Chapter 5
FIVE
WILDER
I’ve reread the email a dozen times since it came in over the weekend. It hasn’t failed to make me smile once yet.
To: Wilder Amante
From: Heights Bites
Subject: Your interview
We regret to inform you that you are being offered the job of head chef at Heights Bites, effective as of this coming Monday.
Despite your disrespectful behavior and your highly unpleasant demeanor, the quality of your cooking (as evidenced by the photos you attached, the gardener’s account, and the recommendation from Rory Weiss-Grady) cannot be overlooked.
A list of your duties, responsibilities, and expectations, as well as compensation, is attached.
This is a trial period, a paid stage lasting through the end of August. Should your performance meet expectations, a permanent position will be offered to you then.
Opening day for Heights Bites is just two weeks away. There will be a soft opening of Downtown Smoky Heights in early June, and the grand opening will be in August. Each of these events is a major milestone where your performance will be judged.
Take the weekend to settle into town, develop a healthy respect for the Heights and those who live in it, and be at the restaurant at 8 a.m. Monday to begin. Samuel, the line cook who worked at the original diner, will meet you there and get you started.
Your new boss is Alexis Weiss, manager of Heights Bites. Try not to piss her off.
Regretfully yours,
Heights Bites Management
Setting my phone down on the counter, I step into the shower and let the hot spray crash down on my chest, eyes level with the showerhead, and I duck down so it washes over all of me.
Day one of my new life.
The hours will almost feel like vacation after working two shifts, six or seven days a week, back and forth halfway across Manhattan a couple times a day.
The pay is a joke. A quarter of what I made back in New York. I thought I’d have to dig into my cushion of cash to stay afloat, but my expenses are next to nothing here. Only time it was ever cheaper for me to be alive was when I was in prison.
Rory set me up with a place to rent, a basement apartment beneath a row house that you could toss a chicken nugget to from the restaurant.
The old lady that owns it reminds me of a friend of my nonna’s, hard of hearing, but kind in a way that’s died out with her generation.
She invited me in for cookies when she saw me coming back in from exploring yesterday, and said I was welcome for dinner anytime I want.
Not that I’ll be home at 4:30, when she eats while watching Wheel of Fortune, which is during peak dinner prep hour at the restaurant, but it was a kind offer.
When Rory showed me the rent, I thought it was missing a zero. This place has everything I need for the price of what I used to pay for just a couple of days in my last apartment. I’m probably going to end up with more in my pocket at the end of the week than I did back in the city.
Pinch me.
If I can just get my own ride so I can get around a little easier—this place doesn’t have everything I’d need on a single city block the way I’m used to—I think I’ll be close to set.
I scrub up, lathering and soaping down twice, ready to make a good first impression with my new boss today. According to that email, my manager is a Weiss. That’s gotta be someone related to Aurora, no chance that’s a coincidence.
I wonder if it’s her mom. An aunt? Maybe she has a sister.
My interest is piqued, but only for a flash.
There’s someone else that has my interest in this town. I haven’t been able to keep my mind from going to that gardener. It’s been five days, and she’s still on my mind.
Try not to think of her while my hand is too near to my cock, because I don’t have that kind of time this morning.
The way she huffed, scowling at me any time I made a joke. So much attitude, it bubbles out of her. I want round two with her. Another chance to spar, to rile her up and see what she throws back at me.
How her cheeks got all flushed, rosy and delicious, as she got worked up. I wonder if her nipples are the same color. Or her cunt.
She doesn’t melt at my presence, she fights her attraction to me like there’s a cash prize if she comes out on top. It makes me want to win her over. The way she uses words as a weapon does something to me.
Her fire is addicting.
The need for more of her is in my veins, like a bad habit. I’m itching for my next fix.
Thoughts of her keep me company as I dry off, dress, and take the two-minute walk to my new workplace, nothing but my knife set and my phone on me, ready for the day.
I can’t help but hope she’ll be by the restaurant once it’s open. Hell, even before would be great. My cock’s been at attention every damn time her pretty little face crosses my mind, even on this short walk, when I can’t give it some relief.
I’ve got a good imagination, but my dick isn’t fooled.
It knows it’s my hand that’s choking it, and not her throat, every night when I come picturing her fierce eyes, the way her breasts pushed up when she crossed her arms. Those thick thighs and that fat ass I wanna bury my face inside of, then my cock.
Ah, fuck, I shouldn’t have gone down that train of thought when I’m in public. Now my soldier’s bobbing against my abs as I yank on my waistband.
I try to get these thin chef pants to hold it in, but it’s not their fault.
He’s a downright beast. No fabric this thin stands a chance at keeping him in line when he’s like this.
Unwieldy, impossible to control, a head of his own, full of love, and passionate about everything he does, my cock takes after me.
Cazzo, has it been that long since I got laid? This feels a little hornier than usual, even for me. One and a half public stiffies before eight a.m.? Yeah, that’s a little much for a Monday morning.
It’s the gardener girl’s fault, I’m usually not this bad.
Bending my knees a couple times and bouncing, pulling on my pants, I think myself out of this mess I made before there’s no turning back.
Dry chicken.
Well done steak.
The family business.
Yep, that does it.
Thankfully, no one else is on this side of Main Street with me yet, this early in the morning. The end of Main that houses the bar, the wine bar, pizza, ice cream, and the unopened café isn’t exactly a hot spot before breakfast.
Once the situation is under control, I turn back around, checking again to make sure.
Not a single other soul on this stretch.
The instincts drilled into me from a young age, only reinforced by my years in prison, they’re still watching my back for me. A keen awareness of your environment—the people in it, enemies, possible threats—that shit doesn’t go away, even if you’ve been living clean as a civilian for years.
My first read on the street was correct. Only people I see are at the coffee shop, one door down, over on the next block. And a few more even further down and across the street at the bakery. Foamy Heights and Smoky Sweets.
Chuckling once again at the names in this town—they might be hokey, but they’re kind of adorable—I straighten as an older Black man with a mustache appears in the window, walking through the restaurant and opening the door, letting me in.
“I’m Samuel,” he says, voice low and steady, holding out a hand.
Shifting my knives into my left hand, I take it and pump his arm with a shake. “Wilder Amante, amico.”
His smile turns into a grimace, and he pulls his hand back. “Careful, partner, I need that hand to cook with.”
Laughing, I step into the restaurant and follow him to the back. “Good one!” My voice booms throughout the empty space, and it feels like I’m breaking it in.
“Welcome to Heights Bites,” he says.
“Cute place,” I tell him.
“The manager’s put a lot of work into it,” Samuel says. “Her dad used to own the original.”
The dining room is simple but gets the job done. A couple dozen tables, a beverage station, POS for checkout, and a hall that leads to restrooms and staff only areas. I explored a little when I was here the other day, but it looks different now that I know it’s mine.
As head chef, the back of the house will be my responsibility.
The line cook, prep cook, and dish staff, plus the walk-ins, the lines, and the pantry are all my domain.
But I feel a sense of responsibility for the entire place.
Even if the front of house will fall under the manager.
The servers, the dining room, the guest experience, that’s all under Alexis.
And she and I will collaborate as needed on the back of the house.
In fact, I’ve got some ideas I’m ready to go over with her as soon as I get to meet her.
I reviewed the menu, and we can do better.
Samuel gives me the grand tour of the kitchen, like I haven’t already cooked in it, but I soak it all in.
“We did some upgrades,” he says, pointing to the hot line, on the front left wall when we walk through the doorway to the kitchen. “Needed some new equipment after it sat here for so long unused. We got the fryer cleaned and running again. But the rest of the station is mostly new.”
Looks good.
“New expo?” I ask, checking out the stainless steel surface several feet back from the hot line, where dishes will be plated and finished, ready for servers to take to their guests. I already got to use it once but take the chance to get familiar with it again now.
“Yeah. You didn’t wanna see the old one.” He gives me a look and I believe him. “Cold station,” he says, pointing.
I spin and take in the salad station over to the right of the doorway. There’s barely a salad on the menu, much less other cold apps and dishes, but I have ideas on those too. This won’t be a waste of space by the time I get to put my stamp on this place.
“And the prep station is back there,” Samuel points to the back right of the room, the station nestled in the corner between the walk-ins and the cold station.