Sizzle

by Whitley Green

  He still has it, that stupid note. Dad doesn’t know that I know but I found it cleaning one day, tucked in the old family Bible in his room.

  My hands are shaking, so I scoop up the mess I’ve collected and haul it to the kitchen to throw away.

  “What about lunch?” Dad hollers, as though I can’t hear him from fifteen feet away.

  “You already had lunch today.”

  “I mean tomorrow,” he says. “You won’t be back before lunch.”

  I brace my hands against the counter and close my eyes.

  “I’ll make sure to fix you a plate before I catch the bus.” I wince at my own words. Taking the bus means more time away from the house. I’ll have to leave at least an hour early, which means Dad will be here alone half the day.

  I can hear him grumbling in the next room, which means that’s likely just occurred to him, too.

  But what can I do? He’ll want the car in case something happens and he needs to get himself to the doctor. God knows he’d never call 911, and any friends he had when I was a teenager stopped coming around long ago.

  I wish he had more good days, but despite what his doctors and therapists tell him, Dad seems to be getting worse. His body is stronger than it’s been since before the accident, and yet his moods get darker every day. He doesn’t even bother trying to read anymore. Just sits in front of the TV when he’s not working on his PT exercises. Even those go by the wayside unless his team is here.

  I’ve learned not to mention it. I’ve learned not to mention a lot of things in the last couple of years.

  But it doesn’t matter because I have a plan. I’ll use this meeting with Elliot James to convince him to give me a job in his kitchen. All I need is six months of experience and that’ll be enough to get me into school. If I get really lucky, I’ll be able to keep working around my classes.

  Haven’t talked about that with Dad yet, but surely he’ll understand my being gone. Somebody has to support us.

  I head back to check on Dad, but he’s already tuned out to his game show so I go to my room to plan.

  First things first. Time to research Duckbill and Elliot James.

  And holy hot damn on a pogo stick. Mr. Sex Voice must have made himself a deal with the devil to get that face. Mother of God.

  I grab a magazine off the shelf next to my desk, fanning my face.

  Right, this isn’t a problem. So my new boss is attractive. Big deal. Plenty of people are.

  I mean, not the people I’ve spent time with lately. I don’t spend a lot of time around other people, period. Certainly I don’t date. Which means my reaction is completely normal. And it’s probably just a really flattering photo.

  I click over to the restaurant’s website and pull up their current menu.

  Jeez.

  Well, Elliot James gets points for trying, anyway. There’s nothing even remotely healthy on this menu, although a couple of the dish descriptions have my mouth watering. I jot down some notes on what menu items catch my eye and list some of the available ingredients he must already have on hand to use. Before I know it, it’s dark outside and I’ve got four pages of handwritten ideas to bring with me in the morning.

  * * *

  The next morning, I spend about thirty-seven hours too long staring at my closet, trying my best to make new clothes appear out of thin air.

  Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.

  By the time Dad’s therapy team rings the doorbell, I’ve tried on and discarded so many outfits my room looks like a laundromat exploded inside. Settling on a gauzy blouse and black jeans with ballet flats, I push another couple of pins in my hair for good measure and pack up my laptop and notepad.

  “Okay, Dad, I’m heading out,” I say. Jim’s got him sitting on a bench manipulating a large yoga ball with his left foot.

  “Heard you’ve got a big interview today,” Jessica says, unpacking something from her ever-present duffel bag. “Good luck!”

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling. “Dad, your plate is in the microwave. I should be back a little after noon.”

  Dad grunts and nods, but doesn’t say anything. Jim looks at me over his shoulder and gives me a sympathetic smile.

  “Okay,” I say. “Text or call me if you need me.”

  The bus is running a minute ahead of schedule, further proof this week is primed for things that would never otherwise happen. I’ve been looking for a job for months, but nobody’s looking to hire a twenty-two-year-old with no degree and zero professional work experience. At least, not until yesterday.

  Elliot James didn’t mention anything about my work experience; the only thing he talked about was my blog. And yeah, I’ve put a helluva lot of work into that thing, but it’s a passion project. I’m already cooking all the time anyway—all the blog does is show a record of it.

  But hey, if it gets my foot in the door at a real life restaurant, that’s all the chance I need. I’ll talk Elliot James into giving me a real job after this gig with his new menu, get my six months of kitchen experience, and then my life can start for real.

  Invigorated by the thought, my heart starts to pound as Duckbill comes into view. I thank the bus driver and step down to the curb, looking up at the blue and red sign.

  This is it, Joelle. Here we go. Laptop case in hand, I tap on the glass front door.

  4

  Elliot

  “Hey, boss,” says my head line cook, coming to stand next to me at the bar. “Got a second?”

  I stack the papers I’d been looking at on the bar and turn to face her. Paperwork’s easier to handle out here somehow. Anything’s better than that damned closet of an office in the back these days.

  “Sure, Connie. What’s up?”

  “Have you thought any more about getting another body back on the line?” she asks.

  “I haven’t forgotten about it,” I tell her. I really hadn’t. There’s just no more blood left in the turnip this month. “I’ve got somebody looking at the books in the next couple of weeks,” which is sort of true, in some sense. “Hopefully we’ll be able to get somebody in the next month or so.”

  It wasn’t an outright lie, but my stomach twisted anyway.

  “Okay,” she says. I’d guess Connie’s somewhere in the vicinity of fifty years old—she left her age off her employment paperwork and as I value my limbs staying attached, I don’t ask. Quite frankly, if I didn’t need her on the line so badly, I’d have already offered her a management spot like Alex keeps nagging me to do. “But don’t forget, three of your guys back there got new babies on the way in the next couple of months, so there’s bound to be some shifts to cover here pretty soon.”

  I nod. “Thanks. I’ll let you know as soon as we can start looking for somebody.”

  She walks off and it’s all I can do not to slam my head against the bar. Three of my line cooks have wives and kids at home with babies on the way. One of my bartenders is six months pregnant. More than half my staff carries car payments or credit cards, and almost all of them have student loans of one kind or another. If Connie was trying to remind me of my duty to them all…

  Well, it worked.

  The scent of cleaning chemicals has me lifting my head. If the cleaning crew is mopping in here, then it’s got to be close to ten o’clock. I check my watch just as someone knocks on the glass front door.

  Here we go. Showtime.

  I don’t have a plan B. I hate not having a plan B but worse than that, I hate that I have to hire somebody else to save my place. Duckbill is mine, for fuck’s sake. If I can’t make it work, I don’t deserve to be in this business to begin with.

  And talk about a last ditch effort. Drinking beer on the porch with my roommate, sure—it sounded like a good idea then. In the clear, crisp light of day this morning, though… let’s just say I have my doubts.

  It doesn’t help I tried looking up Joelle Munroe, but aside from that one headshot on her blog, there aren’t any photos of her at all. No social media accounts, except for the b
log. No contact info, except that page on her blog. The only reason I found her home phone number was because Alex had the bright idea to check the phone book. The actual, physical paper one.

  Who does that?

  She’s standing just outside the front door, a long sweater wrapped around her against the autumn chill. A slouchy green hat obscures most of her hair but a few dark curls fall across her shoulders.

  I realize she’s saying something at me through the glass and move to let her in.

  Smooth as hell, that’s me. God, she’s pretty.

  “Ms. Munroe?” I say, holding open the door for her.

  “That’s me,” she says with a tentative smile. “Are you Elliot James?”

  I nod and she brushes past me to get through the door. I catch a whiff of vanilla and my gut tightens. Of course she’d smell like dessert.

  “This way,” I say, pointing to a booth in the bar. “Unless you’d like a tour first?” I hadn’t actually planned on offering, but what the hell?

  I’m nervous. Who gets nervous before they interview a potential employee? I sure as hell don’t. Then again, there’s more at stake here than just a new hire.

  That thought brings me up short.

  “I would, actually,” says Ms. Munroe. “If you don’t mind, I’d really like to see the kitchen.”

  Just as well. It’ll give me a minute to get my shit together because, seriously, I don’t date employees. It’s been a rule from day one. Back at in my old tech firm, I had my share of office flings and not a single one of them ended well. Going into business myself, I knew I couldn’t take the chance professionally. And personally, it was a bad bet anyway. I work too damn much to be much of a boyfriend to anybody. These days it’s all I can do to take care of myself and look after Alex too, much less maintain a girlfriend.

  “Back this way,” I say, changing course and leading her through the swinging kitchen doors. I point out the servers’ alley, drink station, front line, prep area. All the normal, boring restaurant stuff. When I reach the tiny office near the back door, I stop. It’s a little quieter back here so I can actually hear her response when I ask if she has any questions.

  When I turn to look, though, she hasn’t spoken but her eyes are huge.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Hmm?” she says. She blinks a couple of times. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “That look on your face. Have you never been in a restaurant kitchen before?”

  “I haven’t, actually,” she says, looking away. “That’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Okay,” I say. I mean, it’s not a deal-breaker. Yet. Except how the hell is somebody going to save my restaurant if she’s never even set foot in a real kitchen before?

  Goddamn Alex. This is his fault. His idea equals his fault.

  Already racking my brains on how to cut this interview short, I head back to the booth in the bar where I’d set the list of questions I’d planned to ask her.

  Once we’re sitting in the booth, the scent of vanilla consumes me and I almost forget about her reaction in the kitchen. She’s digging in her bag, setting out a notebook and pencil.

  “Look, Ms. Munroe,” I say, preparing to thank her for coming all this way for nothing. She holds up a finger to stop me. She pulls out a folder and sets it on the table between us.

  “What’s this?” I ask, more out of politeness than curiosity. At this point, we’re wasting each other’s time.

  Then again, if she’s not going to be working for me, maybe I can…

  No. Declining to hire her isn’t exactly starting off on the right foot, so just shut that thought down now. ‘Sorry, I can’t hire you after all. Want to have dinner with me sometime?’ I’ve got moves, but even I can’t pull that one off.

  Joelle taps the folder on the table.

  “This is a list of potential items that might work for a healthier version of your current menu,” she says. “Is your online menu up to date?”

  I nod, flipping open the folder to read.

  “Good,” she says. “That’ll save us some time. I focused on the ingredients I knew you must have on hand for your current menu, but if we’re going to brainstorm further, I’ll need to see your actual inventory. Recipes, too, if I may.”

  I scan the list once, then again, paying attention the second time. Several long moments pass.

  “Wow.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “Now I understand my lack of commercial experience might be a deterrent.”

  I lift the folder slightly, hoping it’ll hide the heat I feel creeping across my face.

  “But I can tell you without a doubt that, based on what I’ve seen so far, you’ll have no trouble implementing a new segment to your menu if you choose to go forward with this plan.”

  A second copy of the list I’m holding appears and Joelle begins to go through each dish on her list, explaining her reasoning, asking for details about ingredients and other materials we keep.

  “This is good,” I say when she’s finished what was clearly a practiced presentation. “This is great, actually. You’ve already handed me everything I asked for.”

  “You could look at it that way,” she says, looking a little panicked. “But if you’re interested in developing a proper new menu, we ought to spend time collaborating on other ideas now that I have more information to go on.”

  There’s a thought. We’ll have to test these dishes anyway before rolling anything out. As much as I’d planned to send her away right off, she’s got a point.

  “We haven’t discussed your compensation,” I say. She’d agreed to the number I mentioned on the phone, but it hadn’t come up yet so far this morning.

  She looks at me then and I almost don’t hear her next words. It’s the first time she’s looked me square in the eye since we sat down and if I thought she was pretty in profile, it’s nothing compared to the radiance coming off of her now. The booth is small, almost intimate. It hadn’t seemed that way before, but now I know if I wanted to, I could reach out and tuck an errant curl behind her ear.

  “The number you quoted is acceptable,” she says quietly.

  “But?” Because there’s obviously one in here somewhere.

  “But I’d like to propose a counteroffer.”

  I nod. It can’t hurt to listen, I guess.

  “Hire me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Hire me,” she says. I hear a tremor in her voice and it makes me want to hug her. God, just wait ‘til Alex meets her. He’ll go nuts for the girl-next-door thing she’s got going on.

  I mean, not that I’d try to fix them up or anything. That’d be kind of weird. But he’d totally go for her, I know it.

  “I know I don’t have the usual experience,” she’s saying, those beautiful brown eyes aimed at the table once more. “But I know I can bring something new to the table, so to speak. Something you need.”

  My pulse picks up.

  “I can help you get want you want,” she says, glancing up at me as a pretty blush steals over her cheeks. “But rather than taking payment from you outright, I propose you hire me to work in your kitchen. I can work on the menu during my off hours and still get the work experience I need.”

  I swallow hard but my voice has dropped when I speak again.

  “What kind of experience do you need?”

  I’m pretty sure we’re not talking about the job anymore and she knows it, too. That blush hits a high note and I can see the soft material of her sweater twitch as she gasps a little. Then her breasts rise as she takes a deep breath and I’m forced to adjust the fly of my jeans to accommodate my response.

  “I need six months on your line, preferably all areas,” she says, her tone all business.

  “Six months,” I echo, just to say something that isn’t, ‘Hey little girl, come sit on Daddy’s lap.’ Christ. I’m in trouble. “That’s pretty specific.”

  “The culinary school I’m applying to requires six months’ pr
ofessional experience before they’ll even consider my application.”

  “Interesting,” I say. God, I sound like Alex. “Some of my current employees are students at The San Augustine Institute here in town.”

  Joelle brightens at the name.

  “That’s where I want to go,” she says.

  I take a moment, shifting my gaze between her proposed menu and that sweetheart face.

  She obviously knows her way around a kitchen, even if nobody’s paid her to do it yet. And God knows we could use the extra set of hands. The downside here is that not only can I not ask her out, I have to keep my hands completely off Joelle Munroe for the foreseeable future. Six months, minimum.

  The Duckbill is the only thing standing between me and the soulless grind I left three years ago. My freedom is worth it.

  “Okay. You’ve got yourself a deal,” I say. I lean forward and offer my hand.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” I nod. Joelle takes my hand slowly. Her skin is so soft but I can feel tiny calluses at the base of her fingers. Those dainty female hands are no stranger to work. The thought makes me shiver.

  “I won’t let you down,” she says. I might be imagining things but she sounds a little breathless. I release her hand, rubbing my own palm against my jeans to dispel the sensation of touching her.

  “Why don’t I take you back into the kitchen again and introduce you? My assistant manager is here. She’ll be able to get you all the right paperwork before you leave.”

  The smile she sends me is incandescent and I already know I’ll be thinking of that smile when I stroke myself off later tonight.

  * * *

  I manage the next half an hour in a fog, until it’s time to unlock the doors for the lunch crowd. I tell Anna to call me if she needs anything and head home for what’s left of my day off.

  When I get there, I make it as far as the bathroom sink before I let out the groan I’d been holding in since I saw Joelle Munroe at the front door.

  I can’t get my fly down fast enough. Pressing the heel of my hand against my cock to bank some of the insane pressure, I thumb open the button and free my strangled dick from the fabric, stroking fast.