Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bennett
G etting back into my room and swapping places with Maverick was the easy part. Being unable to comfort Cat when I saw her race down the hall with tears in her eyes? That was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever experienced in my life.
But I kept my eyes on the carpet and continued walking. Kindra and Eve were hot on her heels, and they didn’t miss the opportunity to shoot eyeball daggers at me. It seems I can’t exist without offending them. They followed Cat into her room and closed the door behind them.
I’m too fucking nosy to let this go, even though my stomach is screaming for literally anything, so I ensure the coast is clear, then head back to my room. The bathroom has great acoustics, and chicks love to chat in the bathroom, so I head there first.
But I’m out of luck. No matter where I stand, no matter which surface I press my ear against, I can’t hear them.
Like some gossip-driven demon, I fly around the room, ramming my ear against every adjoining wall. The low hum of feminine voices penetrates the wood, but I can’t make out a single word. In my desperation, I even try the old drinking-glass trick, but it only muffles their voices even more.
Just as I reach for the doorknob with the intent of lying on the floor outside her door and pressing my ear to the tiny crack beneath it, I realize the depths of my insanity. I have reached the bottom and grabbed a fucking shovel.
“Get a grip, man,” I say as I shake my head and try to clear the fog Cat’s cast over me.
I need a distraction.
Looking around the room, my gaze lands on the ceramic pineapple that slid under my dresser. Shorty must have swatted it around and knocked it to the center of the room. I pick it up and grin.
The kitchen is almost empty when I make my way downstairs. A lone worker stands over the sink, scrubbing a stack of bowls and champagne flutes in a sea of soapy water. On a long silver prep table, a row of metal pans holds the contents of tomorrow’s meals. And maybe the day after, judging by the sheer amount of food.
“Are we planning to take in refugees or something?” I ask as I lift a lid and reveal an entire population of button quail. “Jesus, why not pick a bigger bird? I shit things larger than this.”
“Americans don’t understand portion sizes,” Chef Maurice grumbles as he hurries into the room. He always looks like he’s running late for something.
“What do you mean, Americans ? Your real name is Andrew, and you were born and raised in fucking Ohio,” I say with a scoff. “These little baby birds won’t fill anyone up.”
Chef tosses a hand towel onto the counter, then turns to face me. “If it were up to me, we’d have finger sandwiches made with real fingers, roast kneecap soup, braised backstrap, and a sundae with skin-flake sprinkles, but our benefactor has denied my use of human meat, so enjoy your game hens and shut the fuck up.”
“Fair enough.”
It wasn’t Jim who abolished cannibalism at the winter retreat, though. That was all Kindra’s doing, and frankly, I’m okay with it. Humans are too high in cholesterol.
Chef’s lackey finishes up the dishes, then retreats into the back area that leads to the staff quarters. They don’t have their own rooms—aside from Chef, of course—but none of them can really complain. Compared to some of the prisons they’ve come from, those packed bunks are luxury accommodations.
As Chef busies himself with one of the covered pans, I stroll around the kitchen and poke through the cabinets. I’ll likely find what I want in the walk-in fridge, but I’d rather wait until Maurice finishes molesting the largest turkey I’ve ever seen.
“That’s more like it,” I say as he manipulates the massive bird.
Chef shakes a greasy finger at me. “No, she is not for tonight. Or tomorrow, for that matter. This is for the masquerade feast on the final night. I’m just injecting it with some flavor so that it can marinate.”
His hands move over the carcass, massaging a blend of spices into the skin. Each time he applies pressure, a buttery mixture oozes from the meat.
Fuck, why am I getting hard?
Once he’s certain he’s massaged the bird for the correct amount of time, he pops the lid onto the pan and carries everything to the walk-in fridge. I’ve already exited the kitchen by the time he returns.
I can’t exactly steal the turkey while he’s in there, after all.
And I plan to steal that turkey.
All the shit that’s been happening with Cat has distracted me from my real-world problems, but now I need a distraction from the distraction. I need something less complicated, and food is never complicated.
Back in the dining room, I tuck myself into a corner table and wait. When Chef leaves the kitchen, he won’t see me unless he turns around, and I’ve known him long enough to be certain of his complete lack of situational awareness. He won’t turn around.
Minutes later, as if I scripted the moment myself, Chef Maurice toddles out of the kitchen and makes his way through the dining room. My pulse picks up as he stops in the center of the room to dig in his ass crack, but then he sniffs his fingers and keeps moving. It’s late enough in the evening that he won’t come back down to the kitchen, not even if Jim demands it, so the coast is clear.
I rise from my seat and hurry back to the kitchen on silent feet. The prep table stands empty; the pans have been tucked away in a fridge or freezer. Most of the lights are off, and the only sounds are the occasional drip from the tap and the hum of the walk-ins.
It’s so quiet in here that I worry the entire mansion will hear me when I open the massive metal door that leads into the fridge. But that’s part of the fun. The fear of getting caught.
Well, except when your brother, his love interest, and your future love interest catch you fucking a pineapple and then they never let you live it down.
Gritting my teeth, I throw caution to the wind and wrench open the door. Icy air rushes toward me, but it’s laughable. This fridge has nothing on Alaska.
The turkey sits on the back shelf. I know it’s the turkey because a bit of the marinade sloshed over the side, and its scent calls to me like an alluring perfume. I step closer and pull the pan down from the shelf, then set it on the floor.
Removing the pan’s lid is like removing a woman’s undergarments. The moment that shield is torn away, I’m met with vulnerability. Soft, smooth . . . and cold vulnerability.
Cold.
It’s odd that I’ve never really thought about the temperature before, but perhaps that plays a part in my fascination. Or maybe I’m only now realizing it and that’s why it’s turning me off.
“Fuck.” I look down at the turkey and frown.
This is my thing ! I love fucking food. Until I fucked Cat, I almost enjoyed fucking food more than fucking women.
Cat . . .
Is she the reason I’m struggling to rip this bird from the pan and spirit it away to my room for some lovemaking? Because I definitely want to. I just . . . It feels like cheating. It feels like fucking this turkey would betray whatever I have with Cat.
“It’s a fucking turkey,” I mutter. “Get a grip.”
But goddamn it, I can’t. No matter how badly I want to destroy this supple mound of bird flesh, something doesn’t feel right about it. Never having been one to care if something felt wrong or right, I’m not sure what to do with this.
Something clangs in the kitchen, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I hurry to replace the top on the turkey before I’m discovered. I’ll deal with my hesitation later.
As I step out of the walk-in, a smile springs onto my face when I spot the fluff of blonde hair wiggling just on the other side of the prep table. It’s Cat, and she’s digging around on the bottom shelf for something.
“Need any help?” I ask.
If I’d strapped a live wire to her asshole, I don’t think she would have jumped higher. With a squeal, she plants her hand over her heart, then breathes a sigh of relief when she realizes it’s me.
“Oh, thank God,” she says, then dips down once more. “I was worried I’d have to keep playing make believe. Help me out, would you? I need a bowl.”
I step over to the drying rack and pluck one from inside. “Like this?”
She looks over and nods, then rises to accept the bowl.
I hold it just out of reach, high above her head. “What do you need it for? Didn’t you and the rest of the hens eat already?”
“I couldn’t eat. They kept . . .” She drops down from her tiptoes and lowers her hand. “I just couldn’t eat.”
I slide the bowl into her fingers. It’s only fun to tease her when she’s annoyed, not when she’s downtrodden. And something isn’t quite right. Now that I’m closer, I can see the red, puffy skin around her eyes. She tried to cover it with makeup, but the color peeks through. The cloak of confidence she wraps so tightly around her shoulders has fallen a bit, too.
“Let’s find something together,” I say. “I haven’t eaten either. I had to fill Maverick in on everything that happened in case he’s questioned, and then I figured it would be better to stay out of sight.”
Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I lead her to a massive fridge.
“That was smart,” she says as she steps inside. “Now I just have to figure out how to break up with Maverick and end this charade.”
“End it?”
“Yes, once and for all.”
Panic blooms in my gut, and fear throws a right hook into my lower intestines. I grip the metal shelf and wait for the pain to pass. If she wants to end it, does she mean every thing, or just the Maverick portion? Does she just want to cool it for now . . . or forever?
Fuck, is this how women feel? All the questions and uncertainty . . . No wonder they seem so unhinged most of the time. Shit, I’d be unhinged too.
I’m coming unhinged as we speak.
“Not us, of course,” she adds as she picks up a can of beans and spins it around to check the label.
“Oh?”
“Well, I mean, we’ll have to stop while we’re here if I plan to dump?—”
“Then don’t do it.”
She looks at me and places the beans back on the shelf.
“Don’t break up with him,” I add. “Now that he’s looped in, we could use this to our advantage.”
“I don’t follow.”
I look around for a way to demonstrate my point—particularly, the point that will allow me to stay in her room tonight. I pluck a cantaloupe, an orange, and an apple from the shelves, then grab two empty pans.
“Are you going to fuck that and make me watch?” she asks. “Do you need me to provide accompaniment? I know a few sixties tunes.”
“Ha. Ha.”
I motion for her to turn around, and she rolls her eyes and obeys. I love her obedience, but it’s the sass for me, honestly.
While her back is to me, I place the cantaloupe and apple in one pan, and the orange in another. After placing the lids on the pans, I tell her to face me once more. She does, and I shake the pans. The fruit rattles around inside.
“Now, tell me which pan has the orange in it,” I say.
She points to the pan on the left, and I lift the lid to reveal . . . the orange. Fuck.
“Okay, that was a lucky guess, but you get my point.” I replace the fruit and the pans. “If everyone thinks you’re in your room banging Maverick, and if Maverick is in my room, how will they know?”
“I think I just demonstrated that.”
“We’ll be in a room, not a pan with a lid.”
“And we’ll be humans, not fruit.” She shakes her head, refusing to look at me. “It won’t work, Bennett.”
“Can’t you try?” I take her hand, and she finally meets my gaze. “Please?”
She’s right on the verge of agreeing with me. She just needs a little push.
I lean down and place my lips on hers. So warm, so soft. Slipping my hand to the back of her neck, I deepen the kiss. Her muscles relax in my hold, and she sighs as our lips part.
“No, Bennett,” she whispers with a smirk, and hey, at least she’s smiling now. “Help me find something to eat. I’m genuinely hungry.”
With a groan, I acquiesce and begin helping her pick through the jars and packages until we land on something she’s interested in: a bag of fucking grapes.
“Wait, why were you in here?” she asks as she pops a green grape into her mouth. She bites down, and her mouth purses. “Fuck, these are sour.”
I glance at the pan holding the turkey I planned to have my way with. “Uh, same thing. I was . . . hungry.”
“Let’s make some sandwiches, then. We could both use some food, and at least we’re safe in here.” She grabs what we’ll need from in here—mayo, mustard, cheese, ham, lettuce, and a tomato—and I follow her into the kitchen.
She tightens her ponytail and sets to work, slathering condiments and veggies on toasted slices of thick bread before layering ham and cheese on top. When she’s finished, she puts the sandwiches on a plate and pushes one in front of me.
“Don’t you want to sit at the table and eat?” I ask.
She lowers her sandwich. “I mean . . . what if?—”
“Right.”
I take a bite and chew, and while I’m grateful for the food, which is delicious, I’m also very uncomfortable. It’s so quiet in here that I can hear my teeth shredding every particle of food. Breath saws in and out of me like a gale force wind. My stomach gurgles as it accepts its prize, and Cat lowers her sandwich with a giggle.
“Why are we making this weird?” she says.
“Because it is weird.” I lean across the prep table and swipe a bit of mayo from her lip. “That’s why people hate it so much. We’re heralding the end times.”
“What?”
“You know, in the Bible. It talks about the lion lying down with the lamb. That’s us.”
“Lying down with the lamb, jackass, not going to pound town on it.”
I swallow and look around for a drink, but we didn’t think that far ahead.
“Same difference,” I say as I snag the champagne flutes. After a little more searching, I find a bottle of Jack in a cupboard and a couple of cans of warm Coke. I pour us each a glass. “My point is, you can’t expect everyone to understand right away. It’s going to take some time.”
“I know, but it’s time we don’t have here. Can’t you just let it go?”
Ouch .
I shrug. “Consider it dropped.”
Maybe it’s for the best.