Chapter Sixteen
I ’m clapping and cheering louder and harder than I ever have. My enthusiasm is next level. Gabby looks chill in comparison to me.
And it’s all for Sue-Ellen and Isa, who have just been named bunkmates in our last Bunk Shuffle before we settle into our chosen couples tomorrow.
It’s surprisingly easy to muster so much excitement for those two.
Isa was wholly unbothered when I told him I wanted to get to know Kei, and I can’t help but feel relieved that I don’t have to pretend to tolerate him anymore.
And the potential is high for Girl Drama between Sue-Ellen and I, so maybe this will diffuse the tension.
Kei squeezes my waist gently, one of his fingers slipping under the hem of my top. I feel a little jolt directly to my nethers, but I can’t let that distract me. He is a means to an end. I just have to repeat this to myself, make it my personal mantra, to get us right through to the finale.
“Let’s hear a final round of applause for our newest bunkmates!” Natasha screeches. “Trina and Garrett! Harmony and Giovanni! Cleo and Kei! Valeria and Damian! And Sue-Ellen and Isa!”
We jump around and hug one another, until Gabby directs us to the Chore Board. Kei and I are on food prep, which means figuring out what’s for dinner, and getting it ready so at dinnertime it comes together quickly.
“I’m not much of a cook,” I tell Kei as we take stock of what we have for ingredients. The shelves aren’t totally bare, but there’s not much. Shouldn’t someone be in charge of keeping the fridge stocked?
“It’s okay, I can teach you.”
“So you have more in your repertoire than just pancakes?”
“I should hope so. I’m a line-cook in the real world.”
“Is that like a chef ?”
“Not really.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hmmm,” Kei says, pulling the plastic wrap back on a hunk of cheese and sniffing it. “All grunt work, no glory. But I know my way around the kitchen.” He puts the cheese on the counter. “We’ve got bacon, eggs, parm, and spaghetti, so let’s make spaghetti carbonara.”
“As long as you take the lead, that sounds great.”
He laughs. “It’s pretty easy. But there’s not much prep involved, so let’s do a dessert, too.”
“You also bake?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I help out in the pastry kitchen when they’re short-staffed.
Let me just check to see if we have flour.
” He ducks back into the storeroom and emerges a moment later holding two canisters, one of flour, one of sugar.
“We have flour, sugar and eggs. If we have butter, we’re in business. ”
I open the fridge and find a block of butter. I hold it up, triumphantly.
“Perfect. I know a really good shortbread recipe, should we do that?”
“Oui, Chef.”
Kei rolls his eyes and laughs. He shows me how to pinch the butter into the flour and sugar until it’s like sand. Then he cracks in an egg and works it with a rubber spatula until it comes together in a smooth dough.
There’s a lot of cuteness going on. Kei is such a natural flirt—standing behind me to help me mix the dough, cracking an egg with one hand and a wink, putting his hands over mine to help me bring the dough together.
I’m being equally sparkly, smiling and laughing and touching him at every opportunity. I know we look good together.
“Here,” he says, pinching off a little ball of dough and holding it out to me. “It’s delicious.”
“Won’t that give me salmonella or something?”
“You survived the Protein Period smoothie, you’ll be alright.”
My face flushes as I remember our encounter in the bathroom. The trail of dark hair on his smooth, taut stomach…
“Go on,” he says, nudging the little mound of dough closer to my mouth. Without thinking, I wrap my lips around his finger and suck the dough off. I look up at his face. It has gone slack, and his eyes are dark and serious. He holds my gaze for a long moment.
And then the balance of sweet, salty and buttery register on my tongue. “Not bad,” I say.
He coughs. “We need a rolling pin.”
We rifle through the drawers but come up empty-handed. There is, however, an almost empty bottle of vodka in the freezer.
“We could use this,” says Kei, swirling the dregs of the clear liquid. “But it really would be easier if it were empty.”
“We should probably drink it.”
“Absolutely. It’s in service of dinner prep.”
“It’s practically our duty.”
He passes me the bottle. “You do the honours.”
I unscrew the cap and take a long swig. I twitch, feeling the heat of the alcohol burn my throat and esophagus. I hold the bottle out to him, grimacing.
He tips it up and drains what’s left. “Ugh.” He shudders. “But it’s a perfect rolling pin.” he says, smacking the bottle into his palm. He flicks some flour onto the counter and places the lump of dough down. Within moments, he has rolled it into a thin, even sheet.
“I’m guessing they don’t have cookie cutters, but we can use…this.” He plucks a small glass from the dish rack and starts punching out rounds of dough. “Can you look for a sheet tray of some kind?”
I poke around, opening cupboards and drawers.
The vodka has made me clumsy, and I yelp as a tower of Tupperware comes clattering out of one of the cupboards.
I get down on my hands and knees to pick it up, chucking it piece by piece onto the counter.
There is a lid missing, so I shove my hand under the prep table and feel around.
Nothing. I lower my head, my ear hovering over the floor, to get a look.
There it is. I reach in to grab it, when I notice something else just a few inches away.
It’s a tiny Ziploc baggie, just one inch by one inch in dimension.
I grab it and pull it a little closer to me, aware of the cameras at my back.
The bag is mostly empty, except for a thin line of yellowish powder nestled into the crack at the bottom of the bag.
I don’t know much about drugs—I prefer the paralyzing hangovers and soul-crushing shame spirals of alcohol—but there is no question of what this could be.
I put the lid of the Tupperware over the baggie to conceal it and drag it toward me.
I stand, and with my back to the nearest camera, I lean into the counter and shove it in my pocket.
“Check the drawer under the stove,” Kei says, nodding his chin toward the stove. He has gathered up the scraps from the cookie dough and is re-rolling it.
As predicted, there is a stack of sheet trays in the drawer. I give him the least grimy one.
“Perfect. In an ideal world, we’d line the tray with parchment, but we’re making do.”
“Parchment, what is this—medieval times?” We both crack up. Vodka, apparently, makes me hilarious.
I help Kei peel the cookies off the counter and place them on the sheet tray. I need to tell him about what I’ve found.
“I’m going to check the storeroom for some sprinkles,” I say casually, like I’m just a fun-lovin’ gal who loves the whimsy of sprinkles.
In the storeroom, I wait for the door to open, but it doesn’t. Kei must really think I’m looking for sprinkles.
I poke my head out. “I think I found some, but they’re on the top shelf. Can you help me?”
Kei wipes his hands on a dish towel and comes into the storeroom. “It smells rank in here,” he says, wrinkling his nose. He looks up at the top shelf. “I don’t see any sprinkles.”
“No,” I whisper, even though I know we can’t be heard. “This.” I pull the baggie out of my pocket and hold it up.
Kei takes it, holding it up to the dim bulb to inspect it closer. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it under the prep table. What is it?”
“Hard to say. Cocaine? Maybe Molly?”
“But it’s definitely drugs, right?”
“I think so.”
“What do we do with it?”
He shoves it into his pocket. “I’ll get rid of it.”
And then I remember Kei in the bathroom again, the way he was hunched over, the syringe in his belly. A look crossed his face, and at the time, I read it as embarrassment, but now that I think about it, maybe it was actually guilt.
“Is it yours?” I hiss.
He looks at me, confused, for a moment. And then he understands. He rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m diabetic.” He looks so hurt. I’m a monster. “I’d better go check on the cookies,” he says, a chill in his voice.
He pushes his way out of the storeroom, and I follow behind. He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, staring intently at the oven.
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find any sprinkles.”
He looks at me sideways. “It’s okay,” he mumbles. His posture softens. He leans into me. “I probably shouldn’t eat sprinkles anyway. I’m diabetic.”
“Is that right?” I say, as if this is new information.
“Yup. So, if you see me injecting my insulin, which I need to live, don’t go jumping to any conclusions, okay?”
“I would never,” I say, leaning back into him. “Only an insensitive asshole would do that.”
“True,” he replies. He looks at me, and we both laugh. Anyone who watches this will think we’ve lost our damn minds, but I don’t care. What matters is that we’re okay. Yes, he has drugs in his pocket, which isn’t great, but we’re okay.
The unmistakable smell of butter and sugar hits the air. I pull in a deep breath.
“That’s how you know they’re almost done, when you can smell them,” he says, pulling on an oven mitt.
It’s a cute look for him. He pulls the tray of cookies out and inspects them.
“Nice and golden around the edges, no shininess in the middle—they’re done.
” He pulls the tray out and sets it on the metal prep table. They look perfect.
I reach my hand out to grab one, but Kei swats it away. “Nope! You have to wait.”
I pout. “Why?”
“Because right now, the sugar in those cookies is like molten lava. And plus, they taste better when they have cooled down a bit. Good things take time.”
“Hmm, maybe,” I say, biting my lip. “But you know what else is good? Instant gratification.”
“Sure,” he says, turning to face me. “But sometimes, if you rush into things, you get burned.” He leans closer to me. I respond by taking a step toward him.
“Are we still talking about cookies?”
He looks into my eyes, and then his gaze trails down to my lips. I lift my heels slightly, pulling myself up closer to his mouth. He moves almost imperceptibly closer. His shallow breath warms my face.
But then the clanging of the bell diffuses the moment. Kei jerks back, startled. He sighs. Is he disappointed? Am I? This heaviness in my chest would suggest that I am. Because another kiss would really convince the audience of our connection—that must be why.
“I guess it’s challenge time,” Kei says, pointing to the door.
“We’d better go.” I wave him ahead. Then, when his back is turned, I snag a cookie, winking directly at the camera as I pop it into my mouth.