Chapter 17
17
Jake
“You need me to bandage those?” asks Frida a half hour into the night.
“Nah. I’ll be fine.”
“Sorry. Let me rephrase that. Sit down so I can bandage your hands, Chef. Nobody wants that near their food.”
With an eye roll, I pull out a stool and sit down, surprised to see that she’s already gotten out the first aid kit.
“Hope the other person looks worse than you do.” She smirks, wrapping my hands with the kind of efficiency only someone who spent decades as an emergency room nurse can have. “’Cause you look like shit, Jake.”
“I’m fine.”
Giving me an eye roll of her own, she tuts and glances toward the door to the dining room. “Told you I’m immune to toxic masculinity.” She smirks. “It’s like the opposite of Kryptonite for me. Macho shit just makes me stronger.”
“Good thing I’m a feminist then, isn’t it?”
“Mm-hmm.” She glances again at the door to the dining room. “She see this yet?”
“What’s that?”
“Boss know you’re moonlighting as an extra in our local Fight Club?”
“I’m not?—”
“You two gonna make it official or what?”
“How did you know we were?—”
“I didn’t,” she cackles. “But now I do!”
I pause, shut my mouth, and sit back on the stool, staring at her for a handful of seconds while she very purposefully does not look at me, instead focusing on getting my knuckles wrapped nice and tight before grabbing the pair of gloves she’s already set aside.
“There’s nothing to make official.”
She snorts, giving me the kind of look my dad used to give me when I lied right to his face. “At least you’re not insulting my intelligence by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
“That’s what I like about you.”
“Just that?”
“One of the many things I like about you, Jake.” Frida’s got this stare, man. Dark and sharp enough to cut right to the heart of a person. If she points it just right, I’m pretty sure it’ll do permanent damage. “But I’m gonna give you a word of advice.”
“Please don’t. I’m not in the market for?—”
“Yes you are, now shut up.”
“Geez. All right. Give it to me.”
“Kitty’s all hard on the outside. ’Cause she’s had to be. Had some rough setbacks. Especially recently. In fact…” Frida hands me the gloves and drops her hands in her lap, her eyes losing their focus as she goes back to some place I’m not convinced I want to know anything about. “It’s how we met.”
My eyebrows fly up in surprise. “You didn’t meet here?”
She shakes her head, her mouth going so flat it almost disappears in the network of wrinkles around it. “It’s not my story to tell, but I met her at my last job.”
Shit. Okay. Shit. She won’t say it out loud, but I’m pretty sure she means the hospital.
“And Kitty’s strong as hell, okay? But she’s not your kind of strong.”
“What kind is that?”
“You’ve got a strong core.”
I snort. “What makes you say that?”
“What was your childhood like?”
A bunch of images—moments—take over like only memories can. I’m hit with the smell of coffee, bacon, and apple pie, as if the whole thing’s right here in this kitchen, freshly brewed and fried and baked. Mom sashaying through the diner, slinging plates full of food, belting out You’re Beautiful and Somewhere Only We Know and all those other sentimental songs I haven’t thought about in ages. I’m doing homework at the counter and I…belong. I’m happy and I belong.
“It was good,” I say, without looking up. “It was great.” Until it wasn’t. But that’s not something I’ll be getting into anytime soon.
“Kitty’s was rough. You know she lost her parents early on? Car accident?”
I nod, slowly, trying to piece together what exactly Frank had said. “Yeah. Frank told me.”
“Those early years matter. They give you the inner strength you’ll need to deal with the shit life throws at you from then on out.” She tapes up one hand and moves to the other. “Wherever you acquired your toughness, Jake, I figure it was built on a solid inner core.”
Not sure how the woman perceived that, but I let it go and continue to listen.
“Kitty, now? She’s all bark. Just layers and layers and layers of it. So frickin’ tough, you know? Doesn’t let a damn thing inside.” She sighs and stands, stretching before grabbing her stool and folding it to put away. “Problem with all that protection is if something gets inside, you got no way to…to handle it. She doesn’t let herself feel anymore. Too damn painful after that prick…”
“What did he do?” My voice is ground glass.
“Nothing you need to get in a tizzy about.”
“Look, Frida, just tell me what the man?—”
“Just dude shit, okay? Just shitty men being shitty.” She shakes her head. “Nothing you need to get all violent about. The guy was a selfish prick and, far as I can tell, he continues to be one.” Her eyes narrow on me, possibly measuring me up against the man. “Did you know that married women live shorter lives than those who don’t have husbands?” She finishes up the second hand.
“Well, Frida.” I stand. “It’s been a blast hanging out, but?—”
The door swings open, thank god, cutting me off mid-sentence. “Eight’s done with apps.” Cora drops a pile of plates at the dishwashing station and heads back out again.
Frida and I jump into gear.
My body’s moving slow and calm, the way it always does behind the line, but inside, there’s a whole lot of discomfort.
I turn the oven heat up for the soufflé. “You warning me off her?”
“Hell, no.” Frida doesn’t look at me while she chucks a few oysters into the fryer and spoons seaweed and sesame garnish onto the plates, her body moving with the quick efficiency of an expert.
“Then what’s your point?”
“My point, Chef, is to keep doing whatever it is you’re doing.” She flashes me a grin, showing a set of teeth that’re slightly crooked and yellowed with age, then goes back to prepping her plates. “’Cause she’s looking almost relaxed.”
“Jesus,” I say, wondering if Frida’s got any idea what Kit and I have been getting up to together. With my next inhale, something eases open in my chest. “You think?”
She grins. “I know.” And then, because we’ve gotten to be friends, I guess, and she’s hell bent on having this awkward moment with me, she leans in and says, “Just be careful. I like you both.” Frida uses a forefinger to trace an up and down in the air between us, as if she’s outlining my body from top to bottom. “Plus you kick ass in the kitchen.” Before I have time to brace, she finishes with, “I’d hate for whatever y’all are doing to backfire and ruin my stable work environment. You’re here for three more weeks. Don’t fuck it up. Order up!” She yells in the exact same breath. She reaches out to ding the bell and turns to let Toni know he’s slacking on the pots and pans, leaving me on my own to fire table nine’s mains in a weird, half shell-shocked limbo.
It’s almost closing when I head back to dry goods to grab flour. I’m baking a cake. Ostensibly for tomorrow’s dessert special, but it’s really for Kit.
The woman loves cake with a passion that turns me way the hell on and, like Frida, I really like seeing Kit happy.
Kit
I trail Cora and Toni to the door at the end of the shift and lock it behind them, then turn around. The dining room’s dark, the many chandeliers—twenty-six to be exact—are all currently off, leaving just the warm light behind the bar and the rim of white around the kitchen door.
He’s back there, probably still scrubbing away at dirt that nobody else can see.
Which means it’s just the two of us.
Again.
Just knowing that he’s there revs me up. This is the last thing I want, after my call with Frank and the realization that I’m doing something I might not be entirely comfortable with.
At the same time, it’s undeniable, this pull. Stronger than me. I feel guilty and ashamed and, right there, braided in with those two is this low, thumping excitement.
The door swings open, startling me into jumping.
He steps into the room and pauses while the door slaps shut behind him.
He’ll say something now, make a move. He’ll tell me to spread my legs and I’ll do it. I’ll take it.
“That thing always screech like this?”
For a few seconds, I can only blink. “Oh. Um, I guess? I don’t notice it with the music and people talking and so on.”
He nods. “Be right back.”
He disappears into the kitchen, leaving all this nervy anticipation to burn off into nothing. God. Oh, god , I’m a mess. On tenterhooks. Waiting. Hoping. Afraid at the same time. All of this unmet expectation feels like sitting alone on a seesaw, my weight holding me down, while the other side’s flying up, empty. I’m anchored here for half a minute, unable to move. Unsure of where I was headed or what I’d planned to do next.
Just as I start over to the bar for a final sweep before shutting everything down, he comes through the door again, sending my insides tumbling around like clothes in a dryer. He bends and oils the bottom hinge, then does the other two, tests it, adds a bit more oil, and tests it again. Muttering something under his breath, he disappears into the back again and the second he’s gone, it’s like my frozen limbs are freed from their paralysis.
Quickly, I swipe at a surface, grab the keys and my bag, and turn back, ready this time to face him as he swings back in, in all his massive, tattooed glory.
“Here.” I look at the plate in his hand. “Cake.”
My gaze rises to his. “What for?”
“It’s for you.”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“No. But you like cake.”
“How do you know this? Why do you keep feeding me cake?”
He grins, not answering my question.
I accept the plate and a fork and take a bite, moaning with pleasure at the rich chocolate, the thick buttercream frosting. “Jake. Oh my god.”
He growls, low, the sound entirely inhuman.
“Mm?” I look up, mouth still full of the most scrumptiously rich blend of sweet and salty and slightly bitter chocolate.
I go still when I see the way he’s watching me. My heart’s thumping hard in my chest.
“Something wrong?” I wipe at my cheek, sure there must be something there.
“Watching you take that first bite’s always a fucking pleasure, but the second?”
What about the second? What do I do? What does he see that no one else has ever commented on? “What? What is it?”
He leans in. “The sound you make when you take that second bite? It’s the exact sound you make when I first sink into that soft pussy.” Slowly, his gaze moves from my mouth to my eyes. “We on for tomorrow?” I can’t move. “Your place?”
For an extended moment, the power of speech evades me. “Oh, uh, yes. If you don’t mind.”
He chuffs out a sound that’s half-laugh, half snort and slips his coat on over the cotton T-shirt he strips down to at the end of every shift. “Mind?” He looks up, his eyes snagging mine again mid-air. “No, Kit. I don’t mind the idea of fucking you raw again.”
I swallow that second biteful of heaven, everything suspended as I wait for whatever he’ll say next. For what he’ll do.
I want him to do something . Walk toward me like that caged lion, grab me, take all the difficult choices away.
“Give me your address.”
I blink. “Oh. Oh, right.” I rattle it off.
“What time?”
“Maybe, uh, five?”
He nods, slow, thoughtful, his eyes doing a quick up and down inventory of my body, my face. “See you then, Kit.”
“See you.” I’m breathless, waiting while he stands there.
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
“You don’t have to?—”
He looks at me balefully and my mouth snaps shut.
“I don’t need you to watch out for me.” I buss the empty cake plate, shut off the last light and head to the front with nothing but the parking lot lights to guide me.
“I know that.”
“You’re stubborn,” I tell him, opening the door and holding it for him to walk through. I can tell he wants to be the one to hold it, but that’s not happening. No absurd chivalry tonight.
“So are you.”
I freeze. “If you’re trying to sweet talk me, this isn’t the way to go about it, you know.”
“Not trying anything.” His shadowed smirk is slow and would be almost creepy if he weren’t so damn handsome. “Don’t need to try with you, do I?”
My belly goes unpleasantly tight. “ What? ”
“You’re a sure thing.” He pats his back pocket. “Got the schedule right here to prove it.”
“Geez, Jake. That’s real nice.”
“It sure is.” The smirk turns to a full-on smile as he throws his keys into the air and catches them, turns to scan the lot and then slants a look my way. “I’m like a kid at Christmas.”
With that, he takes off across the lot, his boots crunching over gravel as he goes.
I watch him for a few seconds, then catch myself staring and follow, only registering once we get close that he’s parked literally right beside my car today. In fact, I think he’s done it every day recently.
I unlock and get in, start my engine without looking his way, and finally ease out so as not to spit gravel at his windshield when I leave.
He pulls out after me, which I ignore, but when I turn right out of the lot, I give in and lift my hand in a goodbye he probably won’t even see.
I won’t let myself wish he’d follow me home tonight instead of waiting for tomorrow.
Like Christmas, he said. He sounded sarcastic, but still.
Maybe for him it’s something to look forward to. To get excited about.
I can’t remember the last time I was excited about anything.
Except that’s a lie, isn’t it?
I’m excited right now, alone in my car at the end of a long, busy shift. The first couple of times, I was too nervous to be excited and last night…well, that was different.
But right now, the anticipation I feel scares me more than anything else I can think of.
For the first time, I almost wish this whole thing didn’t have an end date.
Almost. Because along with that anticipation is something a lot closer to fear. The fear knows that I could fall hard and fast for this guy.
And that’s the very last thing I want.