Chapter 8
Two days in the compound had taught her two things: these men could not cook, and they were desperately grateful for anyone who could.
The dinner she'd thrown together Friday night—nothing fancy, just spaghetti with meat sauce and garlic bread—had been demolished like they were starving refugees instead of grown men with access to a fully stocked pantry.
Today, she was going to show them what she could really do.
The supplies Diesel had hauled from the restaurant depot yesterday were stacked on the counter—industrial-sized bags of flour, cases of eggs, enough bacon to feed an army. Which, she supposed, was exactly what she was doing.
Lily was still asleep in their room, worn out from two days of exploring the compound under the watchful eye of whatever brother happened to be on babysitting rotation.
Yesterday it had been Hatchet, who'd shown her the armory with the kind of patient enthusiasm usually reserved for museum docents.
Lily had declared him her "favorite uncle" and asked if she could learn to shoot.
Jolene had said absolutely not.
Now she cracked eggs into a massive bowl, whisked them into submission, and started on the bacon. The industrial grill she'd spent yesterday afternoon scrubbing was finally working at full capacity, and the smell of frying meat filled the kitchen within minutes.
By 6:30, brothers started drifting in.
Shadow was first, his crooked nose leading the way toward the coffee pot she'd already prepared. He poured himself a cup, took a sip, and made a sound that was almost embarrassingly close to a moan.
"This isn't the usual swamp water."
"I cleaned the pot. And the machine. And threw out whatever died in the filter basket." Jolene didn't look up from the eggs she was scrambling. "You're welcome."
"Marry me."
"You're taken."
"Carmen would understand."
Jolene snorted and plated his breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns she'd made from scratch because the frozen ones in the freezer were an insult to potatoes everywhere. Shadow stared at the plate like she'd handed him a winning lottery ticket.
"I'm serious," he said. "Whatever Tornado's paying you, I'll double it."
"He's not paying me anything. Now sit down and eat before it gets cold."
More brothers filtered in over the next hour. Striker, who grunted what might have been thanks. Hatchet, who asked for seconds before he'd finished firsts. Diesel, who took one bite of the hash browns and demanded to know her secret.
"Butter," she said. "And not being afraid to use salt."
"That's it?"
"That's it. Cooking isn't complicated. People just make it harder than it needs to be."
By 8 AM, she'd fed fourteen men and was attacking the mountain of dishes when the dishwasher made a grinding noise and died.
"Son of a bitch."
Jolene dried her hands and crouched beside the ancient machine, peering at the panel like it might explain itself. The thing was older than she was—industrial grade, sure, but industrial grade from approximately 1987.
"Problem?"
She looked up to find Ridge hovering in the doorway, coffee cup in hand. The Tail Gunner had been quiet at breakfast, watching more than eating, but he'd cleaned his plate and nodded at her when he left.
"Dishwasher's dead. Something's grinding in the pump."
"Want me to take a look?"
"Can you fix it?"
"Probably not. But I can hold a flashlight while you do."
Jolene smiled despite herself. "Deal."
Twenty minutes later, she had the pump assembly apart on the kitchen floor and was staring at the problem—a worn gasket that had finally given up the ghost.
"I need a new one of these," she said, holding up the rubber ring. "But I don't think there's a parts store within fifty miles that carries gaskets for a dishwasher this old."
Ridge shrugged. "So make one."
"Make one?"
"There's rubber matting in the garage. The stuff they use for grip on the tool bench. Cut it to size, punch a hole in the middle." He aimed the flashlight at the assembly. "It won't be perfect, but it'll hold until you can get a real replacement."
Jolene stared at him. "That's actually brilliant."
"Don't sound so surprised."
She was back in fifteen minutes with a hand-cut gasket that looked like it had been made by a kindergartner but fit perfectly once she muscled it into place. The dishwasher hummed to life on the first try.
"Ha!" She slapped the machine's side in triumph. "Take that, you ancient piece of—"
"Jolene?"
Tornado's voice from the doorway. She turned, still grinning, and found him watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"Hey. Breakfast's done, but I can make you a plate if you're hungry."
"I ate." His eyes swept over the kitchen—the clean counters, the organized prep station, the dishwasher currently running like it hadn't been broken an hour ago. "What did you do?"
"Fixed your dishwasher. Ridge helped."
Ridge, wisely, had already disappeared.
Tornado stepped into the kitchen, and suddenly the space felt smaller. He moved toward her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"You've been up since six."
"Five-thirty, actually. Had to get the bacon started early."
"You cooked breakfast for fourteen men."
"Fifteen, if you count Lily. She had pancakes."
"And now you're fixing appliances."
"Someone had to." Jolene crossed her arms. "That dishwasher was a health hazard waiting to happen. And don't even get me started on the spice rack—everything was expired. I spent yesterday afternoon sorting through—"
"Jolene."
She stopped. His voice had gone quiet. Serious.
"What?"
"You're a guest here. You don't have to—"
"A guest." She cut him off, something hot flaring in her chest. "Is that what I am?"
"I didn't mean—"
"Because guests don't fix the wiring, Tornado.
" She jabbed a finger toward the outlet behind the stove—the one she'd rewired yesterday after it sparked and nearly started a fire.
"Guests don't reorganize the walk-in cooler by protein type so your brothers don't get food poisoning.
Guests don't spend four hours deep-cleaning the grill hood because the grease buildup was a literal fire hazard. "
Tornado's jaw tightened. "I know what you've been doing."
"Then don't call me a guest." She stepped closer, refusing to back down even though he towered over her by nearly a foot. "I lost my café. I lost everything I built. But I'm not going to sit in that room and stare at the walls while your brothers eat frozen pizza and botulism waiting to happen."
"That's not what I—"
"I need to be useful." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "I need to do something. And this kitchen? This is something I can do. So either let me do it, or tell me to stop. But don't call me a guest like I'm some fragile thing you have to protect from dish soap."
The silence stretched between them. Tornado's eyes searched her face, and for a moment she thought he was going to argue. Going to insist she rest, recover, let someone else handle things.
Instead, he said: "The outlet behind the stove."
"What about it?"
"You rewired it yourself?"
"It wasn't hard. Just a loose connection and some old wire that needed replacing." She shrugged. "I've done my own electrical for years. Cheaper than hiring someone."
Something shifted in his expression. That same look from the motel—like he was seeing something he hadn't expected.
"You're not a guest," he said quietly.
"No. I'm not."
"So what are you?"
Jolene thought about it. About the café she'd lost. About the kitchen she'd claimed. About the way this compound had started to feel less like hiding and more like something else.
"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But I'm going to figure it out. And I'm going to do it by making myself useful, not by sitting in a corner feeling sorry for myself."
Tornado was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, his mouth curved.
Not quite a smile. But close.
"Alright," he said. "You want to be useful? Then let's do this right."
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. When he spread it on the counter, Jolene saw it was a budget sheet—line items for compound supplies, food costs, maintenance.
"This is what we've been spending. If you're taking over the kitchen, I need to know what you need."
Jolene looked at the paper. Looked at him.
Then she pulled her own list from her apron pocket—the one she'd been working on since yesterday, itemizing everything the kitchen was missing, everything it needed, everything she could do if someone just gave her the resources.
"Funny you should mention that."
She handed it to him.
Tornado scanned the list. His eyebrows climbed.
"This is... comprehensive."
"I told you. I've been running a café for seven years. I know what a kitchen needs." She crossed her arms again, but this time it felt less defensive. More like a challenge. "So. Are you going to let me do this, or are we going to keep arguing about whether I'm a guest?"
Tornado folded the list and tucked it into his pocket.
"I'll have Diesel make a run tomorrow." He met her eyes, and there was something warm in his gaze. Something that made her pulse kick. "And Jolene?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not a guest. You haven't been since you grabbed that shotgun."
He turned and walked out before she could respond.
Jolene stood in the kitchen she'd claimed, her heart pounding, and wondered when exactly she'd stopped wanting to run.