Chapter Ten

Carter

To my surprise, Cody’s right on time. He rings the buzzer on the door to my condo at exactly eleven-thirty in the morning. Score another one in the positive column for this rugged cowboy.

When I open the door, I see Cody leaning against the wall with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops.

“Howdy pardner,” I say dryly, stepping back to allow Cody access to my condo. I’m proud of it – sure, it’s nothing like Nixon’s – but I’ve worked damn hard at Steakhouse, and part of me likes to show off the fruits of my labor. If Claude were here, he’d steal those fruits and rain them down like a watermelon infused shit show.

“Nice place,” Cody says, strutting in. He’s wearing cowboy boots, faded jeans, and a plaid shirt. Even though we’re miles away from the wilderness, he smells like the inside of a barn.

I shrug as I glance around and try to see it with fresh eyes. “So, what’s this about a secret recipe? I’m all ears.”

Cody snickers. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a yellow-edged, faded piece of paper. It’s so worn that the paper looks furry.

“The suspense is killing me,” I say, although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little curious about what Cody’s bringing to the table.

Cody nods and grins. “This is about the best darn sauce I’ve had. Nana Higginbottom’s famous recipe.”

I scan the document. “Let me guess – there’s some kind of wacky ingredient that no one would think to add on their own?”

“Sure enough,” Cody drawls. He hands the paper over to me with great reverence, as if he’s the Pope offering me communion.

Frowning, I take the paper from his hands and unfold it. After reading through a couple of times, I nod.

“This looks good.” The recipe isn’t too crazy – the standard stuff, plus crushed pineapple and plum jam instead of honey – but my years of expertise in the kitchen of Steakhouse tell me that it’s definitely going to be killer.

Cody gives me a smug grin. “Heck yeah, it’s good,” he says, reaching forward and plucking the paper from my hands. “Now, let’s get started. The only way of really knowin’ is to do some tastin’.”

I follow Cody into the kitchen and sit back, watching him gather ingredients from the fridge and cabinets, offering direction when he can’t readily find something.

“Oh, yeah, one other thing,” Cody says, shooting me a sly look. “Nana always told me that sober people can’t cook worth a darn.”

I smile and nod. I like Nana already. “I’m all over where this is headed.”

Cody stands up on the tips of his toes and reaches into my liquor cabinet. He pulls out a bottle of bourbon, uncaps it, and swigs straight from the bottle before handing it to me. I roll my eyes but accept anyway. The last time I remember chugging liquor happened back at UNLV. We won’t talk about how long ago my college days were.

“What?” Cody asks. “Like yer never tried cookin’ while drunk before? Bet yer afraid of how yer’ll look in that fancy-ass restaurant of yours.”

I contemplate the thought of being drunk on Nixon Caldwell’s watch. At any angle, I think I’ll have to pass on that one. Now, here in my own kitchen, that’s another story entirely.

“Some of my best creations I’ve come up with while a little in my cups,” I say. “If you’ve ever had my beef tips in spicy red cream sauce, I was blotto when I came up with that. There’s a no holds barred creativity that arrives in the face of a little brain freeze.”

Cody holds up his spatula in salute. “You’re a hell of a guy. Why Vegas?”

“My whole family lives here now.” I blow out a long breath. “I’m Vegas born and raised. A true local.”

Cody nods, giving his concoction a hearty stir. “That counts for a lot,” he says in his long drawl. “Here, help me with this.”

Getting to my feet, I take another long swig of bourbon and set the bottle down on the counter. Cody offers me a long knife, and I stand at the counter and dice a pineapple into chunks.

“I think we should grill this,” I say, looking down at the hunks of sticky fruit. “It would add something – kind of a sugary glaze, yeah?”

Cody nods approvingly. “Darn, you’re good!”

“It’s nice to have someone say so.” I shrug like no one’s ever called me a brilliant cook before. It means more when it’s coming from someone who’s not trying to blow smoke up my ass or get in my pants. “Glad you approve.”

Dumping the pineapple chunks into a bowl, I step out on my balcony and light the small grill set against the railing. I rarely use it – I actually can’t remember the last time I grilled on a gas grill – and it feels good, like I’m dusting off a book that I’ve always wanted to read but never got around to.

Cody follows me outside, a beer resting in his hand. He hands me an unopened bottle, and I pop the lid off against the railing before taking a long swig. The sun shimmers high in the Vegas sky, and the heat from the grill and the desert air causes rivulets of perspiration to gather between my shoulder blades.

When the grill sizzles, I add the pineapple, searing it until the outside turns caramelized and gooey. It smells heavenly, and by the time I take it back inside, I realize between the hard liquor and the beer, I’m halfway to being loaded.

Cody and I work together like a well-oiled machine. For a hick, he’s surprisingly good in the kitchen. It takes a couple of hours for us to put the first batch of sauce together.

“So, when are we launching this?” Cody asks, leaning against the counter. He takes the bottle of bourbon in his hands and tilts his head back, pouring the brown liquid down his throat.

“As soon as we’ve got a product worth selling. We should have a couple of options – a few sauces, maybe something with our dry rub on there.”

“Wanna host it at your restaurant?” he asks, wrinkling his brow. “We could tell right quick if you let your diners decide.”

“That’s a good idea.” I like it right out of the gate. “I can close things down for a few hours in the afternoon, invite some reporters and maybe some of my brothers.”

Cody looks impressed. “Your family’s a real big deal around here, ain’t they?”

I scoff, pushing away the compliment with a wave of my hand. “Not that big,” I lie, closing my eyes and immediately envisioning Nixon’s huge casino. “I mean, they work hard. We all do.”

“Must be nice,” Cody says. He grabs a spoon and dips it into the barbecue sauce we’ve just put together. Besides the crushed pineapple and plum jam, I added some liquid smoke, cayenne pepper, ketchup, molasses, and a sprinkling of vinegar.

I watch him closely. “How is it?”

Cody stays silent for a moment, leaning over the kettle and inhaling. Then his rugged face nearly splits in two with a broad grin.

“It’s dang good,” Cody says, licking his lips. “Maybe the best I’ve ever had.” For a moment, he looks guilty. He tilts his face to the ceiling. “Sorry, Nana.” He makes a sign of the cross. “I don’t mean no disrespect, but this here version’s even better than yers.”

I roll my eyes, imagining a little old lady raising her cane toward the sky in anger. One of these days, I’m going to have to teach my new business partner about the sin of double negatives. But right now, I’ve got something more important at hand. Grabbing a fresh spoon from my silverware drawer, I dip it into the sauce and take a small taste.

It’s good. It’s damn good.

“Well?” Cody asks. “You like it?”

The flavor is incredible. The smoky, rich timber melts across my tongue, then explodes in a burst of heat and tang on the back end.

Perfection.

“It’s amazing,” I say, going in for a second sip. “I think we’ve got something really incredible here.”

“Damn straight, Kemosabe,” he says. “Now let’s get to work on a spice rub.”

Three hours later, I’m sauced, both figuratively and literally. Cody and I are both drunk, but we’ve come up with two variations of sauce and one rub. Each one better than the last. We’re on to something here. I can feel it bone deep.

“This is going to be so great,” I say, flopping down on my couch. “I can’t believe it, but I think we’ve got an incredible product line on our hands.”

I close my eyes and picture the future. Me, surrounded by dozens of screaming fans, all dying to get their hands on my latest venture into the sauce world. Nixon and Reagan in the background, looking almost tiny compared to the huge crowd of people all chanting my name.

Carter. Carter. Carter.

“Heck yeah,” Cody slurs. “Too bad my sister’s bein’ such a drag about it all.”

It takes some effort, but I roll onto my belly and open my eyes, squinting at Cody. It looks like there’s three of him swaying in the air. I imagine the late, great Glen Campbell bursting into song.

I’m just a barbecue sauce cowboy, ridin’ out on the strip in a neon-spangled rodeo…

“Yeah, she’s bein’ a real stick in the mud,” Cody continues, shaking his head. “Gosh darn women sometimes, I swear. They’re more trouble’n they’re worth.”

You ain’t kidding, kid. My mind drifts to my own personal, passionate kisser turned Carter Caldwell hater.

“What?” I rub my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know – my sister – she’s madder than a coonhound fulla ticks that I got my hand on Nana’s recipe,” Cody says, shaking his head like he’s forlorn. “Like she’d do anything decent with it. All she done care about is fish!”

“Fish?” I ask, feeling stupid. “Cody, what’s going on? What the hell does your sister have to do with any of this?”

Cody groans. “My sister – Rae…” He clears his throat. “Pepper St. Claire. She cooks at that dumb fish restaurant, what’s it called? Some kinda Saki Chinese name? I don’t know, heck, it’s the one inside the other casino. You know her. She’s a real perty but bratty little slip of a thing, with freckles all over her face.”

Suddenly, the image of hot-as-hell-hater flashes in front of my eyes. I manhandled Pepper St. Claire.

“Oh my god,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. Anything but this. Her hate could morph into physical violence on the turn of a roping horse’s haunches. “You’re kidding me.”

Cody whistles. “I darn well wish I was, but she’s a real brat about this whole thing. Just warnin’ yer. She might show up at the unveilin’ and cause a real stank.”

“No, no,” I say, sitting up. I move too quickly, and for a moment, my stomach and the world around me spins like a swirling tornado of liquor and swill. “That can’t be possible. She’s your sister?”

“Heck yeah,” Cody says. He bursts out laughing and sways on his boot-clad feet. “And you wanna know somethin’ real funny? She changed her name! Her real name ain’t Pepper – it’s Raelynn Maebelle Higginbottom.”

“Oh my god,” I say again, unable to come up with anything more complex. In my heart, I know that information’s classified. I’ll have to hold it close to the vest. In spite of her raging hatred for me, I don’t hold any ill-will toward her. “Your sister is the chef at Sakana.”

“Yeah, that’s it! Sakiana!”

“Oh my god.” The room spins violently around me. I might puke.

“Can you quit sayin’ that so loud?” Cody asks, wincing. “What’s the big deal?”

“I had no idea the two of you were related,” I say, taking a deep breath. “But this makes a lot more sense now. It might throw a wrench in our plans. Your sister hates my fucking guts.”

“She was madder than a June bug when I told her I was goin’ into business with ya,” Cody continues. “She kept sayin’ how yer were gonna screw me over with some legal mumbo jumbo.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I say, although I’m barely even listening to Cody.

Image after image of Pepper fills my head, and I feel like melting into the plush carpet of my living room floor. I can’t believe it. She is the girl I felt immediately attracted to? She is the girl I crushed to my body and kissed like my life depended on it? She’s the girl who’s haunted my every waking moment since?

Fuck me.

“And she kept sayin’ how yer were just a big asshole,” Cody adds, laughing and shaking his head like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “She wouldn’t relax, not even when I told her I was gonna get me my own lawman.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m confused,” I say, head reeling. “When I met Pepper, we seemed to get along really well. She didn’t know who I was, obviously, but she…” I bite my lip, not wanting Cody to know that I sucked his sister’s face at the benefit.

“Well, I ain’t got no idea,” Cody replies. “She kept sayin’ how she heard y’all trashin’ her restaurant – yer know, the one where that benefit thingy was? Sayin’ how you hate fish and she can’t even cook to save her soul.”

“Oh my god.” A horrifying flashback pops to mind. I’m standing next to Reagan, and I’m being so petulant I could qualify as a daycare toddler complete with applesauce on my face. Shit. “I can’t believe she heard me. Did she hear everything?”

“Well, yer darn right, in my haystack,” he says. “Fish be tastin’ like shit.”

I groan and close my eyes. He’s hardly helping alleviate my rising panic. “This can’t be happening.” I can’t believe it, but I’ve unwillingly started a war with the only other chef in Vegas to receive Michelin stars. Now, this situation doesn’t look random at all. It appears to be deliberate.

“I think it’s darn funny,” Cody says, still snickering. “Besides, I’ll invite her to the sauce thingy and maybe she’ll start to circle the old campfire.” He wrinkles his nose. “She can be a real brat, but she ain’t so bad some of the time. Just a ‘lil high-falutin’, that’s all.”

I don’t reply. I’m too worried about what’s going to happen the next time I see Pepper. I can only hope her bark is worse than her bite.

“All her life, she done thought she was too good for Kansas,” Cody says. “Couldn’t wait to turn eighteen and move out all on her own.” He laughs and shakes his head. “And if it wasn’t for Nana, she’d never have been able to move out here. So, she really shouldn’t be mad at me at all. Nana gave Pepper her inheritance on the front end, and I got mine on the back end. Fair’s fair.”

Cody’s words go in one ear and out the other. I’m barely listening as I lie on the couch, feeling like the world’s biggest dick.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?