But I can guarantee that no one else on board has an audition like the one I’m going to.
When the plane touches down, I take a cab to my hotel. The Food Network has booked me a nice room – it’s not the penthouse, but it’s a roomy suite – and I open the curtains wide and grin down at the city below. Maybe I’ll have to move here. It’s an exciting possibility, and it would be a nice change from the hectic pace of Vegas. Besides, the fresh salty smell of the ocean is tempting and exotic.
I barely sleep that night. I keep tossing and turning in my bed, sweating, and yanking the sheets away from my sticky skin. I have nightmares. In one of them, Claude turns up at the audition and announces in front of the whole audience that I’m a hack who can’t cook worth a damn. Then he breaks into a torrent of sobs, throwing himself down on the floor and pounding his fists into the hardwood. In another, my brothers are all there, and my special hangar steak loses to Nixon’s bologna sandwich and Ford’s reheated Chef Boyardee.
In the morning, I’m a mess. I force myself to get out of bed and wolf down a mediocre room service breakfast before getting in the shower and soaping myself from head to toe. My excitement has transformed into nervous anxiety, and I’m convinced that the producers are going to see me as a hack.
Pull your head out of your own ass, Caldwell. You can do this. You will do this.
But I can’t seem to get out of my own way. One thing I can do is look like a million bucks even if I don’t feel like it. Dressing in a clean pair of slacks and a black polo shirt, I hail a cab to the studios where the Food Network is filmed. Just whizzing through L.A. is enough to make me feel strangely important, like I deserve to be here. That’s right, I think as the cab slows to a halt. I do deserve to be here. They picked me, out of all the chefs in Vegas.
The implications of that fact sinks in bone deep. I wonder what I’m going to be up against. Probably some snooty bastard from NYC or Chicago.
Inside the studio, a smiling woman greets me with a firm handshake. “I’m Lisa,” she says, tossing her blonde hair over one shoulder. “I’m the production assistant. And you must be Carter.”
“Yep,” I say with a lazy grin. “Carter Caldwell.”
Lisa nods as her mega-watt smile fades. “Good, come with me,” she said in a professional manner. She leads me down a long hall that’s crowded with people, walking at a fast pace even in her stiletto heels.
“Carter, we’re going to take you into the test kitchen, where we have a panel of judges,” Lisa explains. “There’s a live audience, too, so don’t be nervous. You and the other contestants will have twenty minutes to whip up something special. You can start thinking about your signature dish.”
My heart begins to thud in my chest, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs. I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life – even more nervous than I was before my culinary school graduation test.
“That sounds good,” I manage to say, tamping down my anxiety by practicing some deep breathing techniques.
Lisa nods and smiles her encouragement. “It’s going to be a lot of fun.”
“How many other contestants are there?”
“Right now? Just one,” Lisa explains. “She’s an up-and-coming star from Vegas. We thought it would be fun to have both of you on at once, you know, sort of a little hometown rivalry thing.”
“Oh,” I say, deflated. “That’s cool.” I frown – why the hell would they have chosen someone else from Vegas? I thought I was the only one they’d picked. I thought that I had finally been chosen first for something – like the kid picked first for the baseball scrimmage. But again, I’m a fucking second choice.
“Yes,” Lisa says, all business. “You’re wearing solids, which is perfect, and if you’ll just let me fit this, we’re ready to go.” She leans in close and clips a small microphone to the collar of my shirt, sticking the cord down my back. When her bare hand touches my skin, I flinch.
“There we go,” Lisa says. “I’m sure you’ll be great. Good luck, Carter.” She reaches for my hand again, and we shake. So why do I feel like I’m sealing a deal with the devil?
Then Lisa points to a door with a blinking red light above it. “When the light stops blinking, it’s your turn to go out on stage. The judges are telling the audience about you now, so don’t feel pressured to say anything to the audience. Just focus on the judges. And remember – smile.”
I nod, slightly overwhelmed by the stream of instructions that Lisa’s just given me. Maybe this television thing is going to be more complicated than I originally thought.
The light stops blinking, and Lisa gives me a little push. “There you go, now. Break a leg.”
With a moist hand, I grab the handle of the door and pull it open.
For a moment, I’m struck blind. The lights are so bright and hot that all I can see is glaring white. Then my eyes adjust, and I see a huge audience, smiling and clapping. My knees wobble a bit, but I steady them. There are two long tables, one set with two gas ranges and a griddle. The other is staffed by three smiling judges. Their teeth shine bright white, and even from a distance, I can tell they’re clothed in designer fashions.
Why couldn’t I have been more like my clothes hound brother for one day? For some reason, I thought they’d give me a black jacket or some type of uniform for the show.
“Welcome, Carter!”
The audience explodes with cheers, and I walk forward across the set. But when I see my competition, I want to turn around and walk right back out of the television studio.
Pepper St. Claire.
A white apron is tied crisply around her tiny waist. She wears a black sheath underneath it, and she looks happy and relaxed. That is, until she sees me. We lock eyes, and her face turns a pale white.
Shit.
“Welcome, Carter,” one of the judges says, grinning at me. “I’m Len, and this is Barb and Connell – we’ll be judging your entree today.”
“Great,” I say, unable to tear my eyes away from Pepper.
“And this young lady is Pepper St. Claire, your opponent,” Len continues, his teeth gleaming in the bright lights. All three of them look like they own stock in Crest White Strips. “She’s a chef from Vegas, just like you are. Maybe you already know each other?”
“We’ve met,” I say through gritted teeth. Not wanting her to know she holds any of the cards. I want her to underestimate me. She’s yet to see my ace in the hole.
“Oh, well, that just adds a little more excitement to the competition,” Barb chirps. She stands up and walks over to the long table with two ranges. “Carter, why not join me over here?”
I feel like turning on my tail and running away. Just the sight of Pepper’s spunky little freckles is enough to make me vomit. I can’t believe it – I flew all the way to Los Angeles only to be confronted by the woman who thought sending dead skunks into a kitchen constitutes an appropriate attack. I can’t even imagine what she’s going to try in a one on one showdown, probably swap out all the animal flesh with fish flavored tofu.
I force a grin, joining Barb and Pepper at the table. Barb stands between Pepper and me, smiling even as she talks. I think I’ve seen Barb before, late night on QVC.
“Now, don’t go pulling on the boxing gloves just yet, chefs,” she says, clapping a hand down on my shoulder. “There are only a few rules. You both have twenty minutes to prepare your signature dish, and then the judges will taste each dish before they discuss the finer points and declare a winner.”
“Great,” I say, sucking it up. Eyeing Pepper, I smirk. “Too bad skunk isn’t on the menu. I make a mean polecat in barbecue sauce.”
Pepper glares and Barb laughs. “What an odd little redneck joke,” Barb says. Her constant smile is giving me a headache. “Is that a Vegas thing?”
“No,” Pepper says, putting on her own fake as shit smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s a jackass thing.”
Barb’s jaw drops and her smile fades, but she recovers quickly. “Okay
then. I can hear the electricity snapping in the room. Let’s go cook!”
A loud buzzer sounds and I see a timer on the wall. It’s already counting back from twenty minutes. I know I need to hustle, but I can’t stop glaring at Pepper. If she comes between me and my dreams, I’ll never, ever forgive her for thwarting me.
“What,” Pepper hisses under her breath. “Embarrassing me wasn’t enough?”
Now that I’m standing close to her, I can smell her perfume. Against my will, my cock twitches in my pants, and I stare at Pepper’s lips. If it wouldn’t take valuable time, I’d pull her against me and kiss her senseless to the cheers of this damn audience. It seems to be the best way to cease her belly-aching.
“No,” I reply sarcastically. “I thought I’d fly out here to make sure you don’t kill the judges with your signature dish. Pufferfish.”
Pepper narrows her eyes and glares at my poisonous barb. I laugh at my own pun and ignore her. She reaches into a basket and pulls out a filet of tuna, which she slices open and begins chopping into small bites.
Reaching past Pepper, I grab a paper-wrapped steak. I turn on the heat of my range and melt a little butter in the cast iron skillet in front of me until it hisses and spits with heat. Holding the raw meat in my hands, I turn to Pepper and smirk.
“Want some red meat?” I ask, sugar dripping from every syllable. “I know it’s your favorite.” I push it toward Pepper, and she shoves me. Luckily, I drop the steak in the cast iron skillet, and it begins to sear.
“I hate you,” Pepper whispers under her breath. “More than anyone I’ve ever known.”
I grin, because I’m getting to her. It’s what I wanted, and I’ve done it. Direct fucking hit. If she doesn’t back off, I’ll sever her jugular before this is over.
“I know you’re dying to try some of this meat,” I say, grabbing the handle of the skillet with an oven mitt and flipping the steak skillfully in the air. To my pleasure, the outside just starts to get brown and crispy. I know I’ve only got a few more minutes until it’s a perfect medium rare, which is the only way to have steak. If you’re going to cook it into shoe leather, have chicken for fuck’s sake.
“How do you like your steak?” I call out to the judges, but Pepper thinks the comment is meant for her and rolls her eyes.
“You know I don’t eat animal flesh,” Pepper says. A little smirk tugs the corners of her lush mouth upward. “And if you keep it up, I doubt you’ll be fitting into that polo shirt for much longer. Imagine the cholesterol in there.”
“Yeah, well, at least I won’t get salmonella,” I say, sticking my tongue out at my sexy competitor.
The judges beam at us, but I can tell they’re surprised by the snarky bickering. Serves them right – what the fuck did they think would happen when the two most famous chefs in Vegas are forced to compete? And don’t get along on any level? But I’m not going to let Pepper ruin this for me. There’s no way I’ll let her win – my steak is so good that those judges are going to think they’ve died and gone to heaven.
With my steak cooked to the ideal temperature, I make a show of leisurely flipping the skillet once more and tossing the meat onto a plate. It’s gleaming and juicy, and I scoop butter into a ball before putting it right on top. I add my special garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus bernais. Standing back, I nod my approval at my work. Presentation is half the battle in any food competition. My plate has to look as good as it tastes.
Steakhouse perfection.
“I’m done early,” I say, like a smug and arrogant asshole, carrying my plate over to the judges. By contrast, Pepper looks like she’s sweating bullets. Her face blazes an angry red, and her arms whirl like tiny windmills, chopping the tuna, searing the edges, and then stacking in an elaborate looking shape. The clock ticks down as I saunter back to my range.
“Need some help?” I ask the sweaty woman, raising my eyebrow. I eye the knife she’s set down because her hand moves toward it as if she wants to stab me in my black heart.
Who’s under the gun now?
“No,” Pepper hisses under her breath. She darts past me and grabs a bottle of sriracha.
“Good, because my first piece of advice would be to throw out that garbage and start over.”
The audience hears my comment, and they burst out laughing while a few of them, mainly women, boo me. I don’t care – these people don’t know she’s a monster disguised as a chef. They don’t know she’s capable of sabotaging an entire restaurant with dead skunk carcasses. She’s certifiable.
“Wow, our contestants really have a bite, don’t they?” Barb asks the audience, raising her hands high into the air to encourage more applause. But the look in her eyes tells me she’s never seen anything like this before. “But in this case, I hope their barks are worse than their bites.”
The audience laughs again, and I grin. “Pepper and I are old friends,” I say, lightly cuffing her on the shoulder. But just as I’m stepping back, Pepper whirls around with the sriracha bottle still in her hands. She locks eyes with me and squeezes the bottle. Sriracha shoots from the green nozzle, spraying the front of my shirt.
“Lucky I wore black today,” I say with a smirk, reaching down to scoop up a drop and lick it off the end of my finger in a show of lips and tongue. “Don’t tell me that’s the best you can do? What, you don’t have any dead animals in your station to throw at me?”
Pepper looks murderous. Just as she finishes putting the last piece of tuna in place, the alarm goes off. Barb, Len, and Connell rise from the table.
“Well, Carter, I tried your steak, and it’s out of this world,” Barb says. “Perfect crust, and the butter is a wonderful touch. And those potatoes were carbohydrate heaven!”
“Thank you,” I say, grinning. I’ve got this shit in the bag. “Hangar steak is my favorite – it doesn’t have the prestige of filet mignon, but it packs a lot of flavor. I like my food to be relatable and accessible to everyone.”
Barb nods. “I completely agree,” she says. “Now, Pepper, what do we have here?”
Pepper blows her bangs away from her red and glistening face. Her apron looks like she used it to clean up a crime scene, but her food looks finished – at least, as finished as it’ll ever be. To me, it looks like a bunch of disgusting raw fish.
But what do I know? I’m just an award-winning chef and entrepreneur.
“This is an ahi tuna appetizer,” Pepper explains. “It’s my signature dish.”
Barb reaches for a piece of tuna and chews carefully. “Very good. Although you might want to rethink the sriracha – it was very popular a few years ago, but people who watch their sugar intake are starting to become concerned.”
I can hardly keep from crowing as Pepper deflates like a limp and wrinkly balloon.
“Still, a brilliant attempt in only twenty minutes,” Barb says in an obvious attempt to soothe Pepper’s spirits. “Now, why don’t we give Pepper and Carter a big round of applause? They’ve been great today, and we want them to know it!”
The audience explodes in a cheer as Pepper and I lock eyes.
“I hate you,” Pepper mouths behind Barb’s back.
“So you’ve said. Don’t you have any new schtick to whip out at my expense?” I grin my superiority and confidence before looking at her dish of tuna and miming like I’m about to vomit.
She growls, low and deep. “You’re despicable.”
Chapter Seventeen
Pepper
“Pepper, we’d like to speak with you alone,” Barb says. After the competition ends, I stand with Carter, Barb, and the other judges in a small green room.
My stomach flips over, and a rush of anxiety snakes up my spine. Great. She’s going to shake my hand and tell me that I did well, but that they’ve chosen Carter.
“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile.
Barb leads me out of the green room and into what appears to be an office. She sits down behind the desk and gestures for me to sit in the squashy armchair in front o
f her. I sink down into the cushions, wishing I could disappear from my own life and not have to feel the disappointment that’s on the way.
“Pepper, we’re so pleased with your appetizer,” Barb says, spearing me with a steady glance that I can’t look away from. “But we had no idea that you knew Carter. It’s such an interesting fit.”
Fit? She’s got to be kidding me. I scan her expression for signs she’s teasing me.
“Yeah.” My knuckles are turning white from where I’m squeezing the arms of the chair so hard. “We’re, um…”
What are we? Enemies? Colleagues? Lovers? Ours is a relationship that defies definition.
“You don’t have to explain,” Barb says, shaking her head. “And you know, this might sound a little funny, but I think there is ratings gold in the two of you together. We talked with the executive producer and he agrees.”
I frown, not following her. “I…I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
Barb chuckles and shifts in her rolling chair. “Pepper, feel free to say no, but I had an idea as I watched the two of you. I’ve been in this reality TV game a long time, and I’ve got my finger on the pulse of what works.”
I wait on pins and needles for Barb to explain further. Maybe I haven’t lost the opportunity yet. Maybe I can have another chance.
“We were originally planning to pick one of you, then have a show featuring you as the new chef in town,” Barb says. “But when I saw you and Carter together, I knew that we had another option.”
“So…does this mean I’m not going home?”
Barb laughs. “Oh, good heavens no,” she says, smiling. “We loved your tuna tower. And we loved the way you and Carter worked around each other. The chemistry was through the roof! Did you hear the audience? They loved it. We had them fill out comment cards, and eighty-nine percent said they would watch a television show featuring you and Carter as a team.”
“I just assumed they were responding to the ‘applause’ sign,” I joke.
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