhere on my body,” I tell him.
“I was hoping to test out my hair-caressing—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” I interrupt. “I’m already going to need an anti-emetic as it is.”
“Anti what?”
“Something to make me not throw up,” I tell him.
“That’s cold.”
“Whatever. Let’s just do this before I lose my nerve.”
“All right,” he says, moving closer to me on the couch.
He closes his eyes and starts to lean in, and without even thinking about it, I naturally move away from him.
He opens his eyes again.
“What?”
“I want you to tell me the rules one more time. I’m not going to listen to any excuses if you cross the line here.”
He rolls his eyes. “One kiss,” he says, “30 seconds or less—”
“I will be timing it,” I tell him. “There’s a clock on the wall right there, and if we’re coming to 30 and you’re not pulling away and apologizing for badgering me into doing this, I’m going to leave a big red print of my hand across your cheek, got it? Now what are the rest of the rules?”
He sighs. “Thirty seconds, one kiss, and a little tongue is permissible, but nothing over the top or down the throat.”
“Where are your hands?”
“Somewhere else,” he says.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning not on you.”
“That’s right.”
“Can we just do this thing? I’m starting to lose my nerve.”
“If you lost your nerve, I think I’d be pretty okay with that.”
“All right,” he says. “Tell me when to start.”
“No moaning or any other—you know what? Don’t make any sound at all. I don’t even want to hear you breathing.”
“I’ve got it!” Mike says with a laugh.
“All right,” I say, watching the secondhand on the clock. “And, go.”
He leans in and our lips meet.
It’s weird, but it’s not terrible, I guess.
What the hell is he doing with his tongue?
I pull back a little, trying to
give him the hint, but he doesn’t get it, so I bite his tongue a little.
That gets him to pull back.
Twenty seconds to go.
This is taking forever.
All right, he’s doing a little better, but it’s like he’s trying to say something the way his lips are moving.
I would close my eyes and try to pretend like this is someone other than Mike, but I’m not breaking my gaze at the clock.
Mike tilts his head to the other side, and I’m pretty sure that if I had a brother, this is what it would be like to kiss him. This is, in no way, a turn-on.
Ten seconds left.
It’s almost over. The worst is already done, now it’s just a matter of hanging in there for a few more seconds.
Five.
Four.
Three.
A sound from somewhere else in the apartment startles me, and I pull away.
Shit. It’s Dane.
He’s standing at the door with the oddest look on his face.
“Dane! When did you get in?” I ask.
“Just a second ago,” he says, clearly having a lot of difficulty pulling the ringing phone from his pocket. “I’m just going to take this outside,” he says, and is out the door before I can say anything else.
“Oh crap,” I say, putting my hands on my forehead.
“What?” Mike asks. “So he saw us kissing. What’s the big deal?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “He looked like he just walked in on me killing his dog.”
“Does he have a dog?”
“No, he doesn’t—you know what I mean. Things have been pretty weird with us, and I think this is just going to make it worse.”
“Why would this make it worse?” Mike asks.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
The truth is that I’ve wanted to talk to Dane ever since that night when things started getting weird.
I thought my feelings for him were a drunken thing, but the more time that’s passed, the more I find myself watching him and looking forward to him being home, even if we hardly ever talk.
“So?” Mike asks with a cartoonish smile on his face.
“So what?” I ask.
“How was the kiss? Do you have any pointers?”
