Chopped, p.1
Chopped, page 1
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2022 Peri Elizabeth Scott
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0587-3
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Audrey Bobak
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
For Salima Headley, Karen Hawk, and Joyce MacGregor who never let me down!
CHOPPED
Romance on the Go ®
Peri Elizabeth Scott
Copyright © 2022
Chapter One
Regan
“Get a move on, Braxton,” snapped the deep voice I could swear I heard in my sleep. Condescending, patronizing inflections—in fact, every kind of izing I could come up with—permeated his tone. “We’re falling behind, and it’s on you.”
“Yes, Chef.” In my head, I substituted asshole or Chef Asshole if I wasn’t feeling particularly harassed. Which was pretty much never. And I shortened to CA in case, God forbid, it ever slipped out. I needed this job.
He huffed and stormed back to showcase whatever wizardry he had concocted for the night, and I gritted my teeth and chopped harder, better—faster.
Bart, the dishwasher, threw me a look and hissed in my direction. “He’s in a mood. You’re way ahead.”
He—Chef Malachi Abrams—the current golden boy chef of Las Vegas was always in a mood, at least where I was concerned. Nothing I did was good enough, despite the fact I had been up for line cook after a mere few months on prep—without finishing culinary school. With him now in charge, I could probably kiss that promotion goodbye. But I wasn’t kissing his tight ass, unlike everyone else who worked at The Salt Cellar. No way. And, upon reflection, that promotion should be mine—on merit. Even an arrogant jerk would recognize that, right?
After another hour of preparation, spiced with regular criticisms from the asshole, I’d finished every last vegetable—CA the golden boy did the meat prep himself, clearly not trusting me with the task. With a rueful look at my cramped hands, I straightened up and issued a sigh of relief.
“I need more onions.”
The hell he did. CA had picked Mexican dishes for tonight’s feast, and I’d prepped everything on the list to the exact specifications. Without a word or a glance in his direction, I carefully lifted the stainless steel container holding the remaining precisely chopped onions and set it in front of his arrogant self. And if it snapped crisply when it landed, as metal meeting metal does, well, that only underscored my silent point.
His immaculate chef’s coat hovered in my peripheral—how he kept it that way amid the chaos of the kitchen was a total mystery—and a big, scarred hand reached out to tap the dish. I braced myself for some disparaging remark, even as I peered at the onions and admired my knife work. Prepping wasn’t glamorous, but it was important, and I took pride in everything I did.
“Do six more.”
I stared after his broad-shouldered, retreating form, as if CA ever retreated, and sucked in a breath. I could comply or walk. Payday was tomorrow, and I had no doubt I’d lose the whole two weeks if I didn’t hang in. I bit my lip. My pride wasn’t worth it, particularly over six onions.
After dragging the damn vegetables from the bin in the cooler, I balanced them in my arms as I backed out. Peter, the line cook I hoped to step in for, held the door while taking advantage of my awkward hold.
I passed through and glared at him. “Thanks. And remove your hand from my ass, or I’ll practice my knife work on your fingers.”
Peter laughed and gave my buttock a quick squeeze. “You know you love it.”
“Fuck off, Peter.” If I thought CA would back me, I’d send a complaint up the chain.
“Braxton! Onions?” Speak of the devil.
I brushed past them, heading for my station. I overhead CA ask, “What was that about?”
Straining my ears, I caught, “She’s just messing around. With an ass like hers, the way she flaunts it, a guy’s practically invited to take a stroke.”
Rage flowed through my veins, and I turned, determined to address that horseshit regardless of CA’s hostility, but the pair had moved deeper into the storage area. Losing my grip on the onions, I huffed and retraced my steps, dumping them onto the cutting surface.
I made short work of the sweet white flesh, peeling and dicing with controlled ferocity as I muttered to myself. That’s a forefinger, the ring finger, a thumb, a nose… I’d moved onto other, more personal body parts when the bane of my existence spoke behind me. It wasn’t chance that he waited until I was between slices. Asshole or not, he respected safety.
“Braxton.”
He called everyone else by their first names, at least those he deemed worthy. Not that I wanted to hear mine issue forth with that contemptuous tone. “Yes, Chef?”
Silence.
Inwardly sighing, I turned, deliberately retaining my knife. His dark-eyed stare dropped to the utensil before fastening on mine. I took care to shutter my incipient homicidal thought. Though if he asked for one more fucking onion…
“What did Peter do?”
I flinched. His full lips were pressed into a thin line, and he looked … fierce. On my account? I shrugged. “Nothing that falls out of his bailiwick.” Peter was gone after tomorrow. He’d be working as a chef in a casino, and I’d be begging for more hours from my other boss if he caused trouble. Such was life.
“I asked you what he did.”
I studied him, noting the handsome features crowned with thick, black curls. His eyes mesmerized me, such a dark brown that they vied with the incredible mole he’d whipped up tonight. Sue me. I snuck a taste. Not of him—and what was I even thinking? On a sigh, I said, “He grabbed my ass.”
“Have you given him any reason to think his … advances are welcome?”
I bristled, my fingers tightening on the knife. CA reached out and delicately removed it from my grasp, setting it on the work surface. “No need for an accident.”
Great. Now he questioned my knife skills, not that he ever complimented them. “It wouldn’t be an accident.” As soon as the words—of warning? A threat?—left my lips I wished to call them back. You idiot! Job, remember? I raged at the part of me that struck sparks off this man.
A smile changed his entire face like the sun had come up. I fought the notion, scoffing at it, and my—purely objective!—appreciation of his handsome features. Pure chocolate looked mouth-watering and tasted like shit.
He said, “From the looks you give me when I demand the best of you, I believe it.”
What? He wasn’t… He wasn’t excusing his treatment of me with the old it’s for your own good trope. I bit my tongue. Paycheck.
At my lack of response, one dark brow crept upward. Spock-like. I’d love to give him a live long, and prosper gesture. My style.
At length, he said, “If you choose to let it go, fine. He won’t be around after tomorrow. But I’ll back you with HR, regardless.”
That surprised me. But to be in his debt? Nah. I hugged my umbrage tighter even as I realized Peter would be out there groping other women. But from past experience, I knew he’d come off as the victim in any investigation. The old boys club was alive and well here. “It’s all good.”
“Then, your shift’s over. We’re set even if we have an influx of late diners. You can go.”
Thank you, Chef Asshole, kind sir. I swallowed my sarcasm and nodded. Those six frigging onions weren’t worth stewing over. But if only he’d offer some praise, however faint… I refused to believe something I did wasn’t worthy of it. And why was his approval so important?
Again I watched him walk away, his broad back tapering to slim hips and a tight ass, before forcing my stare elsewhere. I sanitized my station to CA’s standards—and mine—and then dealt with my knives, which I took home every night. Gramps had somehow purchased them for me, as costly as they were, and while The Salt Cellar supplied the tools of the trade, I treasured mine.
As I headed out to the locker room, CA’s criticism, however unjustified, rang in my head. I didn’t understand why I let it bother me, and a scowl twisted my mouth. Maybe something about me drew his ire, but I hated being an undeserving target. All the same, he wouldn’t get to chop me. No way would I give him the satisfaction.
Chapter Two
Malachi
“You ready, Chef?” the guy who masqueraded as our maître d’ asked.
“Yup.” I stripped off my chef’s coat and tossed it into the bin that already held a multitude of soiled items.
I was a stickler for things like that. We used an excellent laundry service, and I expected all the staff to use it. My kitchen was sanitary, from top to bottom, and that included the aprons and other apparel worn by my staff.
Just another deviation by my prep cook, Regan Braxton. The curvy redhead defied me—mostly silently—on a number of things. I provided the kitchen garments with the exception of footwear, but she persisted in turning up in a voluminous smock that she cinched tightly around a small waist. Although I couldn’t say it wasn’t clean—and I’d checked. Minutely.
&nbs
“Good night?” Jerry was watching me, his brow furrowed as his stare lowered to my hand.
I dropped it to my side, saying, “Better than average for a weeknight.”
“I figured by the look of the crowd. Deep pockets.”
Deep pockets didn’t always translate into tips, but the pool collected at the end of this night—early morning—was significant. That was our final task. Parcel it out in percentages for all of the staff. I hoped to expand and eventually need a sous chef, but until then, I wanted to keep a finger on the pulse. Including Jerry in this routine meant the floor staff were represented. “Let’s get started.”
Jerry wiggled out of his fancy jacket. “I hate this monkey suit, but it lends ambiance, I guess.”
I had to agree the surroundings in The Salt Cellar were important, but I was all about the food. To my mind, if the palate was happy, you could be eating at a picnic table, fending off flies, and not care. My mind drifted to my prep cook. Regan. That was a girl—woman—who was happy in her work when she wasn’t scowling at me as I offered direction. But as long as she complied with expectations, I could ignore her attitude. I needed to try harder to ignore her.
“Peter’s last day tomorrow,” Jerry commented. “Regan stepping in?”
I fumbled the count and stared at him. “Regan?”
“Yeah. Chef Mort gave her the word.”
Mort was my predecessor, a learned and experienced chef who handed over the kitchen without a word. I hadn’t had time to question his abrupt leaving, having been thrown into relative chaos. I thrived on chaos, though I had inherited a mishmash of staff. Still, I figured I had whipped them into shape. And not Ramsay style either. Screaming and swearing in a room full of deadly projectiles? I flashed to that knife in Regan’s hand and wanted to smile before Jerry’s comment sank in.
I bundled the last of the cash into an envelope and scrawled my initials across the seal while I considered what to say. Jerry added his moniker beside mine and again asked, “Is Regan getting the line cook position?”
Short answer, no. Long answer, no, even as I considered the ramifications in my head—and a curious tightening in my gut. “I hired someone.”
“Ah.”
There was no need for me to share my reasoning, but it might save me time tomorrow because gossip in a kitchen spread quicker than a thin ganache. I cursed Mort for not even leaving me a hint about staff. “Regan lacks the education and experience. With more time…”
“You’re the boss.” Jerry didn’t have to say anything further. His opinion was clear from his tone.
I intuited I could expect a reaction tomorrow from the little redhead, and the others would have a viewpoint, expressed or not. For someone who was so focused on her job, with no apparent socializing, Regan was liked by her fellow workers.
I mentally shrugged. Her prep skills were terrific, and she’d be a real support for Jocelyn. I’d go with that.
With one last glance around the gleaming space, I snapped off the light, and we made our way out to the street. Jerry hopped into an old beat-up truck and roared off in a cloud of exhaust. I had a suite in a close-by off the Strip hotel provided by The Salt Cellar owners until I could find a place. With no real downtime, that was proving difficult.
The night air was warm but, with the lack of humidity, felt clean and refreshing after the heat of the kitchen, filled with so many contrasting smells. My footsteps echoed on the sidewalk as I approached the hotel. Surprisingly, I wasn’t exhausted after a busy night.
I’d embraced Mexican cuisine with my version of a variety of tapas, and there hadn’t been much food left on the plates as they were returned to the kitchen. The best compliment for a chef. A fresh twist on the proven was my style, and it had served me well, gaining me this excellent job in a city I had always wanted to live in.
I slowed as I passed a club, a fellow discreetly hawking the dancers within, and I veered into the entrance. Might as well have a drink, unwind, and take in the sights. I didn’t have time for women of late, but I appreciated them all the same.
A tall, slender blonde whose brief costume struggled to contain her attributes led me to a small table. The lighting was dim, but the place appeared a cut above the strip clubs I’d ventured into in my student years.
“What would you like to drink?”
“A pale ale, any brand.” I cared little about spirits unless it was how they paired with food, though I’d acquired a taste for bourbon. That choice would likely prove too relaxing at this hour.
Looking around, I noted the place was relatively full for after two in the morning. Vegas really didn’t sleep. Men primarily occupied the tables, but there were a few couples.
The background music swelled, and a woman glided onto the stage. All sinuous grace and impressive curves, she lacked height but made an imposing figure on the stage, nevertheless. Her costume was as brief as the hostess’s, leaving little to the imagination, but it was immediately apparent to me this was no strip show.
White teeth shone through the heavy stage makeup as the dancer used every available inch of the stage, freestyling to a heavy eighties rock beat. One of Billy Idol’s best, if I wasn’t mistaken.
A wealth of Titian hair in artful tangles alternately whipped through the air and flowed around slender, naked shoulders that were dusted with gold shimmer to match the scraps of fabric molding her breasts and providing coverage at the junction of her thighs. Her fine ass, the globes bisected by a mere string of material, was a work of art.
Her movements reminded me of that eighties Flashdance movie as I stared, spellbound, and not a little … affected. My cock hadn’t known a touch from anything but my own right hand, but damned if it wasn’t suddenly craving one.
The dancer’s clothing didn’t shift an iota—and I watched carefully—yet found myself far more entranced by the teasing hint of abundant, sleek curves and firm musculature. There was something to be said for mystery.
As the tune drew to a close, the dancer crumpled into a dramatic pose, legs akimbo and arms spread wide as if to welcome a lover, as the spots lit her from behind. There was a moment of silence before the room burst into applause, and I added my own, repressing the urge to whistle.
She rose and sketched a mocking curtsy, considering her attire, and the lights came up to offer better illumination. My hands lost their rhythm as I gaped at my prep cook.
Chapter Three
Regan
My performer’s smile somehow stayed stitched on my face as my gaze fell on Chef Asshole, table front and center. What was he doing here? Shouldn’t he still be scrubbing the grill or inspecting the grout on the floor or something? Oh, right. He had people for that, people who took direction, and it was well past closing—for The Salt Cellar. Of all the gin joints… The rest of that old movie quote escaped me, but why did CA have to pick this club? Why was he looking at me like that? And what might he say tomorrow?
I strode offstage and down the hall to the dressing area. Pushing inside, I surveyed the room, looking past bodies in varying stages of undress.
“Hey, girl.” Monica gestured, and I slipped through the others to where she sat. “How’d it go? A flash dance, right?”
“I suppose it’s loosely modeled on that, but I used an eighties rock song. ‘White Wedding.’ It went over okay.”
Monica was country to the core and wouldn’t recognize a single classic rock title. Unlike me. I’d grown up on the stuff.
“You say so.” She laughed. “But I heard the applause.”
