Chapter 14
A black SUV takes them into town. Sacramento feels a lot like Los Angeles until the driver brings them into a run-down area of town. As they pass a dilapidated warehouse, glass still littering the sidewalk in front of it where the windows have been busted out, Camille gives Wade a curious glance.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t worry,” he says with an amused curl to his lips, watching intently. “I didn’t fly you all the way out here to leave you stranded in the bad part of town.”
“Great, now I’m picturing that happening.” She turns to the front of the SUV. “Excuse me, driver. Where are you taking us?”
The man, wearing the same black suit Buck wore when he picked her up from the airport, keeps his eyes on the road, remaining silent.
Camille sighs, sitting back to stare up at the ceiling. “Can you still make collect phone calls these days?”
“I’m fairly sure. Why?” Wade smirks at her. “You didn’t bring your cellphone?”
“Like I would tell the guy who’s about to leave me stranded.”
He stares at her a moment.
“No,” she admits, “I left it at your mom’s. Hey, how do you make a collect call anyways?”
Deadpanned, he examines her. “You really are in trouble.” He stares out his window. They pass an alley, and he says, “you’d fit nicely in that dumpster.”
“Alright,” Camille exclaims, glaring at the driver. “You can pull over. I’ll take my chances on foot.”
“I’m kidding,” Wade chuckles.
Camille glares at him. “Are you?” she asks, her cheeks giving way to a grin of amusement.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter now. We’re here.” He looks out of his window as the SUV slows.
They drive up to a nicely kept wooded lot, the road coming to a T ahead of them, where they take a right; a park of some kind on the left. Camille leans across to see out of Wade’s window, where there are more dilapidated buildings.
Camille sits up in her seat. “Excuse me, sir,” she insists to the driver, who glances at her through the rearview mirror. “If he’s paying you to ditch me on the side of the road, I’ll double the amount for you to ditch him instead.”
The driver arches an eyebrow at her. “How are you going to pay me ten grand if you didn’t even bring your phone?”
Camille frowns. “Oh, you heard that.” She plops back in her seat, Wade chuckling beside her. “I know you’re not laughing at me,” she snaps, cutting eyes at him, “when you’re the one paying this guy five thousand bucks just to drive us around.”
“He’s messing with you,” Wade assures her, lowering his voice as the car slows to a stop in front of an old three-story, red brick warehouse.
At least this one has all of its windows, she thinks. There’s dark tinting on every window on the first and second floor. The brass awning covering the front doors looks brand new.
A homeless man sits against the brick wall, just under the awning near the double doors. He pops up when he sees them. To her amazement, Wade smiles as the man walks straight up to the back passenger door and opens it. Camille recoils in fear that they’re about to be mugged, but the homeless man extends his hand toward the building.
“Welcome to The Hive,” he says in a deep voice. He looks past Wade to Camille and nods at Wade. “Didn’t know we’d be seeing you tonight, boss.”
Wade steps out, extending his hand. “Last minute change of plans,” he answers, shaking the man’s hand. Wade glances up at the building. “How’s it been?”
“Word’s gotten out,” the man tells him, staying at the door as Wade steps onto the sidewalk. “By my count, we’re close to capacity tonight.”
The man offers Camille his hand as she cautiously climbs out. She takes his hand, smiling at him politely. Looking closely, his clothes have the embedded dirt and grim of a typical person living on the streets, his jacket frayed at the seams, but when she looks down at his hand holding hers, it’s clean. Even his nails look kept up. As a matter of fact, there no hint of body odor coming from him. His skin looks prematurely wrinkled from exposure to the elements, but upon looking him in the eyes, he has youthful, bright hazel eyes instead of bloodshot and tired.
“Welcome to The Hive.”
“Thank you,” she replies, noting the flash of his surprisingly white and intact front teeth.
He shuts the door behind her. The hint of a security badge peeps out from under his worn jean jacket with a bold “H” across it, reflecting in the streetlights. She follows Wade, watching as the man hurries over to the front passenger window and grabs something from under his jacket. Pulling out a vehicle tag with a matching metallic ‘H’ on it, he leans in the open window to hand the tag to the driver. He directs the driver to the alleyway past the building.
“You coming?” Wade asks, already holding open the front door for her. She hurries over to him.
The double doors open to a modest foyer. It smells and looks like new construction. On the other side of the foyer is a metal door with a small window, an ‘EXIT’ sign over it. Wade goes to the elevators to their right, pressing the button on the wall. A few seconds later, it dings. The sound of laughter follows as the doors open.
Two middle-aged, nicely dressed couples are laughing amongst themselves in the elevator. Their laughter dies down when they notice Wade and Camille. The group exits the elevators, and the woman closest to Camille gives her a little nod as they turn and head for the lone metal door.
Camille waits a second before leaning in toward Wade. “Where does the other door take you?”
“It brings you straight into the garage,” he says, pressing the third-floor button inside of the elevator. “The ground floor is the parking garage. You pull into it through the side alley. The Hive is on the top floor.”
Camille thinks of the man outside, guiding their driver. “And the second floor?”
“It’s under construction.” He glances at her, his brow furrowing. “You want to check it out?”
The elevator dings as it stops on the third floor.
“I’m good,” she says, staring straight ahead as the doors open, trying to ignore what her stomach is doing with him standing so close. Past the elevator doors stands a white wooden podium where an olive-skinned hostess in a tight, black shirt with thick, caramel hair pulled half-up stands behind it.
“Do you have a reservation?” she asks Camille as she steps out of the elevator ahead of Wade.
“Bloom,” Wade says behind her.
The hostess looks up from the podium, giving Wade a double take. She apologizes, dipping her chin at them as she grabs two tablets from under the podium. “You can follow me.”
Camille looks at him, wondering why she bowed at them. Wade just shrugs.
They follow her down a short, wide corridor. It opens into The Hive, a modern, chic restaurant with an open floorplan and a spacious seating arrangement, providing a private dining experience. The exposed brick walls are beautiful, but it’s the large artwork hanging on them that grabs her attention. Each black canvas depicts a bee in various forms of flight drawn in bright white chalk. The contrast is lovely, but the detail of the bees is exquisite.
At the sound of a loud clink of glasses, Camille notices the bar. The bar top is a mammoth-sized piece of reclaimed wood, adding to the restaurant’s warm atmosphere. Two women sitting at the end of the bar clink their glasses together and down the brown liquor. The bartender standing in front of them is already making them another.
As much as Wade’s appearance alarmed the hostess and homeless-looking bouncer, they weave around servers and patrons unnoticed. Camille isn’t sure where the hostess is leading them. Every table appears to be taken. They cross the restaurant, the hostess not slowing down as they pass by swinging doors where servers are coming and going. They continue to a small wine room with a glass wall, where the wine bottles are displayed on individual hooks as an art display.
The hostess stops when a server walks out from the kitchen carrying a tray with a metal wine bucket. The server whips inside the wine room, grabbing a bottle of red wine from one of the lower hooks. She’s out the door in a flash, her smile ready to present her table with their wine.
The hostess glances at Camille. “Right this way.”
When Camille pauses before walking to the wine room, a hand touches her lower back.
“Watch this,” Wade whispers in her ear, eyeing the hostess as she opens the glass door to the wine room.
Wade catches the door, allowing Camille to enter first. It’s cold inside. The hostess places a hand on the bottle with the metallic ‘H’ on the label. Camille moves to make space as Wade steps in next to her. She glances out behind them to see that several guests have stopped talking and eating to watch.
There’s a rush of air as the hostess uses a hook to open a hidden door in the wall. On the other side is a private room, where a table and two chairs are seated in the middle.
“Wow,” Camille gapes, gazing at the walls of the hidden room.
All four walls are painted in black. Each wall has its own three-foot, flying white bee. It takes her a minute to notice a second door. The hostess pulls a chair back for Camille. Wade sits opposite her. Camille is still staring around at the walls as the hostess hands them the tablets with the menus on them.
The hostess gives them another tiny bow. “Enjoy.”
Wade is grinning at her when she turns to face him after watching the hostess walk out.
“The same artist who drew the art out there was commissioned to do this,” Wade says.
Camille nods. “I get why it’s called The Hive.”
“The building used to be a textile manufacturer that went out of business years ago. When the cleanup started, the contractors found a huge bee colony living in the walls. Word has it that honey was seeping through the walls. There was so much of it.”
The other door opens, and a waiter in his mid-thirties walks in carrying a tray consisting of a pitcher of iced water and a tall, skinny glass bottle of sparkling water. A tray holder is hanging over his shoulder. The kitchen noises fill the room: clinking dishes, people bustling around, and the distant sound of a man cursing quickly fades as the door shuts behind the waiter. Camille quickly scours the menu. The image of the top shelf margarita looks more appealing than the spinach and artichoke dip with its fancy baguette chips.
“Evening, Mr. Bloom,” he dips his chin at Wade. “Ma’am,” he adds, turning to Camille, dipping his chin in the same manner. With one hand, he opens and sets the tray holder near the door. He sets the tray on top of it and grabs the pitcher of water.
“It’s looking good out there,” Wade remarks, watching him fill Camille’s glass.
“Gotta love a full house,” he replies, switching the pitcher for the unopened bottle of sparkling water. “It’s the second night this week.”
“I could hear how much our chef is loving it, or is it just because I’m here?”
The waiter gives him a bashful smirk. “You know how Chef feels about surprises.”
And just like that, as if summoned, the door to the kitchen swings open, and a man wearing a white apron strolls in carrying the savory smell of freshly cooked food.
“Bloom, how are you?” the man greets with an accent she can’t place.
The waiter, unscrewing the top of the glass bottle, jumps to move out of the way as Wade stands to greet him. “Phillipe! The place looks great.”
They exchange a boisterous shake.
“I’d like you to meet Camille. I flew her in from L.A. to show her what you can do.”
“Nice to meet you,” she acknowledges and is about to extend her hand, but the way he examines her, his smile turning to distaste, keeps her hands in her lap.
“You’re not on any kind of diet, are you?”
Camille shakes her head, looking sideways at Wade.
“Keto? Gluten-free?” Chef Phillipe continues.
Wade looks more entertained than concerned for his guest.
“Nope,” Camille verifies, smiling up at him. “Just a boring, regular diet of whatever sounds good.”
With that, Phillipe’s smile returns. “Boring…not tonight. The owner of The Hive rarely makes an appearance, so prepare your taste buds for a special treat.” He looks at Wade. “We have something new for you. Adam,” he says to the waiter, who’s pours Wade his sparkling water, “no menus. They’ll get the preview tonight.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Phillipe disappears in haste. Camille looks at the waiter as he takes the tablet from Wade.
“What’s the preview?” she asks, handing him her tablet.
“A little of everything, and his latest creation.”
Camille nods, glimpsing at Wade, who appears perfectly content. What on Earth does that mean? Judging by Phillipe’s questions, at least she knows that there’s going to be some meat. She wonders if asking for a soda would be out of the question. She takes it a step further, asking for what she really wants.
“Can I get a glass of the top-shelf margarita?”
“Not necessary,” Adam counters, moving to the side door. “The preview comes with matching beverages.” He glances at her glass of water. “Lemons for your water, perhaps?”
Camille struggles to hide her disappointment. “Sure.”
“You can get whatever you want,” Wade reassures after the waiter is gone.
What she wants to say is, “clearly I can’t,” but instead she says, “it’s fine,” picking up her glass of water to show him just how fine she is to fly all the way to Sacramento for a glass of water. Wade grins as he picks up his own glass of water.
She lowers her glass, nodding at his glass full of fizzy bubbles as he takes a drink. “What does sparkling water taste like?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never tried it?”
“I’ve never been to a restaurant that offered it.”
He looks at his glass and offers it to her. “Try it.”
A grin spreads across her face. “Does it taste as bougie as it looks?”
Wade responds by tipping the glass toward her. She feels like she’s doing something she shouldn’t when she accepts it. It’s the closeness of it that makes her feel embarrassed to drink after a man she barely knows. A handsome, smart, funny man who makes her feel things she shouldn’t when he holds her gaze, just like he’s doing now.
Tipping the glass, the fizz from the carbonation tickles her upper lip before the water reaches her. She takes a modest drink, shutting her eyes as she swallows. Wade’s lowered his chin, watching her.
“Yeah, I don’t like it.” She passes the glass back, Wade’s shoulders falling as he takes it.
“Are you serious?” His genuine surprise amuses her far more than the fizz.
“If that’s what bougie tastes like, you can keep it.”
Wade takes another drink, swishing it back and forth between his cheeks before swallowing. “This is refreshing. Here, take another sip.”
“No,” Camille shakes her head dramatically as he offers her the glass again, “that tastes like a Sprite without the sprite, and…I like my Sprite with some Sprite in it.”
Wade sets his glass down with a thud. “You’re crazy.”
“No, you’re crazy,” she blurts, feeling foolish as soon as the words are out, but Wade just gives her his charming, one-sided grin.
“How am I crazy?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, looking around at the art on the walls. “Why didn’t you tell me that you owned this place?”
“It’s not like I can take total credit. I got the idea from Easton and some investment properties he’s turned around the last few years, and I wanted your honest reaction,” he divulges without hesitation. “People tell you what they think you want to hear when they know that you’re the one running things.”
She wants to tell him that it’s his money that makes people become ‘yes men’ in his presence, but he can’t help the wealth he was born into. Poor guy. “Well,” she crosses her arms over her chest, “I can’t speak to the food this place serves, but sparkling water aside, I dig it.”
“You dig it.”
“That’s what I said. A cool, hip place like this with amazing art, and it’s a secret—you gotta dig it.”
There’s that one-sided grin again.She could stare at him making that face all night long.
“Since you dig it,” he repeats, lowering his hands to his lap, leaning over, “what would you do with the second level after the renovation?”
The side door opens. More heavenly smells waft in. Adam has another tray and stand.
“It’s not my building,” Camille mumbles.
She watches Adam set a tray up beside the kitchen door and grabs each of the two bowls with soup spoons lying on the side of their plates.
“To start, we have our famous twice-baked potato soup.”
He sets the bowls down in front of them and hurries out. As good as it smells, Camille’s disappointed in the size of the bowls. It feels like she’s done after a few bites. Wade finishes up his bowl before her. She sets the spoon down, about to complain about the portion size when the door opens again.
“Your next course is ready. How was the soup?” Adam asks, looking at Camille.
“Fantastic. I want seconds.”
“Good,” he grins, collecting their bowls. He puts them on the tray and disappears out the door, returning in a flash with a wonderful-smelling second course on long, slender plates on top of a thick, wooden paddle. A wine glass balances precariously on either side of the paddle.
“For your second course, we have quail on a bed of grilled Brussels sprouts and a light rosé.” He sets the paddle down at the center of the table with notched-out circles on either side of the plate for the glasses to rest. Adam takes the serving spoon and sets it on Camille’s side of the table. “Enjoy,” he announces once the wine is in front of them. He hurries out the door.
The quail consists of four tiny drumsticks, each on top of their own small mounds of sliced Brussels sprouts topped with a light brown sauce. She scoops up a leg and half of the Brussels sprouts before handing Wade the serving spoon.
“That’s all you’re going to eat?” he asks, scooping up two legs, their Brussels sprouts, and the extra sauce drizzled on the sides of the plate.
He picks up the first quail leg with his fingers. She does the same; the sauce adds to the quail’s savory perfection with a hint of sweetness. Wade is already onto his second. She finishes and goes for the Brussels sprouts without a second thought. She takes the first bite and sits back in her chair, enjoying the crisp crunchiness in every bite.
“I would eat way more vegetables if they tasted like this,” she comments, looking at the plate in the center of the table.
“If you don’t eat it,” Wade says slowly, “I will.”
“You know,” Camille sits up, scooping up the last of the appetizer and adding it to her dish. “I would do something on the second floor that would attract the sorts of people you want to eat at The Hive.”
“I could turn it into an office space. Make it appealing for a firm or an architect group.”
Camille takes a drink of her water, shaking her head. “I was thinking more like a creative outlet where people in the area could come and take classes by professionals like,” she glances at the walls, “like the artist who did all of this.”
“Interesting idea,” he nods, eating the last of his appetizer. She likes the way he gives her an appraising stare.
The next course is Phillipe’s take on fried cheese sticks. The mozzarella sticks have a light batter, baked instead of fried, with a dipping sauce of a sweet caramel consistency, tasting more like a dessert. Phillipe brings out the main entree on a cart, rolling it right up to the table. It’s a large cast-iron skillet with an equally sized serving spoon next to it.
“This is my latest creation.”
The food on the skillet is designed to look like a campfire. The broccolini are standing up like trees, supported by fingerling potatoes piled at their base. An actual miniature fire is at its center, made up of tiny coals glowing a smooth, ember red. Over the coals is a small, low-profile bowl with a cube setting inside the bowl.
“As the sauce melts, I recommend altering dips between the broccolini and fingerlings. Feel free to eat with your hands, but be careful. The coals are real and inedible.”
The heat emitting from the skillet is enough that Camille takes her blazer off, draping it on the back of her chair. Phillipe looks at Adam, who’s refilling their waters.
“You remember what to do next?” he asks, backing out of the room.
Adam nods, topping off Camille’s glass.
Camille waits until Phillipe is gone to widen her eyes at Wade, who’s sitting back in his chair, his hands in his lap.
“What are you waiting for?” she asks.
He purses his lips before reaching his hand out and plucks up one of the broccolini. He looks it over, frowning. Instead of dipping it into the sauce, he uses the end of broccolini to poke one of the coals.
“I wonder if our insurance covers this,” he ponders, pulling it away from the coal to examine the singed end.
“You’re ruining the experience,” she whispers, poking at a potato with her pointer finger, checking to make sure it isn’t too hot before picking it up. The broccolini that the potato was holding up tilts from the loss of support.
Adam pulls two glasses of red wine out from the cart. “I suggest dipping the potato and broccolini in the sauce while it’s melting before it gets too hot.”
This sauce is different from the quail sauce. It’s got an orange tinge as if it has mustard in it. When she bites into the potato, it has a strong creamy flavor, not a bitter mustard flavor. It makes her think of Worcestershire sauce.
Wade’s eaten his broccolini, and despite how great she knows it must taste, he’s still giving the plate a skeptical stare. He dips his head toward Adam, who’s walking around the table to the cart. “Has anyone burned themselves with this dish?”
“Only the kitchen has tried it that I know of.”
Wade grabs a potato, dipping it into the almost fully melted sauce before tossing it into his mouth. Camille smiles as he exhales out of his mouth as soon as he bites into the hot vegetable. Adam stands up from behind the cart, revealing metal tongs in hand. He uses them to lift the bowl from the coals, swirling it around. With the bowl off the coals, Camille notices what looks like more of the orange sauce spilling out from beneath the coals.
“Is the bowl leaking?” she asks, sitting up to get a better look.
“That,” Adam grins, setting the bowl down on the skillet beside the coals, “is supposed to be there.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he glances over at both of them, “this is my favorite part.”
He grabs the top coals with the tongs, moving them to line the lip of the inner edge of the skillet. By the third lump of coal, Camille sees what the coal was hiding.
“That’s what I’ve been smelling,” Wade says, craning his neck to see what Adam is uncovering.
“You have seared sirloin tips, marinated twenty-four hours before serving.”
“You still dig it?” Wade asks Camille, enjoying how giddy she’s getting as she watches Adam pour some of the sauce over the two pieces of sirloin.
“Are you kidding? This is great.”
She reaches for her red wine. Adam switches the appetizer plate at the center of the table with a metal trivet for the skillet. Wade notices her sniff the red wine in her glass, scrunching her nose a little before taking a sip. She struggles not to frown as she swallows. Dry wine has never been her forte.
“I’m going to agree with Camille on this one,” Wade says, using his fork to stab one of the sirloins, transferring it to his plate, “This is great, but it could be better.”
Adam pauses, napkins from the second shelf of the cart in hand as he eyes Wade warily.
“I’m going to need an old-fashioned,” Wade tells him, “and a top-shelf margarita for my guest.”
“Right away,” Adam answers, his chest deflating as if he was holding his breath.
“If you want to avoid Phillipe, you can go through the wine door to get to the bar,” Wade nudges, giving him a sympathetic nod toward the door behind Camille.
“Good idea.” Adam hurries out the wine room door.
“So, the Chef’s a bit of a control freak, eh?” Camille asks. She takes the other sirloin from the skillet. It’s tender enough that she can cut it with her fork.
“I think it’s part of the job description,” Wade shrugs, taking a bite of his sirloin. His eyes shut as he chews.
Seeing his face, Camille hurries to bite into hers. Medium-well steak is what she’s always ordered at restaurants. It’s what her dad always ordered when she was a kid, any time they went to a steakhouse. This sirloin is very pink on the inside. She swipes the bite through the extra sauce still pooled on top.
She inhales as she brings it to her mouth. The way it melts in her mouth, she knows she’s going to have to tell her father that she’s a fan of what he would call a ‘still breathing’ steak.
Two top-shelf margaritas, a few bites of Chef Phillipe’s take on a deconstructed Caesar salad to ‘cleanse the palate’ as Adam put it before dessert is served, and Camille’s feeling stuffed and a little tipsy.
She stares across the table at Wade, looking away the second he glances at her. “You said you were bringing me to the best restaurant in California, but I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting it to be this good.”
Wade eyes her curiously. “What were you expecting?”
“To be honest, I was fairly certain that you weren’t joking about leaving me stranded when we pulled up in front of a building with a homeless guy hanging out front.”
“You like my security, eh?”
Camille lets out a laugh. “Is that what he is, security dressed like a bum?”
“Ah, it’s not all for show. Benny is what you could call a reformed bum. He came with the building. There was a makeshift camp set up at the rear of the ground floor by the local riff-raff. When renovations started, the construction crew kept having to kick them out every morning. A fight broke out one morning when only a few of the construction guys were here. There were twice as many homeless as my guys. They surrounded my guys, from what I heard, and it was about to get bad when Benny stepped in and talked them down. Two of them weren’t having it and tried to jump him. He took them both down, the cops were called, and Benny had to go to the hospital for stitches in the arm.”
Camille raises her brow at him. “Stitches?”
“Yeah. One of the guys had a knife. When I found out what he did, I paid his hospital bill. I learned that besides having a drinking problem that landed him with no job or a roof over his head, he was an alright guy. He was in the army for four years, ended up here without a pot to piss in. We made a deal. If he could stay sober, I’d pay him to watch over the building. He kept it free of vagrants, and I had the guys building him his own one bedroom and bath in the corner of the garage. I didn’t think he’d last, but that was a year ago, and he’s still here. He’s on the payroll full-time now.”
“That’s great. This place really is full of surprises.”
Adam walks in from the kitchen to collect their plates. Camille pulls on her waistband that feels like it’s stretched to its limit.
“I don’t know if I can eat another bite,” she admits when Adam picks up her plate.
“You better make room,” Adam tells her, picking up her barely touched salad, “dessert is the best part.”
Wade also looks full as he rubs his hand over the front of his polo. Wade stares across the table at her, his face matching her satisfied expression. His head snaps up as Adam picks up his plate. “How long do we have before dessert’s ready?”
“Five minutes, give or take a few.”
Wade pushes his chair back from the table. “Tell Phillipe to give us a few, would you?”
Adam glances between them. “Sure,” he replies, not looking sure at all.
Wade stands excitedly as he walks around the table to Camille. He holds his hand out for her to rise from her seat. “I need to show you something.”