Chapter 1
Chapter one
Ethan
My feet are killing me. Guests keep sending hors d'oeuvres back to the kitchen, and the head chef at this swanky event is giving me dirty looks like his menu choices are somehow my fault.
Who serves bland ceviche on a tiny tortilla to rich white people? His version was not good. So, I added spice. The culinary institute was always complaining about me not following recipes, but I grew up on food in New York and Cuba. Food deserved more seasoning than salt.
They also kicked me out less than two years into my program that was supposed to be a four year degree at their New York campus.
I’m sure they were tired of my culinary rebellion, but I might have also slept with the Professor of Baking and Pastry’s son.
And the institute President’s husband. At the same time. In their fancy pavilion.
When I tried to go home, my dad was not pleased. The Culinary Institute of America was an expensive fuckup, and the president of it was friends with my father, so he got the sordid details and lost that connection.
Now I’m working part time sous chef gigs in the San Francisco Bay area to get by.
My family is filthy rich, or more accurately, my father is. I’d been dropped off at his door when I was three, and we have no other family that I know of. The fact I am his only living relative, and should be his heir, didn’t keep my dad from cutting me off completely.
Beyond getting booted from culinary school, I’ve been kicked out of not one, but two Ivy League universities.
He only cared about my education to boast to friends.
He wanted me to make connections, and I don’t even know what he does for business, except that it involves shipping and makes him more money than he can spend.
Somehow, he still wastes most of his time golfing and drinking.
In fact, this charity event reminds me of the ones my dad goes to. Everyone is in suits and dresses that cost more than a car, dripping in jewelry I can only imagine was mined with slave labor.
Maybe that is why I choose to add a little spice for the milquetoast gathering. My mom was Cuban, and my dad always says I get my personality from her. Since he describes her as a wanton slut who never stopped talking back, I can’t help but agree. Thankfully, I also got my looks from her.
The other reason my father decided I’m not worth his time is my failed attempts to fit into his heteronormative expectations.
What does he expect after what he did to me as a child?
He made me watch as he used and abused women who looked too drugged out to consent, telling me it was how a real man behaved.
By the time I was twelve, I decided I would never touch a woman, though it was probably my adolescent brain telling me that I’m gay. I was a psychology major for a year, because what else does someone with trauma study?
“Sous,” the head chef barks and I realize he means me as I turn to find his reddened face. “Quit day dreaming and focus on service!”
“Yes, Chef,” I reply, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
I roll my eyes when I turn to face the servers and some of them giggle.
I give a cute guy a wink before finishing off the unnecessary garnishes.
The wait staff put the plates onto their trays and leave towards the ballroom. “I’m taking five.”
Before the chef can tell me no, I’m around the corner to the hallway.
One direction leads to the service exit, but I don’t smoke and I know it will smell like trash.
Instead, I head to the bathroom that is definitely meant only for guests with its marble counters.
The attendant is distracted helping a man with a stain, so I slip into a stall.
While sitting down for the first time after four hours straight on my feet, I pull out my phone to check what events X Club has to offer tonight.
I need some sexual release after dealing with my hard ass boss for the evening.
I have a feeling he won’t be asking me back.
The X Club is a queer-centric kink dungeon I’ve been wanting to stop by, and even if Chef doesn’t like me, I’ll still get paid at the end of shift.
After five weeks in the city, all I have to show for myself is a room I rent, my first ever doing it on my own. I’ve been hustling to afford food, but the work is steady. I’m just tired. I want someone to take me in hand and make my brain go quiet.
Washing my hands while the attendant glares, I exit the bathroom too quickly and run right into a suit.
My hands find their way to the fabric above the man’s hips and feel the lumps in his pockets, so I move to put my hands on his chest. Based on the stitching and rich material, the suit is an Alexander Amosu, so I know this man is a wealthy guest.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” I apologize, remembering I’m staff and not upper crust anymore. Hopefully my chef whites aren’t filthy as his hands grip my elbows to steady me.
Looking up at the man who is about six inches above my average height, I find a silky black tie over a crisp white shirt framing a strong jaw with trimmed black facial hair.
The salt and pepper sprinkled on his face have my brain screaming Daddy as I meet his eyes behind glasses.
The thicker browline frames on top are very nineteen-fifties and suit him well.
“Not a problem,” his deep voice vibrates into me with our close contact and I feel my dick taking notice. He steps back but keeps his hands on me as he looks me up and down. “Are you good?”
Maybe I can find even more fun. “I’ll be even better if you want to have some fun after my shift?”
“I’m not sure I’m young enough for your brand of fun.” The man’s lips quirk up at one corner and a memory pings. I recognize him. But is it from my days attending events with my dad, or somewhere else. “Are you even old enough to drink?”
“Ha, thank you for the compliment,” I tease, playing with his pocket square to keep touching the sexy older man. “I’m twenty-eight. And I was looking at a kink dungeon in the city.”
The man clears his throat and steps back. I mourn the loss and the fact his tone has dropped all flirtation. “I can’t be seen in a place like that.”
“Masks are allowed,” I add. Taking him in with distance between us, I finally realize who I’m talking to. “Holy shit, you’re Owen MacKenzie.”
“I am,” MacKenzie confirms, straightening his tie, though it wasn’t out of place. The man always looks impeccable on his TV show and paparazzi shots. He glances in both directions, but the halls are clear. “Sorry I can’t help you have fun.”
He genuinely sounds disappointed, and I wonder if he’s not as straight as his social media makes him out to be. “If you change your mind, I’m off at midnight.”
MacKenzie only nods, reminding me of how good he is in interviews with victims and criminals, letting them talk and overshare. Honestly, he’s even hotter in person, and the silent look he gives me sends a shiver of want down my spine.
“Ethan, Chef needs you,” the cute waiter from earlier interrupts my thoughts. He might be fun, but he’s a twink. Not what I’m looking for, especially after running into MacKenzie.
When I turn back to say goodbye, the celebrity is nowhere to be seen. Sigh. Guess the dungeon will be my after-work venue.