6. Twisted
Chapter 6
Twisted
FREDDY
R at bastard.
From my view in the kitchen where I was helping one of the stations get out of the weeds, I could see that Cole hadn’t left to fix the handheld in his office like he normally would. He stayed right where he was.
That meant that every time Callie had a second, she was right there, too.
Standing next to the shy rat bastard.
Smiling at him.
Talking to him as he showed her what he was doing.
I wasn’t sure which of them I was more jealous of. The acid in my stomach said both.
The sound of her soft laughter carried over to me, and my head snapped up to see it was aimed up at him while he smiled.
Definitely both.
I forced my focus to return to the task before I torched one of the pans of scallops I was supposed to be searing. At least if I turned them into charred pucks, I could throw them at one of the few people I cared about.
One who had been avoiding me since giving my drunken ass a ride home but was happy to stick around to flirt with the new server.
A server who I was also drawn to.
Marco, too, if his quick glances and questions meant anything. And since he was a grumpy fucker who rarely took his focus from his job and sure as hell didn’t care enough to ask personal questions, it was a safe bet they did.
There was something about Callie—beyond the fact she was fucking gorgeous. That? That I could ignore. Vegas was filled with celebrities, models, and wannabes of both. They sat at the bars, sipped their overpriced cocktails, and scanned the crowds to be sure they were noticed. It was fake and exhausting.
And I said that as an expert since I was also an attention whore.
Callie was different. In the black dress, heels, and those damn seamed tights that all the female servers and bartenders wore, she didn’t strut through the place. She didn’t flirt for the ego or tip boost. She could’ve easily done both, but she just worked her ass off. She didn’t bitch about her tables or leave others to fend for themselves in the selfish hope she could inherit their shifts or a better section if they were fired. She stepped in to help without drawing attention to what she was doing.
The only reason I knew was because I was borderline stalking her from the kitchen.
Fine, it was beyond borderline.
But for whatever reason, she ignored me. I got none of the sweet smiles she offered to others. No jokes or friendly conversation.
I got nothing.
My gaze moved from the scallops to watch as Callie pulled that damn braid she always wore over her shoulder to twist her fingers into the ends.
I want to pull the band out to see how she looks with all that golden hair spread around her pretty face.
Preferably on my pillow.
Belatedly seeming to realize what she was doing, she flipped the long braid back over her shoulder and moved to wash her hands. Even with the bastard distracting her, she didn’t drop the ball. She offered him another smile and words I couldn’t hear before she went to do her job.
I didn’t have to look to know that we both watched her go.
Once her cute ass wasn’t visible, my attention shifted to Cole, and that hit of desire didn’t disappear. It twisted with the jealousy to form a confusing as hell ball in my gut.
And areas lower.
“Chef?” Brad—the sauté chef—asked from next to me.
“Hmm?”
“Is something not coming together?”
My eyes darted down to check that I hadn’t started a fire, but the scallops were almost finished. “It’s perfect as always. Why?”
“You, uh, growled? It sounded frustrated.”
“What’s frustrating,” I said loud enough that Cole could hear, “is people out there distracting my staff.”
Cole turned to face the kitchen windows as he leaned against the counter and crossed his long legs at the ankle, not looking up from the handheld as he pressed buttons. “Since when is front of house your staff?”
“Every damn employee in these restaurants is my staff. Go do that somewhere else.”
He just flipped me off.
Putain .
Part of me wanted to take that as an invitation.
The other part of me wanted to snitch to Maximo so he’d keep him away from Callie.
It was a clusterfuck.
And, unlike the perfection I created, a recipe for disaster.
I plated the scallops and turned to Brad. I kept any irritation from my tone since he wasn’t the target of it. “Better?”
“Yes, Chef. Thank you, Chef.”
I waved away the formalities. “Call if you get in the weeds again. The scallops are going to be big sellers until they’re eighty-sixed.”
Like it was timed, his station printer whirred and spit out three more orders.
I left him with the manageable task and went out to where Cole stood.
Callie’s light brown eyes barely skimmed me before she turned away to finish entering an order. She grabbed her tray and hustled to the bar to wait for the drinks.
It wasn’t that she was scared of me and rushing off so she didn’t get in trouble.
I had no fucking clue what’d changed, but she’d gone from friendly in her shy way to ignoring me.
Like I didn’t exist to her.
“What’d you do to piss her off?” Cole’s head tilted, and his lids lowered into a glare. “You yelled at her.”
“I don’t yell.”
He scoffed.
“I correct in an authoritative but respectful manner in a volume to be heard,” I clarified because I did yell, but not on a whim to be a prick. Only when it was deserved. “But I haven’t had to do that to her.”
Even if she had deserved it, I wasn’t sure I could yell at her. I didn’t want to be the one responsible for hardening the softness she had. That damn city—hell, the world—would eventually beat it out of her.
And that felt wrong.
“Then she just doesn’t like you.” He smiled like he was giving me shit, but there was a genuine happiness to it. “A woman immune to the pretty-boy’s accent and charm. I’m shocked.”
“Fuck off,” I gritted out, keeping my voice low as another server walked by. I didn’t want to put a target on Callie’s back. If there was even a whiff of preferential treatment, the jackals would go for blood until she quit the job she clearly needed.
Dragging my palm down my face, I rolled my neck to crack it before looking at my best friend.
He met my eyes for less than a second before slamming the white handheld onto my chest. My hand barely skimmed his as I reached up to take the machine, but that was more than enough. He yanked his arm away like my touch was poison, the clap, and leprosy, all rolled into one delightful package.
“Cole—”
“Gotta go,” he interrupted. “See you later.”
That acid that’d been sitting in my gut increased as I watched my best friend rush to get away from me.
My desire to kiss Cole in his car wasn’t because I was drunk. It also wasn’t the first time I’d had the thought. But I was usually better at hiding it.
Merde , I really fucked shit up.