Chapter Fourteen #3
Like he’d already been fired. Like Bastian had already given up on him. When Bastian had actually been fighting for him every step of the way, and the only one who’d given up was Kian.
“Mark,” he said, “go pack your things. You’re fired.”
Frowning, Mark didn’t move. Not very smart of him, because even though Kian was a good seventy pounds lighter and a few inches shorter, Kian had already taken him out tonight.
And Kian had stopped after a handful of hits; Bastian wasn’t sure he could, not with the toxic brew of fury and aggravation boiling inside him.
During the best of times, he had a temper; this definitely wasn’t the best anything.
“Excuse me, sir,” Mark said, “I just don’t think that’s fair. I know you’re . . . involved, and I shouldn’t be dismissed just because you don’t want to fire who you’re sleeping with.”
It was becoming clearer just how this asshole had managed to get deep enough under Kian’s skin to drive him to bloody his nose. He was a dick, with somehow even less self-preservation than Kian. Bastian straightened his back and gave Mark the coldest glare in his entire arsenal.
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” was all he said, but Bastian had a feeling it would be more than enough to demolish any bravery this asshole had left.
Mark blanched, but still didn’t seem to get how badly he’d fucked up, because he asked, “What about a reference?”
It was impossible to miss the shock crossing over Kian’s face. Bastian didn’t even know if what he really felt was shock; shock felt too small, too insignificant.
“Let me make sure I understand you,” Bastian said, voice silky smooth with rage.
“I hire you to come and be Kian’s sous, with the belief you will support him with the staff and in the operation of this top-tier restaurant.
But instead of doing any of that, you’ve been lazy, slow, and too busy gossiping to do your job properly.
Then, to top off your sniveling, pathetic little machinations, you think it’s a good idea to cause mutiny among the rest of the staff, with some nasty, completely untrue gossip that Kian was promoted because he’s good at sucking my dick. Did I get all that correct?”
Bastian couldn’t meet Kian’s eyes as Mark stared at him.
It had been easy enough to put together, and for some goddamned unknown reason, Kian hadn’t come to him.
One word of this and Bastian would have been happy to fire Mark himself, and even call Michael Mina to tell him what a snake his former employee was.
Not even a snake, Bastian corrected, a worm. Maybe even a disease on a worm.
“That’s not . . .” Mark hesitated. “That’s not entirely how it was.”
“If I call Derek or Michel in here, what will they tell me?” Since you, Bastian thought pointedly at Kian, won’t fucking defend your own ass.
“It just didn’t seem . . . fair.” Mark hesitated. “Sir.”
Bastian rolled his eyes. “So it is true. Well get this, life isn’t fucking fair.
I can’t believe that even after all of that shit, you have the nerve to ask me for a reference.
Like I would ever lower myself to even speak your name ever again.
And don’t expect one from Michael Mina either, because he’s going to be hearing about this little stunt.
Hope you have enough money saved for a ticket far, far away, because you’re never fucking working in California again, if I have anything to say about it. ”
Mark chose that particular moment to flee the office, and Bastian was left staring at his chef de cuisine, his lover, who’d betrayed him as much as he could be betrayed.
He walked around the desk, until he was right in front of Kian, who looked suddenly, visibly nervous. He should have been nervous a hell of a lot sooner, as far as Bastian was concerned. Maybe Kian thought he’d neutered him over the last few weeks, but Bastian was still in charge.
“Anything to say for yourself?”
Kian actually glared. “What, you wanted me to roll on him? Why should I even bother? You never wanted to hear the shit he did, you told me to put up with it. So I did.”
“I sure didn’t tell you to punch him in the face.” A terrible realization was dawning on Bastian. He’d done this. He’d put Kian in charge of something he couldn’t hope to control—he didn’t have the experience or the will or the skills yet—and then he’d compounded the problem by hiring Mark.
Why had he been so blind? Was it really like Mark said? Had he promoted Kian because he was good at sucking cock? Or had it been because he loved him and wanted desperately to believe in a slightly different, slightly better version of Kian? A Kian that didn’t exist quite yet?
Regardless, this experiment was over, and Bastian didn’t know how to end it without ending everything else.
His stomach twisted. Maybe losing Kian was inevitable.
He’d always been too young, too vibrant, too goddamned sweet, and it was probably only time before he realized that he was too good for Bastian, who deep down, was just a mean old grump.
But he’d believed he’d get more time first, more days, more weeks, that he could file away and pull out when he got too lonely to function.
“No, but you set me up to fail,” Kian said, and he sounded really pissed. Bastian wasn’t even sure he was wrong; but regardless of whose fault the catastrophe was, it existed, and Bastian had to fix it.
“I’m going to go upstairs, tell Nathan Hess that the deal is off, because I have shit to sort out of my own. You’ll be my sous, if you feel like you can possibly control yourself going forward.”
“And if I don’t want to take the demotion?
” Kian demanded. Bastian wanted to believe he didn’t understand why he wouldn’t, but he did.
Kian wanted so desperately to feel like they were on equal footing, but the truth was, they were never going to be able to exist that way.
The situation had been prepped ahead of time to never be equal.
“You either accept the demotion, or you’re fired.” Bastian told himself that he wouldn’t take that awful step, but deep down, he knew better. Kian had his same pride, his same iron will, the same determination, the same inability to accept defeat.
Maman, you were wrong, Bastian thought bitterly as he saw the acceptance in Kian’s eyes.
“You can’t fire me,” Kian announced, breaking the heart that Bastian had never even believed existed until they’d met, “because I quit.”
“Fine.” The word made Bastian ill, but what else could he say? He couldn’t refuse to accept Kian leaving. He’d already ruined everything enough.
“I’ll be by later to pick up my stuff from your house.
” The jut of Kian’s chin was so prideful, Bastian knew he recognized it from his own reflection.
Don’t do this, he wanted to beg, to plead, don’t be the worst version of yourself.
Don’t be like me. But he was Bastian Aquino, head chef of Terroir, and he didn’t beg anyone for anything, ever. Even the man he loved.
“Is that really necessary?” he finally asked, even though he already knew the answer.
Kian laughed without humor. “Did you really believe that we could keep this separate? Lovers at home, professionals at Terroir? It was doomed to fail from the beginning, and I know you’re not stupid. You warned me. You knew it would happen.”
What could he say? He’d wanted so badly to believe otherwise? Wanted it so much that he’d believed he could hope it into reality?
“That’s what I thought,” Kian said bitterly, turning and leaving.
Bastian was left alone, again, inevitably, and this time he wondered, what the fuck am I going to do now?
Before, he’d always known. But Kian had demolished every structure he’d ever erected. He was a mess of crumbled rubble, all his walls demolished, his infrastructure blown to bits.
And still, if anyone asked him, which he hoped to God they wouldn’t, he still believed it had been worth it.
He pushed away from the desk, and feeling every one of his years, marched out into the kitchen to save Terroir from certain disaster. It was what he’d always been the best at, and now it was all he had left.