by Lila Monroe
I’m hoping he’ll get the message and agree to stay away, but instead, Cam looks amused.
“I’m muscling in on your turf?” he laughs. “What is this, West Side Story?”
I frown. “Look, it’s for everyone’s good. We’ve got a system. This way, we all get our own spots, and everybody’s happy.”
“Maybe I’m not into sharing,” he replies. “Free country and all. Anyway, there’s always room for competition.”
“We’re all supposed to work together!” I protest, but Cam just gives me a look, like I’m singing “Kumbaya” at a grade-school picnic.
“Come on, Zoey. What’s next, a chore wheel?” he teases, and my blood pressure goes way up. “I’m in the biz to cook good food and make great money. If that’s not how you operate, well . . .” He shrugs. “May the best truck win. See you at the park this weekend.” He gives me a wink.
“But . . . I was there first!” I splutter.
“Huh. That’s weird. Because I was doing a roaring trade,” Cam says. “I guess your froufrou little omelettes left them craving some real food.”
I gasp.
OH NO HE DIDN’T.
“Froufrou?!” I repeat, my voice rising.
“It’s French,” Cam adds with a smirk. “It means fussy, or overdone.”
My jaw drops. “I’ll show you fussy!” I blurt. “I can cook you under the table any day!”
“Looking forward to it.” He grins as I grab my cart and—slowly—haul it away.
“Does this mean you don’t want me to call you?”
“AAARGHHHH!” I cry and don’t look back.
* * *
I drive over to today’s spot like a maniac to claim our position and make sure no one (read: The Brunch Bandit) steals it. We’re set up in a cute shopping district today, full of independent coffee stores and record shops. Usually, I’m focused on prepping the food and getting my flavors just right, but today, I can only think of one—very handsome—thing.
The nerve of that guy!
“I tried to be nice,” I fume to Nikki as we get set up. “But he just laughed at me like I was some dumb kid!”
“Men!” she agrees.
“And the way he was smirking, with that sexy, smoldering face of his . . .” I scowl, whipping the ricotta into submission. “I can’t believe I ever kissed him.”
“You did what?”
“Long story.”
I yank up the window, and I’m relieved to find a crowd already forming. We start taking orders. Lots of orders—take that Brunch Bandit! Soon, I’m too busy to think about my competition because I’m swamped, up to my elbows in bruleed bacon, waffle cones, and delicious lavender eclairs . . .
Until suddenly, the line gets thinner. And then disappears. I look around, confused.
“Where did everyone go?”
Nikki yawns. “If nobody’s here, can I go take my break? I saw a cute ‘smash the patriarchy’ shirt I want to get.”
“Sure,” I reply, distracted. I look around at my neat containers of food, ready and waiting . . . for customers who don’t seem to exist anymore. But I’m usually rushed off my feet today. Is it some kind of holiday, or—
I stop dead, remembering Cam’s smirking taunts. He wouldn’t . . .
I whip out my phone and check the Brunch Bandit Instagram page. And sure enough, there’s a pic with today’s address posted.
Exactly one block away from me.
He did.
I scowl. Now he’s really asking for trouble.
I yank the window shut and lock up, then stride down the block, my anger growing with every step. But as I get closer, it sounds like a street party is going on, with Pitbull blaring from a stereo, and the sounds of whoops and cheers.
Huh?
I round the corner . . . and stop in my tracks. Because what the ever-loving fuck is going on?
There’s a huge crowd gathered, maybe a hundred people all clustered around. The Brunch Bandit truck is set up—with a line around the block—but that’s the least of the attractions. No, this crowd is more concerned with the bevvy of busty, gorgeous models dressed in cut-offs and ultra-low-cut, ultra-cropped Bandit T-shirts, handing out samples and menu flyers.
“You have GOT to be kidding me!”
“Bacon orgy?”
I spin around. A busty model is beaming, holding out a tray.
“What did you say?” I blink.
“Bacon orgy. It’s like, sausage and pork belly wrapped in bacon. They’re real good!” she beams.
“I’ll take one!” a hipster bro elbows me out of the way.
“Me too!”
“Mnrugh!” I cry. I catch sight of Cam, lording over the party with a smile on his smug face. I push through the crowd, furious.
“Zoey,” he greets me casually—looking way too good in black jeans and a faded black T-shirt. “Here to try my new lunch menu?”
“Seriously?!” I blurt. “Your food isn’t good enough, so you have to offer BLT with a side of A?”
He laughs. “Hey, I like that. Maybe I could name a new sandwich.”
“You set up here on purpose!” I cry. “Just to steal my customers!”
“If you can’t stand the heat . . .” he taunts me, still grinning like this is all just a game.
I open my mouth to cut him down to size, but before I can get another word out, a new song comes on, and the music turns up to decibel-shaking levels.
“Let’s get this party poppin’!” the skinny guy from before whoops, grabbing a mic. “This is AJ, with my man, the Bandit Cam, and we’re here to pump! It! Up!”
The crowd goes wild, and suddenly, I’m surrounded by the Brunch Babes—all wielding cans of whipped cream and gyrating like video girls.
“Excuse me— Hey!” I try to push my way out, but they’ve got me surrounded: bouncing and twerking, spraying cream into the (eager) mouths of the crowd. I feel like I’m trapped in some kind of culinary Vegas foam party—and I can’t get out!
“Seriously!” I cry. “Let me past!”
“Relax, enjoy yourself.” Cam smirks, slinging his arm around one of the babes. “We’re just having some fun.”
“Objectifying women to sell food isn’t fun!”
He laughs. “Don’t be such a buzzkill. You’re enjoying yourself, right Kaylee?”
“Oh my God, so much fun!” she beams, waving her whipped cream canister in the air and shaking her—plentiful—assets.
I scowl. To think I ever found this guy sexy. Never mind the pork belly, he’s a real pig!
“I’m going home,” I growl, spotting an opening in the crowd. I push hard, and I’m almost clear of the madness when—
“FOOD FIGHT!”
The cry goes up, and suddenly, the whipped cream isn’t getting sprayed in people’s mouths. It’s going alllll over them. The girls shriek and giggle, spraying each other from head to toe.
“No!” I yelp, but it’s too late. I bump into one of the models, and she whirls around, and aims. Spraying whipped cream at me.
All.
Over.
My.
Face.
I freeze. My vision obscured by the whipped cream stuck to my eyelashes, but I can still hear the sound of Cam’s laughter.
“Don’t!” I warn him, and maybe it’s the pure fury in my voice, because he holds his hands up in surrender.
“Hey, I was only going to say, my waffles pair great with that cream.” He grins, offering me a paper napkin.
I don’t take it. “You know exactly what you can do with your waffles!” I growl. And then, with as much dignity as I can muster considering I look like I just got a pie in the face, I turn and walk away.
“Great seeing you, Zoey!” Cam’s voice calls after me. “Come by the truck anytime!”
I don’t know which is the worst part: that I just made a total fool of myself, or that his whiskey whipped cream tastes really, really good.
Either way, the Bandit is going DOWN!
5
&n
bsp; Cam
“I told you, those girls would be MONEY!” AJ finishes counting out the day’s takings and drops the stack of bills on the table. “Boom!”
“I think they prefer to be called women,” I remark dryly.
“Either way, they brought the crowds. Same time tomorrow? Or something new. I’ve got a ton of ideas to CRUSH this Red Wagon chick.”
“Let’s give the party a break,” I tell him, remembering how close the whole commotion came to spiraling out of control. “We want people talking about the food, after all.”
“Sure thing, boss.” He shrugs. “I got all the phone numbers I need, anyway.”
He saunters away to “go hit up his honeys,” leaving me to double-check the cash.
I whistle. AJ can be a hormone-crazy kid sometimes, but he’s right. This is my biggest day ever. And it even came with the bonus of winding up Miss Uptight Rules, Zoey Rafferty.
I grin, remembering the look on her face when the models closed in on her. And then the whipped cream incident? Highlight of my day. Maybe even my week.
Maybe that will teach her to come at me with her rules, and schedules, and code of honor. The way she was talking the other day, it’s like there’s a food truck UN—and I need to issue a formal apology for daring to park on her territory. But she’s out of luck if she thinks I’m going to play by someone else’s rules. That’s definitely not how I roll. In fact, it’s the whole reason I left the restaurant world behind to set up on my own. I don’t like somebody telling me what to do, especially if they think that some fancy formal training makes them better than me.
I close up the truck, carefully cleaning off the grill and making sure the whole place is spotless. This baby is my pride and joy, and it took years of blood, sweat, and late nights working all over town to make it happen. I started out as kitchen busboy straight out of school, and I’ve spent the past ten years working my way up to have something that’s all my own. And now that I’m on the brink of really making a name for myself, there’s no way I’m going to let a princess like Zoey stand in my way.
“See you tomorrow,” I call over to AJ. He gives me the thumbs up, and I roll out, parking back at my place before changing into my gym gear and meeting my buddy Jamie for a run down along the waterfront path.
“Why did I sign up for this marathon?” he huffs after the first mile.
“Because you don’t want to die of heart disease before you turn forty?” I grin, keeping pace beside him.
“Heart disease sounds OK to me,” he groans. “At least I could enjoy it from the comfort of my couch.”
“C’mon,” I encourage him. “You’re sitting around on your ass in front of that computer all day. Laura will leave you if you get too fat.”
“She won’t. I married her, remember?” Jamie laughs. “She’s stuck with me for better or worse.”
“Tell that to my cousin, the divorce lawyer.”
“Good point.”
We jog another couple of miles, until we break for water—and breakfast tacos from our favorite stand. What can I say? We’ve earned them.
“So, how’s life on the truck?” he asks, demolishing a taco in one.
“No complaints,” I smile. “It’s weird having nobody yelling at me to re-plate for Table 3, but I’m adjusting to life as the boss.”
“It’s only step one,” Jamie agrees. “First the truck, then a pop-up, then our flagship restaurant—”
“Easy there.” I laugh at his plans for world domination. “One step at a time.”
“It’s not for you, it’s for me,” Jamie gives a sigh. “I need to feel like I’m not just going to be a wage slave forever.”
I wince. Jamie and I met on the sous-chef track and worked our way up together—until his wife, Laura, got pregnant and he quit to take a steadier gig. One that came with actual evenings off and health benefits. We still have a plan to open a restaurant together, one day, but I know it’s still a grind for him now. “Office life getting you down?”
He shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s a great, steady paycheck, but I still miss the thrill of the kitchen.”
“Which part?” I tease. “The long hours, crazy stress, and insane chefs bossing us around?”
“All of it.”
I laugh. “Any time you want a reminder, just come help out on the truck. I promise, I’ll yell and throw shit. It’ll be like old times.”
“Deal.”
“What about you?” Jamie stretches. “Seeing anyone at the moment?”
I shrug, but my brain immediately goes to Zoey. The hot-as-hell Halloween kiss. The one that clearly made an impression since I’m still thinking about it months later.
Who knew Julia Child could get me hard?
“Nope,” I reply. “No one in particular. Besides, I don’t have time for fooling around at the moment, I need to focus on carving out my territory with the truck.” I explain about the rivalry with Zoey—at least, the food-related parts.
“What’s her truck called?” Jamie asks, whipping out his phone.
“The Little Red Wagon.”
“Zoey Rafferty . . .” Jamie says, already looking her up. “Says here, her brother is some kind of Hollywood star. He was on that show Laura loves, the ones with all the hot doctors fucking in the supply closet.”
“Really?” I frown. That means she comes from money—which explains the attitude, I guess. You find plenty of rich kids in the food world, playing at being chef while daddy—or big brother—picks up the tab.
“Anyway, she’s a piece of work,” I explain. “This ‘classically trained’ chef with fancy tablecloths and her ‘code of ethics.’ All bent out of shape that I serve brunch food on her turf.”
Jamie snorts. “Did you seriously just do air quotes around ‘classically trained’ and ‘code of ethics’ like they’re dirty words?”
In spite of myself, I chuckle. “Whatever. I’m not worried. She acts like she’s never had competition before. She’ll probably melt down all on her own.”
“Leaving the path clear for you and our future empire.”
“Amen to that.” I toast him with a taco, just as my phone sounds an alert.
Then again. Then it’s a riot of pinging, the notifications coming so fast the device sounds like it’s about to explode. I pull the phone from my pocket, excited.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know . . .” I say, scanning the notifications. “I set up an alert to tell me every time someone mentions the truck on twitter.”
Jamie brightens. “Hell yeah, you’ve gone viral!”
“Looks like it . . .” I grin and click through one of the links, checking to see what they’re talking about. After the day I’ve already had, could it get any better?
Turns out yes. It could be a lot better.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
I sift through the tweets and retweets to get to ground zero: a Yap! review of the Brunch Bandit that’s getting shared around like crazy.
The owner of the Brunch Bandit is a misogynist, objectifying women and using cheap publicity stunts to get noticed because the fatty, over-sweet food doesn’t measure up. If you want excellent brunch foods, made by an all-female staff that won’t contribute to the patriarchy, go to The Little Red Wagon. Their brunch waffles are To. Die. For.
Brunch Bandit gets one star. I’d give it zero if that was an option.
Fuuuuck.
“What the hell is this?” Jamie asks, reading the review. But I know exactly what’s going on.
“Zoey.” I scowl. “It’s got to be her who wrote that review. She was ranting at me about all this objectification stuff. She just couldn’t stand to see me winning all her customers!”
“You really had a whipped cream fight?” Jamie arches an eyebrow. “That sounds real . . . empowered.”
“A spontaneous one!” I protest. “It was AJ’s idea. And I paid all the girls—I mean, women. They were the ones who all decided to cut
off their T-shirts to make them skimpier. But even if Zoey didn’t agree with the stunt,” I add, defensive, “I still can’t believe she’d sabotage me like this.”
I stare at the review. There’s a big difference between a friendly disagreement and tanking someone’s online reviews like this. Everyone knows Yap! is the lifeblood of the food scene. A great review can really boost your profile . . . and a few bad ones can wreck you forever.
“Well, you’re definitely going viral,” Jamie says, wincing. “The review already has hundreds of shares.”
As if on cue, my phone pings several more times, emphasizing his point.
“Fuck.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jamie slaps me on the back. “It’ll blow over. You have tons of great reviews.”
“For now,” I mutter grimly. “But who knows what else Zoey has planned?”
What did AJ say before? That we’d crush her? I thought he was coming on too strong, but this review makes it clear she’s not playing nice.
I quickly send him a new text.
Change in plans. I want all your ideas. We’re going to take down the Little Red Wagon.
Hells yeah!
By the time I get home, I’m still wound tight from the constant pinging of my phone, so I set it to silent, trying to relax again. But her comments about my food keep echoing in my head.
Fatty and over-sweet!
What does she know about it? I go for big, bold flavors—dishes that leave my diners full and satisfied, not picking at some little garnish, hungry for more.
I take a deep breath. Zoey Rafferty is no big deal—and definitely not worth getting all riled up. I can cook her under the table any day . . . and she probably knows it. That’s why she’s stooping to lying reviews, instead of just letting natural selection take its course . . . and drive her out of business.
I grab a beer and collapse on the couch, scrolling to check all the other amazing reviews on my truck. See? Plenty of people love my food. One spoiled princess shouldn’t send me into a rage.
I see a new notification from the Truck Stop message board, so I click over. Wafflegirl7 has a new post up.
Wafflegirl7: HELP! total fubar day at work. What’s your favorite comfort food?
