Shep

I AWOKE FROM an uneasy sleep to the buzzing of my phone. I looked to see who was calling and debated sending it to voicemail, before answering.

“Hey, Armando. What’s up?”

“Thank god you answered,” he replied.

“Am I gonna regret pickin’ up? ’Cause, this is the first day off I’ve had in two months.”

“I hope you didn’t make plans,” Armando said, sheepishly.

“I regret this conversation already. The answer is no,” I replied.

“C’mon, brother. I haven’t even told you what the gig is yet.”

“I don’t care. Didn’t you hear me? Two months without a break.”

“You can sleep when you’re dead. This is an easy job, and the pay is great. I promise.”

“If it’s so great, why aren’t you doing it?”

“I am. I mean, I was, but Carol’s sister went into labor two weeks early, so she’s gotta fly to Philly which means I gotta stay home with the kids.”

“Get a fucking babysitter.”

“You know Carol won’t allow babysitters. She barely trusts me with the kids.”

“So, do what all you married guys do and lie to her.”

“She’ll know, man. Carol will know I lied the second she sees my face. Then she’ll get all pissed at me and won’t have sex with me for two months which is only slightly more than we have sex now. Come on. You don’t know what it’s like being married, bro.”

I let out a low groan. “What’s the job?”

“You’re a life saver, Shep. I mean it.”

“I didn’t say I’d take it yet.”

“It’s a simple catering job for two hundred fifty people at Mandrake’s place. Buffet, no passed service. Simple, clean.”

Mandrake’s was in reference to Tobias Mandrake, a plantation owner back in the early 1800s. He had over a thousand acres near the Cumberland River which still existed, and miraculously, the family continued to own and upkeep the home. Although, in order to afford the exorbitant maintenance costs, they rented it out for weddings and events to help offset those costs. They also had a few of the outbuildings they rented out for overnight guests.

“I hate catering jobs, you know that.”

“Thirty grand,” Armando said.

“No shit?”

“I said you were gonna want the job, didn’t I?”

“Jesus, man. You must really want to fuck your wife if you’re willing to pass on that kind of money.”

“Fuck you for talking about my wife like that and fuck you for also being right.”

I laughed. “Alright, shoot me the details and I’ll get ready.”

I showered, dressed, and slammed down two cups of coffee before making sure my van was stocked with everything I’d need for the day. I then made a list of what I needed to pick up on the way, including an assistant. After a quick phone call, I managed to grab a recent culinary school graduate named Marco and swung by his place to pick him up.

“Thanks a lot for the ride,” the fresh-faced assistant said as he got into the van.

“No problem,” I replied. “Nancy at CHR said you’re a hard worker, and I trust her word. So, unless you plan on making a liar out of sweet Nancy, I expect all will go smoothly today. Now, buckle up because I drive like a lunatic.”

“Yes, Chef,” Marco replied in a fresh outta culinary school, brainwashed tone of voice.

“First of all, cut that ‘yes, chef’ crap right now. You can call me Shep, or hey you, or whatever the hell else you wanna call me, just as long as you follow instructions and let me know that I’m heard. Got it?”

“Yes, Shep,” he replied in the exact same tone.

“Good enough,” I said, peeling out.

Marco immediately grabbed the ‘oh, shit’ handle above him as we sped down the road.

“So, when did you graduate?” I asked.

“Spring.”

“Fresh outta the fuckin’ oven. I’ll bet you’ve got the student loans to prove it.”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m twenty-two, don’t own a car, and I’m still living with my folks.”

“Don’t worry about it too much. Life comes at you faster and faster as time goes on. Be thankful you’ve got family that can provide a roof over your head and work hard to honor the sacrifices they’ve made for you.”

“Did my dad pay you to memorize that script?” Marco joked.

I laughed. “Sorry, I’m not trying to talk down to you, believe me. I’m only thirty-five, but everyone younger than me seems like a kid.”

“What year did you graduate from culinary school?”

I shook my head. “No school for me. I learned everything I needed to know inside a firehouse.”

“You were a firefighter?”

I nodded. “For nine years. I was younger than you are now when I went into the academy.”

“And that’s how you learned to cook? Why’d you leave the fire department? Did you get all burned up and shit?”

“Nah, nothing like that. I loved being a firefighter, but I found my true calling through cooking for the house. The first lieutenant I ever served under taught me the basics of how to cook for a firehouse, and I took to it like a duck to water. Unlike most of the guys, I looked forward to my name coming up on the cooking rotation, and before too long guys were trading shifts with me. By the time I left the department I hadn’t done my own laundry or scrubbed a latrine in three years. I’d use my down time to learn recipes or watch the Food Network and the crew were more than happy to let me try new dishes.”

“What about technique?”

“Cooking is a lot like fucking, kid,” I replied.

Marco’s eyes were like saucers.

I chuckled. “I bet they never told you that at the culinary academy, did they?”

“No, Chef. I mean, Shep. I mean, no.”

“You’ve got to look at the kitchen a lot like the bedroom. There are only so many moves one can pull in either of them. And once you master the basics, everything after that is about elevating your game. Good technique is important, but good taste is even better. You understand?”

“I think so.”

“Cook from your heart, not from your head. Nobody in your dining room is going to taste how fast you chopped the onion that went into their dish.”

“Okay. I can do that.” He nodded. “So, the placement agency didn’t have many details about today’s job. I was kind of hoping you’d be able to fill me in.”

“All I know is we’re serving a hot buffet lunch to two-hundred-fifty people at the Mandrake House.”

“Wedding?”

“No, some sort of author meet and greet thing.”

“An author?” Marco asked, excitedly. “Do you know who?”

I shook my head. “Some Lady. Evangeline something. I didn’t recognize her name.”

“Oh, I was hoping it was someone cool like G.K. Roman.”

I shrugged.

“You know, G.K. Roman,” he pressed. “He wrote the Swords of Fire series.”

“I think I’ve heard of it. Wizards and shit, right?”

Marco stared at me, his mouth agape, in stunned silence.

“Look, man. I can’t remember the last time I read anything other than a cookbook,” I admitted.

“They made a mega huge hit TV show out of it.”

“I work for myself, which means twelve-hour days. After work, I come home, eat a bowl of cereal, and have a beer while I watch a little SportsCenter. Then it’s off to bed. Wake up early and do it all again.”

“Are you trying to warn me that I’ll be like you some day?”

“No, kid. I’m trying to tell you that if you work really hard, and just the right amount of luck befalls you, that someday you’ll get to be like me.”

“Don’t bother slowing down, I’ll get out here,” Marco said, pretending to open the van door.

I shook my head. “You don’t have to be a grumpy loner who’s married to his job like me, that’s the beauty of cooking. It can take you wherever you want to go. Think of the kitchen and all its ingredients like a painter’s palate. As a chef you have the freedom to “paint” whatever you want, wherever you want. You can be a line cook in a steakhouse in Manhattan, a pit master at a Texas barbecue, or a personal chef in Beverly Hills.”

“Are you going to teach me how to do all of that today?” Marco asked with a grin.

“No,” I replied. “I’m going to bark orders at you all day long and if you do anything wrong, I’ll more than likely throw something in the general direction of your head. I’m giving you this touchy-feely pep talk so you know I’m not a complete asshole.”

Once again, Marco stared in silence.

“Don’t worry,” I said, grabbing his shoulder. “I’m only joking. Sort of.”

Marco and I pulled up to the historical home, parking in one of the vendor spots. “I’m just gonna take a look at the location and then we’ll start unloading.”

“I’m following your lead, Chef.”

We made our way into the house and found out exactly where we needed to go, then began unloading the gear. The massive ballroom already had twenty-five tables set out with ten chairs around each and across the back wall, six eight-foot tables were set up with black tablecloths ready to house my food. Staff were moving around the space, setting our dinnerware and centerpieces, and a podium was being moved onto a stage at the front of the room. I made sure we had power, and enough room to maneuver, especially for the carving station, and then Marco and I headed out to the van to unload.

Much to my surprise and relief the day’s gig went off without a hitch. The staff at the Mandrake couldn’t have been more helpful, the event attendees loved the food, and Marco was proving to be one hell of a sous chef. By the time lunch service was over, the two of us were in lock step and right on schedule, giving us plenty of time to prep the desserts while the author lady did her reading, or whatever.

As lunch began to wind down a middle-aged woman took the stage and stepped up to the podium. “Good afternoon, everyone,” she said, in a cheery southern drawl. “My name is Stella Banks and I serve on the board of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.”

A warm round of applause filled the ballroom.

“On their behalf, we would like to thank you all for being here today. Without your support, we could not do what we do. Without your generous donations we would be unable to fight the forces of darkness that would see the children of our nation imprisoned and trafficked for profit. Children forced to work as private house keepers, laborers, or most commonly, as sex slaves. Our speaker today is a woman who knows all too well about this reality. She was trafficked for eleven years.”

“Holy shit, for real?” Marco whispered. “Did you know about this?”

I shook my head. Marco and I stood off to the side, putting the finishing touches on dessert, doing our best to take care of everything in relative silence.

“I am more than honored to introduce today’s keynote speaker. One of the bravest people I’ve ever met, please welcome bestselling author and activist, Evangeline Monroe.”

The room erupted in spirited applause as a stunningly beautiful woman walked onto the stage. She was tall in heels, with long honey colored hair and was without question the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen. She took her place at the podium and waited for the applause to die down before addressing the room.

“Thank you all for such a warm welcome. I’m truly humbled and honored to have been invited here today to share my story with you. A story that, while deeply personal to me, is not an uncommon one in this country today.”

Evangeline Monroe’s voice was deep and smokey, like a cello. Beautiful and sweet even though her words were dark.

“A reported eight million children are physically exploited in this country every year. Most experts agree, however, that the number is actually between fifteen and twenty-five.”

There was something about the way she spoke that put me on alert. Over the years as a firefighter, I’d seen countless people in all types of stressful situations and could recognize trauma-based dissociation from a mile away. Whether it be a short-term state of shock, or full-blown dissociation. Being a firefighter rarely meant getting Mr. Mittens down from a tree. Most calls meant someone’s house was on fire, or Dad electrocuted himself while rigging up the Christmas lights.

For whatever reason, when it came to this woman, I could almost see her spirit leave her body as she spoke. Maybe my observations had to do with the years I spent as a first responder, or it could have just been the fact I was known to be a little more on the emotionally adept side of the male species, but when I looked at her... really studied her, she was gone. Disassociated. It was nothing anyone else would likely notice, she appeared to be engaged with the audience, would even throw in the occasional smile, but her eyes told me a different story.

She just wasn’t there.

Half on autopilot myself, I handed out desserts as I continued to listen to Evangaline speak, watching intently as she continued to disappear. Every time she went into a portion of her book that was particularly disturbing, she’d fade away a little more.

The abuse this woman suffered was unconscionable, and yet, here she stood, her shoulders back, her head held high, and the beauty and strength radiating from her was awe-inspiring.

But that void. That void was concerning.

“Thank you all for listening,” she said, closing her book and smiling, coming back to the present almost as quickly as she left it. “But more importantly, for hearing the plight of so many children suffering today.”

The room erupted with applause and subsequent standing ovation, and then Evangeline moved around the space greeting readers and shaking hands, which I could clearly see was difficult for her. When a woman practically lunged at her to hug her, Evangeline’s body locked, and I felt myself wanting to step between them. Protect Evangeline. But that wasn’t my place, so I forced myself to stay put, still watching as she walked the room with a grace I’d never seen before.

“Alright, everyone,” Stella said over the P.A. “We’re going to take some time and let Evangeline eat, then Evangeline will sign your books in about thirty minutes. You can make your purchases by the ballroom entrance.”

Stella guided Evangeline over to the buffet and I found myself standing a little straighter. Jesus, the closer the woman got to me, the more her beauty seemed to knock me out.

Her skin was like porcelain, and she was curvy in all the right places.

Fuck!

* * *

Evangeline

I was distracted as I grabbed a plate at the beginning of the buffet table. If I hadn’t been starving, I would have made sure to take some private time away from everyone before mixing in, but I’d skipped breakfast and was starting to feel a little lightheaded. There were just too many people around me and all I wanted to do was go back to my hotel and hide. What I wanted was to be was home, researching my next project.

No, that wasn’t accurate.

What I really wanted was to feel the sting on my thigh of a project completed.

“Brisket?” a deep, molten voice interrupted my thoughts.

“I’m sorry?” I raised my head and found myself swallowing convulsively.

“Unless you don’t eat meat?” the illegally gorgeous man asked, waving a hand. “We have vegetarian and vegan options as well.”

“Ah, no.” I smiled. “I’m a good old-fashioned carnivore. I’ll take the brisket, please.”

The man grinned and I felt a zing. The kind of zing that put me on high alert.

He was tall, over six feet. He had dark hair, and a neatly trimmed beard that seemed to have flecks of gold throughout. His eyes were a piercing blue, and I could tell he was well-built under his black chef’s jacket.

You may be wondering if, after years of being trafficked as a sex worker, I still felt sexual desire towards men. The answer is yes, I do. In fact, I still enjoyed sex very much. However, I had strict rules when it came to being with a man.

First, no nice guys. Nice guys were either spineless or liars and I couldn’t have either. Give me a good ol’ fashioned A-type asshole any day. Someone without deep feelings or much regard for anyone else. I needed a guy who thought with his dick and wouldn’t have to be told how to fuck me. I knew this flew in the face of what you might hear from most women, but I’m not like most women. Sweet talk was not the way into my pants, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I liked to fuck, and I liked to fuck hard.

“Where do you want this, Chef?” a young server asked.

The gorgeous slab of meat offering me a slab of meat nodded to the end of the table. “Next to the roasted potatoes is good.”

I smiled to myself. He’s a chef. Excellent. This meant he had to be an asshole. It’s a universal truth that chefs were total pricks, right?

“How much would you like?” he asked, piercing a slice with his fork

“Um...” I hesitated, because now I wasn’t sure if he was asking about the brisket or himself.

“You tell me when, ma’am,” he said, sounding as sweet as can be, loading brisket onto my plate.

“That’s good,” I said, after he’d sliced off three pieces.

“Cornbread, ma’am?”

“Wow. You had me at brisket, but yes please. Although, you’re going to have to stop calling me ma’am,” I teased.

Holy hell, I was teasing him. Why was I teasing him? I did not tease. Was this flirting? Because I absolutely did not flirt.

He chuckled. “Sorry, force of habit.”

“I take it from your accent, you’re a local boy,” I said, unable to stop whatever it was my mouth was doing.

“Savannah, actually,” he said. “But I’ve been in Nashville long enough to call it home.” He met my eyes. “You?”

“Boston.”

“Great city.”

“Do you visit often?” I asked.

“Whenever I can. Best place in the world to get a lobster roll.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you ever find yourself there, let me know, I’ll take you to my favorite hidden gem of a restaurant. They have the best lobster rolls.”

What the holy fuck am I doing?

“How long are you here in Nashville?” he asked.

“Two more days,” I said.

“How about I take you out while you’re here? Nashville may not be a mecca for lobster rolls, but it’s a great town regardless.”

“Oh, I don’t—”

He slid a card out of his pocket with a gentle smile. “No pressure. If you feel like you’d like to see a little of the city, call me. My cell’s on the back.”

I took the card and read his name. “Shepard Waller, Private Chef.”

“Everyone calls me ‘Shep,’” he said.

I smiled and dropped the card into my purse. “Well, thank you, Shep. I’ll see what my schedule looks like.”

I went through the rest of the buffet, then Stella and I settled ourselves into a small, private room to eat and decompress before it was time for me to sign books. I had to admit, as much as the day had been a drain, meeting the handsome chef had helped ease a little of my anxiety and I couldn’t quite put a pin in why, so I decided not to examine too closely. I liked the feeling of peace, and I was going to sit in that for a little while.