She shoots me a look before quickly moving to her station and tying her apron on, her back to me.
“Oy, hit that list, yeah?”
Marco nods. “Hey, go find yourself an espresso IV drip bruv, you really do look like shit you know.”
“The list, Marco.”
He grins, “You got it, chef.”
Chloe doesn’t turn to look at me until I’m right next to her, like she’s just noticing I’m there. Which is total fucking bollocks, by the way, since I watched her shoot me about three not-so-hidden glances on my way to her side of the kitchen.
“Hey.”
“Yes?”
I frown, “What’s with the ditch this morning?”
I cringe the second I say it, realizing what an utter twat I sound like. Like some sort of jaded chick the day after.
Seriously, what the fuck is this girl doing to me?
Chloe just shrugs and turns back to dough she’s rolling out, dusting it with the occasional sprinkle of flour, all while doing her damnedest to avoid looking at me. “You were going to make me late.”
I arch a brow at her, even if she isn’t looking at me. “You just got here.”
“My shift just started.” She cocks her head as she turns towards me, “I’m not late or anything.”
“No, you’re not late, you’re just acting a bit crazy since you kicked me out of your room last night.”
She whirls at me then, her face bright red and her eyes wide, “Oliver!” She hisses, her eyes darting around the kitchen. “Jesus, keep it to yourself,” she spits out.
I roll my eyes, “Fucking hell, relax. I’m not exactly going to go around telling everyone.”
She glares at me, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, did you want me to send out a staff notice about how I made my new pastry cook come all over my cock last night?”
Her face goes quite crimson and she drops the rolling pin in her hands to the floor with clatter. Her eyes dart around the room again, again like she’s worried someone’s listening to her dirty little secret, which somehow starts to really piss me off.
“You’re unbelievable,” she says quickly, shaking her head as she picks up the rolling pin and tosses it in the basic sink next to her station.
“You know, I think I remember you saying the same thing last night just before I gave you the best orgasm of your life while you sucked off my finger.”
I have no idea what’s pushing me to be such a prick here, but it’s like I can’t even stop the words from coming out of my mouth. And the worst part is, I know I’m acting like this because for the first time literally ever, I’m the one getting kicked out of a room or getting ditched at the front door. How in the hell did things get so turned around?
Shit, that’s what I do best. Leaving, sneaking out, ditching, not calling back; you name the scummy post-sex move, I’ve done it. I’ve spent most of my adult life using my charm and my looks, and my position either in the streets, or the army, or now the restaurant world to drop panties and spread legs. And after? I’m fuckin’ gone and on to the next.
Except now I’ve got this fucking girl. Chloe fucking Caulfield; the girl who stood me up. The girl that told me “no sex” last night.
The girl who kicked me out.
I’m not sure what the fuck is wrong with me, but I need to get my shit together is what I need to do.
Chloe’s whole face wrinkles up as she turns to me with her mouth open, “I did not ‘suck off your finger’ you disgusting pig, I-” she stumbles over her words, her face growing bright red again and her fists balling up at her sides. “You know what, I knew last night was a huge mistake.”
“Oh?” I cross my arms over my chest and smirk at her, “Why’s that, luv? Cause once you’ve had a taste, you can never go ba-”
“Because you’re disgusting, and a man-whore, and...and...repulsive.”
Her eyes flash as they meet mine, and for maybe the first time in my life, I’m actually at a loss for words. Fuck, I mean what do you even say when someone calls you repulsive?
You say nothing, that’s what you say.
I hold her gaze with my own for one more second, glowering at her, before I turn and abruptly stalk back across the kitchen to the service pass.
Nice one.
*****
If I was tired before, a few hours later right before we start service I’m fucking fading. I’m stumbling, squinting at the menu in front of me for any last minute changes while Ian, the front of house manager and Maître d’ taps his foot impatiently and straightens his fucking tie for the hundredth time.
“Oy, Ian, chill; you’re making me nervous.”
“Oh, am I? Sooo sorry, chef.” His tone is dripping with sarcasm, and though I give him a sharp glare, he’s another one who gets a pass. Not just because I’m Goddamn exhausted, but because Ian’s been a home run of a wingman more times than I can count.
Let me just say, a gay friend is secret weapon you definitely want to have when you’re cruising for girls.
I finally realize I’m not even reading words on the menu and pass it back to him with a mumbled “it’s fine” and a middle finger when he rolls his eyes and snatches it back from me.
“Mate,” Marco is leaning against the counter next to me, eyeing me.
“What?” I’m irritable, and tired as shit, and I just want to get through this fucking day so I can sleep and figure out how to get Chloe out from under my Goddamn skin tomorrow.
“You’re fading.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Marco.”
He opens his mouth but then hastily closes it and shakes his head.
“What?”
“Nothing, chef.”
“Marco, Jesus, what?”
“Nah, mate, you’re like, the boss right now, and we’re at work.”
I roll my eyes and punch him in the arm, “Fuck you, spill.”
He darts his eyes around the kitchen full of cooks all busily preparing their stations and getting pots simmering and basically not looking our way before he huddles close to me and reaches into his pocket, “Need a bit of medicine to get through?”
Fuck.
I stare at the little baggie of coke in his hand. Coke is never a good plan for me, even when I’m out to party. It messes with me too much, makes me crazy.
Of course, I’m practically seeing double right now with sleep deprivation, so perhaps this is what they might refer to as “desperate times, desperate measures.” I check the time on the wall, the minute hand ticking dangerously close to when we’ll open for our first seating. Yeah, sniffing drugs might not ever be a good plan, but I’m suddenly wondering if it’s the only plan.
I look over Marco’s shoulder at Chloe off in the corner of the kitchen. She looks up and then glances at me, as if feeling my eyes on her. And for a second, I’m about to push Marco away and tell him to fuck off and just get on with my night. But then my eyes meet hers and she just glares at me, like I’ve wronged her in some way.
And it pisses me right the fuck off.
Fuck it.
“Oy, let’s do this,” I mutter at Marco, rolling my eyes when his light up. We haven’t done this shit years; not since before the army when we were into the street life. It was a bad idea when we were young, dumb, and broke; it’s a fuckin’ awful idea when we’re older and at our fucking job.
Just the same, when we’re out back by the kitchen entrance, I can still feel the giddy rush you always get when you’re about just about to do something incredibly fun but incredibly stupid. Marco’s tapping lines out on the flat of his chef’s knife - “cutting cold” we call it in kitchen-speak - and I’m still trying to convince myself this isn’t the worst idea in the world when the backdoor suddenly bangs open.
Marco swears and dips the knife down behind his back as we both glance back; it’s Delia.
“Oh, um,” she turns to head back inside, the cigarette she was about to light resting between her lips, when she suddenly
pauses and looks at us more curiously, “What are you two doing out here?”
“Never you mind love,” Marco says, grinning at her. She arches an eyebrow, and then like a Goddamn idiot, Marco makes a little sniffing motion with his nose.
I’m going to kill this fucking guy.
Delia’s eyes light up and she checks behind her before stepping towards us, “Oooo….do you mind?”
“Not at all!” Marco beams, bringing the knife up from behind his back as Delia move to join us. She’s all smiles at me, but I’m too busy glaring daggers at Marco to even bother noticing.
This is way off book. Being out here doing fucking cocaine right before service with my buddy the grill guy is one thing; doing it with the damn wait staff is fucking pushing it.
But then again, I am fading here. I’m on zero fucking sleep, my heads all turned around and upside-down from whatever the fuck is happening with Chloe, and I just need to Get. Through. This. Night.
The powder is cold as it hits my nostrils, and then fire when it hits my bloodstream a second later.
Theeere it is.
I’m letting the rush wash over me, and pushing the knife away towards Marco when the door opens again. And this time, it takes me a second to turn and focus, and realize that it’s Chloe.
...Chloe standing in the doorway, glaring at me as I stand there with a rail of coke on a fuckin’ knife with Delia giggling and stroking my arm.
I’m opening my mouth without even really knowing what to say, but then she’s shaking her head and just walking back inside anyways.
Fuck.
I shrug Delia away from me with a growl and start to march after Chloe when the door slams open again and this time I’m face to face with Ian.
His eyes dart behind me and then focus on me as he narrows his gaze, “You ready?”
I frown, “Yeah, of course.”
His eyes drop to my nose, and he arches his eyebrows and makes a little brushing motion on his nose. Shit. I quickly bring a hand up to brush away any remnant powder.
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Ian, fuck off, I’m fine.”
He’s not smiling. “Oh, you are? Lovely, because the shit is about to hit the fan inside.”
The London times is here. The fucking London Times food reviewer is at Jolie.
To put this in perspective, picture finishing filming on a small independent movie and having Roger Ebert pick it up to take a quick look. Or imagine finishing your solo song on the stage and then having to face Simon and the other judges of that talent and singing show you happen to be on.
Yeah, it’s like that.
Okay, the reviewer’s supposed to be this big secret, but any modern restaurant in London worth it’s truffles knows who he is, fake mustache or not. He’ll come twice before writing his review. You get two hits to make it perfect. There’s no third chance, ever.
Needless to say, there’s an absolute chill over everything in the kitchen as soon as Ian drops the bomb on us. Well, a chill over almost everything, because I’m still seething mad at Oliver. It’s stupid because it’s not like I have any damn right to feel jealous or whatever. But...ugh, I don’t know. I guess there was just something about seeing him out there, with her, that has me seeing red. And it’s the absurdity of me feeling jealousy about someone like Oliver that maybe bugs me even more.
His face it etched in wood when he comes back inside following an utterly white-faced Ian. Yeah, this is a big fucking deal. It may not be the Michelin guide, but it’s the Times. This is the sort of review that will make or shatter a place like Jolie, and we all know it.
There’s a silence as Oliver stands in the middle of the kitchen, blinking and swallowing thickly. He finally looks up and around at everyone, his face stony. His eyes catch mine, and for a second I think about giving him some sort of encouraging word or gesture. A nod, a smile; anything I guess.
But then the back door opens and Marco and Delia scurry guiltily inside, and that second passes.
Yeah, no, screw him.
Oliver nods sharply at the silent kitchen staff, “Alright, stations; let’s do this.”
We fall into the rhythm of a working kitchen, everyone lost in their own jobs and their own tasks as orders come in. But this time, it’s different. This time, there is silence aside from the sounds of knives chopping or grills sizzling or whisks whipping. The whole place is standing on this knife edge, just waiting for that order to come through.
It does, finally. And from then on, the whole place goes into overdrive. Ian is hovering at the service window, making sure each and every thing that goes out looks perfect, even if it’s only going to be walking past the reviewer’s table. And Oliver is a freaking mess. He’s sweating, his eyes darting all over the place as he starts to get more and more agitated at the window. I can see his movements getting more erratic, his muttered swears getting louder and louder.
Finally, I manage to find some sort of excuse to move past the front line right by him. I tap his arm, “Hey, are you gonna be okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Oliver,” I hiss, “You’re a mess-”
“I said, I’M FINE, cook!” I flinch as he turns, roaring at me loudly. Loud enough that Ian jumps back from the service window and that half the kitchen looks up quickly. I clench my jaw, my eyes seething as I see the fire in his.
“Get back to your fucking station, Chloe,” He growls, glaring at me and all business now. All cocky, arrogant, firing-on-all-cylinders Chef Oliver.
“Fine,” I sneer, and turn sharply on my heel to head back to my station.
“Fine WHAT?!” He roars.
Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me. He’s going to pull this NOW?
I grit my teeth and turn back, glaring at him defiantly, “I said fine-”
“I heard what you said!” He roars again. He suddenly snatches up a plate and hurls it against the wall, shattering the plate, scattering broken shards and an array of radicchio salad everywhere; “It’s YES CHEF; do you fucking understand?”
It’s like a slug to the gut, and I can feel my whole body start to tremble, and I’m furious at myself when I feel the sting of tears in my eyes.
Do NOT cry; do NOT fucking cry in front of him.
“Are we clear, Chloe?”
I’m shaking my head at him slowly, the tears stinging my eyes and my pulse thundering in my ears. I’m thinking of the way he made me feel, the things I let him do, and the things we should have said yesterday, or this morning; things I can’t imagine saying to him now.
The charming, rough-and-tumble boy I knew from before is gone, and it’s so stupidly obvious to me now that I’m suddenly ashamed at myself for not seeing it before. The boy whose charming and quirky antics, whose bold and cocky bravado swept me off my feet all those years ago - the boy I thought I was finding all over again - is gone.
The arrogant, pig-headed, prick of man he’s grown into has buried him completely.
“Chloe-”
“Yes, chef.” I say it quietly in a voice not my own; a voice distant and forced.
Yes, you fucking prick.
“Good, now get back to your station.”
What the hell happened to you, Oliver Beckett, and where did you go?
*****
We don’t speak a word through the rest of the shift, or through closing. And at this point, I don’t even give a shit what happens with the Times table.
Who cares? Fuck Oliver and his little temper tantrum. Fuck him getting his reviews and his groupies and his Michelin stars. And fuck him especially for doing cocaine outside with Delia, like he’s some sort of actual rock star or something.
What a joke.
I’m lost in my own little ball of negativity, scrubbing down my station, when I suddenly feel a presence behind me.
“Hey.”
I whirl, and Oliver’s just standing there with his arms crossed, just grinning that incessant fucking smirk on his face at me, as if nothing’s happened between u
s since the previous night.
“Oh what now?”
He frowns, “Could I talk to you in the office?
I drop my jaw at him, “What am I, fired?!”
He wrinkles his brow, “What? No, Jesus. Just come talk.”
“I’m still closing up, chef.”
I turn on my heel to go back to scrubbing the counter down, but I gasp as I feel him pull close behind me. His hand pushes my hair back from my ear as he leans in, “Look, you know what that was.”
Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance Page 12
