Pony Up (Caldwell Brothers Book 4)

by Colleen Charles

  PONY UP

  Caldwell Brothers Book 4

  By

  Colleen Charles

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Foreword

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  Chapter One

  Pepper

  “Pepper! I’m about to piss myself!”

  Before I’ve even made it inside the kitchen, the shrieking screams reach my ears. Hightailing it forward, I walk behind the line of Sakana, my pescatarian-focused restaurant, and search for the source of the rising panic. The kitchen bustles with activity, steaming salmon and raw ahi tuna poke bowls darting by. At least the food looks delicious amid the chaos.

  Expecting a grease fire at the very least, I survey the stainless-steel surfaces. No smoke. No blood. Nothing but a loud sous chef.

  “What is it?” I walk over to the prep counter, my hands on my hips, pleading with my eyes for everything to be okay. “Don’t tell me something’s wrong,” I say to Basil, my employee and friend. “Please, not today. We can’t handle it.”

  Basil eyes me and throws some jazz hands into the air like he’s auditioning for a Broadway play before miming drawing a zipper across his lips. “Fine, ostrich,” he says, tossing his head, his white hat going askew. “In that case, nothing’s wrong here. Are you satisfied? Just keep snorting sand up your nose.”

  Ignoring the melodramatics, I glance around the bustling restaurant with a sigh of pride and pleasure. It’s mine. Well, to be honest, it’s not exactly mine. Technically, Sakana belongs to Dante Giovanetti, my boss, since it sits right smack in the middle of his swanky casino, the Mona Lisa.

  But to me, it’s mine. I’m in control. In charge. My chest puffs with uncommon pride since I’ve been the head chef at Sakana for almost eight years, ever since I graduated from culinary school in Los Angeles. And I’ve taken care every single moment that I’ve stood in the pristine kitchen. I worked my way up from server to executive chef, with quite a few stops in between. But none of that matters now if Basil can’t pull his head out of his ass and get the kitchen running like a well-oiled machine so I can do my thing.

  Dante requires me to spend a lot of time in the front of the house, mingling with the diners. Kissing ass is more like it, but if I ever want my own five-star restaurant, it’s the price to be paid. It’s all about playing the long game.

  And right now, it’s first and ten from my own end zone.

  I pull my iPhone out of my pocket before checking the time. It’s almost four-thirty – T minus two hours before the Michelin people show up – with the normally highly functional kitchen a hot mess.

  “Really, Basil,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. A puff of air flies from my mouth, sending my bangs skyward. I probably look like one of those eighties hockey groupies with the sunflower hair. Thank god I wasn’t even born during that fashion catastrophe. “Come on.”

  Basil sighs and rolls his eyes as if he’s the long-suffering bestie of an ignorant moron.

  “Fine, fine.” He beckons for me to follow him as he sashays across the kitchen. When he pulls me in front of the prep counter, I bury my face in my hands and groan. There’s a whole tray of unagi – freshwater eel sent straight from Japan – all sitting out, covered in plastic. Yellowtail too.

  “This was supposed to be prepped an hour ago,” I say, frowning as I peel back the plastic wrap. Fortunately, the fish and eel still look perfect, ready to be sliced and diced and thrown into a poke wrap.

  “I know.” Basil shakes his head. “That idiot, what’s her name? The one you just hired? Anyway, who cares about her?” He blows out a long breath. “She ran off crying because her boyfriend dumped her over a text…with emojis.” He leans in close, so he can whisper in my ear. “I think one of them was the steaming pile of shit with the face on it.”

  I draw in a deep breath and sigh. “Her name is Kristin,” I say, lacing my tone with some don’t fuck with me right now frost. Basil ignores it and pokes a hip out instead. “And if she doesn’t get her ass back in here and finish this, we’re toast. Maybe I didn’t stress the importance of this evening’s dinner service.”

  Basil runs to the sink and washes his hands before pulling on a fresh white apron. “Let me,” he says, saving me like a gay superhero wearing a white jacket. “Do you have a book?”

  I reach in my pocket and pull out my Moleskine planner. “It’s here. And whatever you do, don’t drop this!” I lean in close and look around to make sure no one is listening. No one who could run and tattle to the boss. “I know Dante wanted me to stick with the classics tonight, but I came up with some extra special stuff that I think the Michelin critics are going to love.”

  Basil winks and takes the planner from my hand. “Your secret mission is safe with me, Pussy Galore,” he says, raising an eyebrow and smirking.

  I purse my lips, loving the banter. It’s why we’ve been together as a knife-wielding pair the entire eight years. “Thanks. Heavy on the pussy. Don’t forget.”

  “Girlfriend, I haven’t been heavy on the pussy since I shot out my mother’s.”

  We share a snorting laugh, and Basil waves his approval, then gets to work on my secret creation. Now that I’m alone again, my heart races and I can feel a light coat of perspiration break out all over my skin. I push past the ventilated dry store area, past the walk-in, and into the staff changing room. The walls are littered with purses and clothing, but I’m not interested in getting dressed. The Michelin people are going to be here in just under two hours. And in just under three hours, I’ll finally know the answer to a burning question.

  Whether I’m the best chef in Vegas…or just another wannabe from Kansas, looking to make her name among the greats, and falling short.

  Even though I went to culinary school in Los Angeles, I’m by no means a California girl. My skin is perpetually pale from being locked inside a kitchen all day, and I’ve got more freckles across my nose than there are stars in a clear Midwestern sky. But that doesn’t bother me. Cooking gives me the chills and lights my internal fire. It’s what I do, and I’m damn good at it. Ever since I put bacon and tomato on my first grilled cheese at five years old, I’ve made it my life’s work to create unique dishes.

  But now the question is, am I good enough to win the coveted three-star Michelin rating?

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I reach for it, grumbling under my breath. This better be Kristin with one hell of an excuse that doesn’t include a steaming pile of smiling poop, I think as I swipe to open the call and hold the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Howdy, sis!”

  I close my eyes and utter a silent groan. “Cody? Is that you?”

  “W
ell, it sure is,” my brother drawls. “The one and only. I’m ace high, baby girl. How the heck are ya?”

  “I’m actually pretty busy,” I say, leaning out into the hallway and peeking into the kitchen. To my relief, Basil whirls and twirls around the prep counter, slicing and dicing like a master. If I put a tutu on him, he could audition for the Bolshoi Ballet. “I don’t know if Mom told you, but some restaurant critics are coming to check out my place today. It’s really important.”

  Cody chuckles, and I can imagine his charming dimples breaking out across his face. “Well, what a goddamned coincidence.” He makes a noise that can only be called a hoot. “Because I’m right here.”

  “You mean in Las Vegas?” I press my fingertips to my temple, trying to shove away the implications of my little brother being in town. Even though I love him to death, he’s larger than life and always presents a major distraction. “What are you doing here?”

  Cody snorts as if I’m addled. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” he says, and I roll my eyes at the overkill on his hillbilly accent. I think he does it just to irritate me. “Didn’t Ma tell you about the Nationals Finals Rodeo? It’s only the most important week of the year.”

  Shit.

  “Uh, yeah.” I clap a hand to my forehead and fall back against the wall. “She did.” And I totally forgot, like a moron, I add silently. Leave it to me to be so wrapped up in my illustrious career that I don’t even consider that my brother is one of the top bull riders in the world.

  I can practically hear Ma in my head, now. “Your brother Cody’s comin’ out there to Vegas, and you’d better show him a real good time since that’s your neck of the woods. Ya hear me, missy.” We’d talked weeks ago, and in the buzz of the Michelin critics, I’d blown it off, thinking I had more time. Funny how family things creep up on a person when they’re a Type A perfectionist workaholic.

  “Well, I’m here now,” Cody says. I can tell that he’s grinning his trademark grin, wide and goofy. At twenty-six, Cody’s three years younger than me, but we’ve always looked like twins. Same sideways grin, freckles, and dirty blonde curls. “Don’t tell me you can’t see me. Why, I’d be as sad as a tick-fevered pup.”

  “Never. You should stop by later,” I say, checking my watch for the time again. “Does around seven work?”

  “Aw, Pepper, you can’t come see me? I’ll put ya up in the VIP.”

  I laugh, grateful he’s gotten used to calling me by my new name. He’s the only one from back home who does, and I love him for it. “I’ve seen you rope and ride enough bulls to fill an entire pasture with your trophies.” I sneak another look down the hallway. “And besides, I’ve got something going on here at Sakana. I can’t exactly leave.”

  “Aw, thunderation,” Cody replies. “Well, shoot, sis, I’ve gotta light a shuck. But I’ll see you later, gator?”

  “Sounds good.” I check my watch – again – and groan when I realize that twenty minutes has already elapsed in which I’ve done nothing productive. “Cody, I’ve really got to run.” Guilt threatens to overwhelm me. I’m getting major side-eye from Basil. “But I’m looking forward to seeing you later.”

  “Sure thing.” Cody guffaws and whistles low into the phone. “Y’all knock their socks off, you hear?”

  “I hope so.” I send up a prayer from under my breath. “I really do.”

  We hang up, and I slide my phone back into my pocket. My black jacket is wrinkled and stinky, and I realize that I’ll need to change before the Michelin critics arrive. I grab a fresh one from the closet and try to push open the bathroom door before realizing that it’s locked.

  Damn. Someone’s been in here the whole time I was on the phone. What if they heard the conversation with my brother. Announcing that I’m a redneck hick doesn’t exactly coincide with my preferred professional bio.

  “Excuse me,” I call, knocking on the door with a closed fist. “I’m waiting for the restroom. Who’s in there?”

  After waiting a minute for a response, I hear nothing, so I press my ear to the door.

  “Sorry to rush you out, but this is really urgent. It’s Pepper, and I need to get ready for the Michelin critics.”

  As I stand there waiting, I can feel the frustration creep up the back of my neck like a snake of irritation. I take a deep breath and knock louder than ever. “Please!” I call, desperation seeping in. I’m picturing myself looking like an odorous, rumpled mess for one of life’s critical moments. “It’s really important!”

  That’s when I hear the muffled sound of sobs from behind the door.

  “Kristin?” I ask, calming down as I let out a long sigh. “Is that you?”

  There’s a murmur, and seconds later, the door opens a crack. I peer inside, but all I register is a sliver of flesh.

  “Go away,” Kristin whimpers. “I’m busy.”

  “Kristin, I really need the bathroom,” I say, emotion ratcheting up again. I think she’s forgotten who’s the boss and who’s the employee here. I’m not known as a raving bitch in the kitchen ala Gordon Ramsey, but I also run a tight ship, and I don’t tolerate insubordination. Treating every employee as a friend comes with deadly consequences to a busy, successful restaurant. People get lazy. Things go wrong. The Michelin star critics leave annoyed, hungry, and ready to ruin my career with the swipe of a pen. “Come on, hurry up on out of there.”

  The door opens another fraction of an inch, just enough for me to wedge my Wako-covered toe inside.

  “Kristin, don’t be ridiculous.” I’m starting to lose patience. I can feel my limited supply of empathy draining away. “This is a very big day for us at Sakana.”

  “I know,” Kristin says, tears rolling down her cheeks in a river.

  Using all the strength in my body, I push against the door until it gives way. Kristin sits on the toilet, fully dressed, her pretty face red and blotchy.

  I sigh and crouch down in front of her, taking her hands in mine. “Come on, get up and wash your face. You need to get back out there and get to work. Are you the reason prep wasn’t done on time?”

  Kristin gives me a pathetic look. “I can’t.” She sniffles and wipes her nose on her arm. “I need some personal time.”

  I grab her by the shoulders and point her toward the sink. “Wash up and then get back out there. You know who’s coming today, right?”

  Kristin nods, a lonely tear falling off her face to land on her jacket. She looks embarrassed, and I almost feel for her. But only almost. Men are a distraction and an irritation that I fucking don’t need. Not now and not ever. She should get with the Pepper St. Claire program. Your twenties are about solidifying yourself on your chosen career path. Kicking ass and taking names. Not letting some douche bag mold you into a quivering pile of rumpled clay at his in poor taste emojis.

  As soon as she washes up and leaves, I lock the door and change into a fresh black jacket, embossed in pink foil letters with my name. Red splotches cover my face, so I splash cool water on my skin and stare at myself in the mirror until I look almost normal again.

  By the time I get back into the kitchen, Kristin has taken over the prep and Basil stands over the line, watching over all of my employees. When he sees me, he jerks his head toward the door.

  They’re here, Basil mouths.

  My jaw drops in surprise. “What? It’s too early,” I cry out. “They can’t possibly be here already.”

  Basil walks over and shrugs. “I think they do that on purpose, but I know you’re going to just kill it, Pepper. You should be proud. This is a big day for you. I have faith and so should you. You’re the best chef I know. Do you think a high roller like Dante would have hired you if you weren’t? Only the best for him.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Basil’s right. Never in my twenty-nine years on Earth did I think I’d get to this amazing place. It’s hard to believe that a hayseed like me would have made her way from Kansas to Vegas via L.A., but that’s exactly what I did.

  “It’s
time to go out there, girlfriend, and show them what you got,” Basil says, snapping his fingers. He gently jabs me in the ribs with his pointer. “Get it done.”

  I feel queasy and nauseous, but I know he’s right. Plastering a big smile on my face, I look over the dishes that I’ve carefully selected.

  Everything looks perfect. I’ve decided on an “international” theme – raw fish dishes from all around the world. There’s an Italian tuna crudo to start, a traditional Japanese poke bowl for the main course, and various nibbles from all around the world, including a spicy ceviche with my homemade hot sauce.

  “This is wonderful,” I say. “Go on, send it out.”

  I can tell the servers are nervous too. Flashing a big smile at them, I wave. “You guys are going to be wonderful. And remember, introduce each dish, exactly as we discussed. I’ll be out at the end of the meal to chat with the Michelin visitors.”

  As I wait in the kitchen on pins and needles, I can hardly remember to breathe. Time ticks by slower than ever before, and I can hardly keep from biting my nails in a desperate attempt to release the tension. Eyeing the bottle of cooking wine on the fish station, I contemplate chugging from it.

  By the time all the dishes have been taken out, I’m practically sweating bullets. The plates return half-full – which I’m not sure is good or bad. Just as I’m about to walk out into the restaurant, Basil taps me on the shoulder, his face strained and tense.

  “So, bad news,” he says, fanning himself with a massive hand. Some days, I can’t believe he can create such delicate knife work with those giant mitts. “Cody’s here early too.”

  “Oh my god,” I say, putting a hand to my chest as if that’s going to even come close to stopping the heart palpitations. Cody never goes anywhere without his Wranglers, shit-covered boots and his gigantic Montana Silversmith’s belt buckle he won at his first rodeo. The damn thing could blind a small child. “You’re kidding. No, please God, no.”

  “So not kidding,” Basil says. “Your brother’s a hot toddy, and normally, I’d be happy to see him. But tonight…he’s in the dining room. He’s heckling his server and demanding to know why there isn’t any meat on the menu.”