“Someday I want to meet a girl who’s not in a costume.”
–Overheard at Comic-Con
Every kitchen I’ve ever worked in is basically the same. There is a lot of hustle, chopping, cleaning, and it’s hotter than Genosha right after Magneto bombed the island. The only difference at Bodean’s is the head chef.
Lucas doesn’t bark orders and act all high and mighty like most head chefs I’ve worked for. Not counting Scarlett, of course. And he’s probably as old as Granny, or older. He’s from “the Deeper South” Eliza tells me, which is her explanation for why he talks slow, and sometimes I can hardly understand him, but his fingers are fast and deft and he preps plates faster than Wally West. And the food, well that’s been a surprise, too, considering the stickiness of the refurbished barn floor out in the main area.
Ranger sticks his head through the swinging door, cowboy hat bobbing. “I’m gonna relieve security for a twenty-minute break. You got a plate for the big fella?”
Lucas, in front of the stove, points his spatula at me.
I’m already on the move. “On it. I’ll finish cleanup when I get back.”
I prep a plate of the specials for Beast—tonight it’s shrimp and grits sautéed in butter with a side of corn fritters. I haven’t tasted it yet, but it smells divine.
It’s not the bar fare I’m used to, even though there are the requisite burgers, fries, and hot wings. Lucas insists on purchasing only local produce and meats and there are surprising options on the menu, including Cajun boil, Hot Browns, and delicately seared catfish with a side of fried green tomatoes.
Leaving the kitchen, I turn a corner at the bar where the same three thirty-something men have been perched every night this week, drinking identical draft beers and arguing about whether the New York Sharks’ record would be better with Brent Crawford as a player instead of a coach. I head down a back hallway, sidestepping one of the roadies carrying a speaker to the stage on the other side of the building.
Ranger’s office is where most of us take our breaks because there isn’t any kind of employee break room.
I knock on the closed door before swinging it open. “Hey.” I set the plate on the table in front of the couch where Beast is sitting, elbows on his knees, cell phone in his hands. The couch is worn brown leather. In the back of the room sits a heavy wooden desk, filing cabinets, and an old-ass computer that was the height of technology before I was born.
He’s wearing his requisite bouncer gear: dark jeans with a black T-shirt that has a Bodean’s logo on the breast. I have my own black blouse with the same logo. But the company shirts must not come in size goliath because it’s on the tight side. The sleeves strain under the curve of his biceps, and the fabric hugs his shoulders, outlining the definition underneath.
He normally wears stuff that’s a little baggier so while it’s impossible to hide his inherent size no matter the outfit, I didn’t quite comprehend his actual form until . . . now. And now I can’t stop comprehending it, no matter how hard I try. There’s no denying it, Beast is hot. But the attraction simmering in my belly, growing every day, is irrelevant because it’s not reciprocated. Every time I think about when I tried to kiss Beast and how weird it was and how he reacted, embarrassment sweeps through me and helps quash any lingering temptation.
He signs a thank-you by holding his palm flat to his face, then moving it forward and down. Then he holds up one finger to indicate I should wait.
Every night for the past week I’ve brought him dinner on his break. Who knew chicken porn could bring people together?
I figured out he knows ASL by talking to Grace, and I’ve been taking the time to learn some simple signs. I’ve got the alphabet down, that was the easy part, and then a few common hand signals like please, thank you, and more, amongst others.
He pushes something on his phone. “Thank you,” a robotic feminine voice intones.
I clap my hands together, moving around the table to examine his phone. “While it’s hilarious that you’re using Siri’s voice, maybe we can change it.” I sit on the armrest and lean in, resting a hand on his shoulder to help him adjust the settings. “Oh, do the Australian man voice, I love that one.”
He shakes his head and types, I’m less of a Wolverine and more of a Deadpool kind of guy.
I laugh. “Yeah, it’s all the monologuing and cursing that gives you away.”
He looks at me, one corner of his mouth twitching up, the smallest sign of amusement. And just like that, the heat of his shoulder under my palm is scalding.
I stand. “I better get back. I’ll see you after closing.” I leave with a wave, exiting the room with so much haste I probably leave a smoke-shaped Fred behind me.
We’ve been carpooling to work together. Sometimes in Granny’s car, but mostly we use Fitz’s truck. The pickup is more comfortable for Beast, and Fitz doesn’t need it since he lives in town with Annabel. She has a car and nearly everything is within walking distance.
Back in the kitchen I continue cleanup. It’s almost nine, which means it’s time to do the most glamorous part of my job: washing the dishes.
At least they’ve got a nice, deep stainless-steel sink with a sprayer attachment.
Most of my time at Bodean’s is spent prepping plates and side dishes, cutting fruits and veggies, and cleaning up while the kitchen is open. Then I move out to the front and help bartend and wait and bus tables. Basically, I do whatever I’m told.
Before I know it, an hour has passed, the dishes are done, and I’m taking off my hair cap and apron to help at the bar.
“Fred, table twelve.” Eliza places the last drink on the tray. Eliza is the bartender slash manager. I’ve only ever seen her in black. Like Faith on Buffy, she’s kinda brassy, kinda emo. She might stake you, might make you laugh depending on her mood.
Skirting the dance floor, I carry the tray to the table in question, a booth near the back, sidestepping cowboys and locals. A loud country song shakes both the rafters and the sticky floor beneath my feet, threatening the safety of the drinks in my hand. No matter that the floor gets mopped every night, within an hour of opening it’s splattered with beer and booze, the smell of cleaning product overwhelmed with perfumes, body sprays, and musk from dancing bodies.
Country music isn’t normally my thing, but it’s kind of growing on me. I might have to visit Skinny Dennis when I get back to New York—one of the only honky-tonks in Brooklyn.
Table twelve is stuffed with a half a dozen women close to my age—late teens to early twenties. Most of them are bleached blondes but a couple have caramel-colored heads and there’s one brunette.
I set the drinks out on the table and they ignore me, continuing their conversation. “I love the strong and silent type,” the blonde closest to me says. She’s wearing a sparkly top and a short black skirt. Her voice is high and sweet, even if her words are on the salacious side.
Her friends laugh.
“You should invite him over when he gets off work, Caroline,” the brunette says. “Or to the party.”
Caroline picks up her drink and plays with the straw. “I do have the whole place to myself. I wouldn’t want to be lonely. Do you think he would protect me?” She bats her lashes, which incites a round of giggles.
I finish with setting the drinks down and load the empties onto my tray. “Anything else I can get you?” I ask loudly.
One woman shakes her head and another waves me off with a flick of a hand.
I make my way back to the bar, glancing toward the front as I pick my way through the throng.
They have to be talking about Beast, and I don’t like it. Maybe it’s because we’re friends. He is actually a really great friend—once you crack the hard exterior. And I cracked that impenetrable surface, oddball ways notwithstanding. It’s like he’s my little secret. But that’s not fair. He’s not mine to worry about. And for all I know, he would encourage their attention. Why wouldn’t he? He’s young. Single. Handsome.
Over at the front door, Beast is turned away from me, checking IDs, his broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist and hips. He has a nice butt. Almost as good as Captain America’s ass. I blink rapidly, forcing my gaze away.
More people are crowding the bar, and time moves at transwarp speed as I serve and mix drinks with Eliza, cashing out tabs and trying to keep up with the horde. Ranger steps in to help out, too. Despite being the owner, he shifts around the building in different areas, giving some of the staff a break when it’s needed and pitching in wherever he can.
Small town, small place, which means we all need to be flexible. The volume of customers is surprising, but I guess there are no other liquor establishments in a fifty-mile radius.
Eliza does last call at one a.m. and then the crowd disperses like a flock of locusts leaving nothing but trash, bar glasses, and spilled beer in their wake.
An hour later, we’ve nearly finished cleaning up for the night. I’m wiping down the bar and Eliza is closing out tabs. There are only a few patrons left.
Feminine laughter echoes through the emptying space.
A few of the ladies from table twelve are at the front door. That Caroline woman is the source of the laughter. She puts her hand on Beast’s arm and then squeezes his bicep. Her friends titter.
Eliza comes up beside me, setting down a rack of clean bar glasses. She crosses her arms. “That’s been going on all night.”
“What?”
She nods at the door. Caroline is still there. She’s still touching him. A knot tangles in my stomach.
At my silence, Eliza continues, “Your friend really brings in the ladies.”
“I guess.”
“You guess? Look at him. He probably has a huge—”
“Eliza!” Face heating, I pick up one of the glasses and dry it off before putting it in the cupboard under the bar.
“What?” She flicks a hand at me, all innocence, and then disappears in the back.
I should avert my eyes, but I can’t. Caroline is basically a cross between a peppy cheerleader and a girl-next-door debutante. She’s the perfect complement to Beast’s large, dark countenance.
Caroline points out the door. Like she’s giving him directions.
What is she telling him?
Dammit, I can’t see his expression.
Just then, he glances back at the bar, and our gazes tangle for a hot second.
“That glass dry yet?” Ranger asks.
I jump. “What?”
“You’ve been drying that glass for five minutes now. I think it’s good.”
“Right.” I put it in the cabinet under the bar top and grab the next glass.
When I look up again, Caroline is gone.
Beast is hefting chairs up on one of the tables in preparation for mopping the floors. He lifts and stacks with ease, the muscles in his back bunching and twisting under the tight shirt.
So what if he goes out with the blonde? What do I care? I have no claim on him. We’re just friends. But my stomach twists with nausea at the thought anyway, independent of rational thinking.
The drive back to the ranch is silent. For once, I keep my trap shut.
A tight coil in my stomach I wasn’t even aware of relaxes when he follows me inside and locks the door behind us.
I offer a quick good night and jog up the stairs before he can make any kind of visible response. His footfalls plod in the direction of the study.
Getting ready for bed, I’m hyperaware of the house’s night noises, straining for any sounds of departure, or the door opening, or the truck starting. Basically, anything that might indicate Beast is taking off to meet up with his new love interest. But all remains silent. The coil in my belly relaxes.
This is unacceptable. Beast isn’t mine to worry over. I just got out of a long-term, terrible relationship, and I’m moving back to New York in a couple of months.
Besides, they would make a cute couple. Caroline seems like an okay person. I mean, she and her friends weren’t the friendliest patrons I’ve served, but they were talking and having a good time together, no reason to fraternize with the staff.
Resolute, I get into bed and chant a little mantra as I fall asleep.
Let it go. None of my business.