Chapter Four

Carter

After my horrible day with the Michelin critics, I’m tempted to go off and wallow in some wet pussy…or a bottomless vat of gin.

Either would work.

But I can’t. As big as Vegas can seem to tourists and outsiders, it feels awfully fucking small to someone like me. With a family like mine, I know that I’m never going to stand out unless I leave and make it on my own somewhere else.

Maybe that’s part of my problem.

I’m just another Caldwell brother. Between my hotshot lawyer brother Reagan, my casino-owning brother Nixon, and my techie genius brother, Ford, I barely make waves.

I know I often sound like Debbie Downer, but sometimes it’s hard to feel like anything other than another face in the crowd…especially when the rest of my family is so successful.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Carter?”

My head snaps up to find Claude standing in front of me, shifting his weight between his feet. His fists are so tight, his knuckles have turned into white balls.

I sigh, because I’m the asshole who caused it. “Claude, for the last time, you can just call me Carter. You’ve been working for me for years, it’s okay to relax. Things are rarely as bad as they seem.”

Claude sighs, and he seems to deflate as he does so. His cheeks turn bright pink and his fists release but then tangle back together in a mass of fingers.

“What is it?” I ask, an edge of impatience creeping into my voice.

“Um, sir, I just wanted to extend my deepest apologies,” Claude says. He sniffs, then looks down at the floor. “I am not worthy of working for you, monsieur.”

I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Claude could work wherever he wanted. I have nothing to do with his brilliance.

“Claude, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but whatever, I know it wasn’t your fault. Someone obviously tried to sabotage me.”

Claude blinks and opens his mouth in surprise. “Zee sabotage?”

“Did you see anyone unusual sneaking around the kitchen?” I ask, thrusting my hands in my pockets.

Claude begins to tremble and shake in front of me.

“It’s okay,” I say, more forcefully this time. “I’m not going to yell at you, Claude. Relax. Whatever happened, we’ll get to the bottom of it. Together.”

Claude sighs again and wipes a greasy sheen of sweat off his large forehead. “Well, sir, I did see un person today,” he said. “He said he was a delivery boy.”

“And did he deliver anything?” I narrow my eyes. “That would be helpful to know.”

Claude shakes his head. “I do not know.” A touch of arrogance creeps into his voice, and he gives a sidelong glance at one of the line cooks. “I do not deal with zee deliveries. It is their job.”

“Fine.” I’m in no mood for the dramatics. “You know what? I’ll worry about it later. Just finish up your prep for tomorrow’s dinner service.”

Claude begins to say something else, but I push past him and out of the kitchen. Normally, I hang around with my staff at the end of the night, sometimes I even help them clean up. Share a drink or two and some bonding. But not tonight.

Tonight, I need to be alone or face-planted in a bottle of vodka. Or both. I walk out onto the casino floor. After a few minutes, I spin through the revolving entrance doors. The heat shimmers above the pavement in a fog of pollution, but it looks almost pretty with the twinkling lights. I’ve grown so used to the Strip that everywhere else seems like suburbia, even other cities.

Maybe that’s part of my problem.

I stop by the liquor store on the way home for a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and some diet tonic water. Most of the time, I drink beer and wine – it makes cooking at home more fun – but tonight, I feel the desperate need for something a little stronger.

The checkout girl gives me a sympathetic look.

“What?” I snap. “You never saw a guy buying gin before?”

She rears back from my intense reaction. “No, it’s not that. It just looks like you had a hard day.” She bats her lashes at me. She’s cute too – little upturned ski-jump nose, nice rack, curly hair to her shoulders. Very fuckable. But too young.

“I did,” I say.

The girl purses her lips. “Well, I get off in half an hour…maybe I can help cheer you up? There’s a new taco place over on Bonanza if you feel like eating.”

I frown, and she takes my expression as an invitation to move to the full court press.

“Or maybe we could drive out into the desert,” the girl continues. “I always do that when I’m feeling down. Seeing all the stars makes me feel like I’m not alone in the world.”

“Seeing all the stars makes me feel like an insignificant speck,” I say as I reach into my wallet and pass over my credit card.

The girl flushes. She hands me my receipt, and I notice there are seven digits scrawled in pink pen.

I ignore them. Young girls are nothing but a restraining order waiting to happen. They think they can handle the pump and dump, but when it comes right down to it, they’re bleeding hearts that need to be handled with kid gloves. And I’ve never owned a pair of those in my life.

Signing my name, I grab my bottle of gin and head out of the store. As soon as I’m across the street, heading toward my condo complex, I wonder if I’m a first-class idiot for not just taking what’s offered.

But I’m not interested.

My brothers all think I’m crazy. Aside from Lincoln, I’m the only single Caldwell left. My brothers have all snagged their life partners and changed from total bachelors into picture-perfect family men. They’re constantly on me about being single, and how finding that special someone would make my life complete.

As Claude would say, au contraire mon frère, a woman would fuck me seven ways to Sunday and then fuck me again.

But I don’t have time to stop and even consider a real relationship. Especially not right now – not when I’m trying to focus on bringing Steakhouse into the world as a luxury meat destination.

By the time I get home, my head throbs and I’m covered in sweat. Kicking off my shoes, I pour myself a sizeable gin and tonic and recline on my favorite leather couch. Flipping on the television, I surf through the channels, past tons of mindless shit. Nothing grabs my attention.

When I get to the Travel Channel, I pause. They’re showing a beach in Hawaii – volcanos in the distance and gorgeous girls splayed out on beautiful white sand. It looks so good I can almost taste it, just like a very rare hangar steak. Maybe that’s what I need, I think as I stare at the screen until my eyes begin to sting. Maybe I just need a long, long vacation. At an adults-only resort like Sandals.

But I can’t even think about taking a trip without worrying about Steakhouse and what would happen if I leave for more than a day at a time. The last time I was out of town – for my brother Reagan’s wedding – Claude destroyed a whole batch of beignets, two line cooks got into a physical fight and quit at the same time, and my hostess slipped on the tile floor and broke her ankle. And that was just on a long weekend.

If I’m not there to run Steakhouse, it’ll fall apart at the seams. I guess some people would take this as a sign to get out, find another occupation. Not me, though – I love cooking too much. Hearty meat dishes run through my blood, soul deep. The only way I’ll ever give up is if I go out of my restaurant in a body bag.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to find my own place in the sun. It’s tough being the second-youngest Caldwell brother. And while I’ve accomplished a lot, I’m never getting out from under Nixon’s shadow. Everywhere we go, it’s always the same.

“Oh, you own Steakhouse? That’s in your brother’s casino, right? Wow, he’s amazing!”

“Carter, I can’t believe you’re related to Nixon! He’s the best businessman in Vegas! Did you see that hottest bachelor issue of Las Vegas Magazine?”

“The Armónico is hands-down the flashiest casino in the world. Oh, yeah, and I guess the restaurant is pretty good too. What’s it called? The Hamburger Shack?”

With a groan, I knock the rest of my gin and tonic into my mouth and close my eyes. The narrator rambles on about the soothing and sensual pleasures of Hawaii, and I’m tempted to let her voice carry me away to the land of white beaches and gorgeous tanned women begging to be laid under the disguise of a little vacation rendezvous.

But no amount of gin is going to soothe the sting of losing out on the chance to get a Michelin star.

The worst thing is that my brothers won’t blame me at all…at least, not to my face. I can just see it now, me and Nixon, holed up in his office with a couple of cheeseburgers. Nixon’s too nice to say anything rude to my face. He’d just say something like oh, well, there’s always next year.

Nixon’s fucking lucky there aren’t Michelin stars awarded to casinos.

By the time the sky turns dark and inky, I’m in a nice haze of gin. Closing my eyes, I think back to the girl at the liquor store. She was cute and willing – why wasn’t I interested? Is there something wrong with me? I’m so exhausted my dick doesn’t even want to rise to the occasion.

Or is the stress of running Steakhouse turning me into an alien, someone who rejects every single opportunity for human contact?

Sometimes I feel like I’ll never figure myself out.

***

“Carter, please,” Nixon says, shaking his head and frowning. “I read the quarterly report – I know exactly how much money Steakhouse costs me.”

“What?” I blink, running a hand through my hair. When I grab the Excel spreadsheet, I’m horrified – all the pages are blank.

“See?” Nixon says in an icy tone. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to sell the restaurant or at least find a new chef. You’re just not getting it done.”

“But I’m your brother!” I protest, despair flowing over me. Nixon looks disappointed in me. “And besides, there’s no way I would’ve let the proof of a positive return on equity fall through the cracks. I check the books every Sunday.”

“It wasn’t good enough,” Nixon says. Suddenly, he’s grown over twenty feet tall, resembling an Armani-clad King Kong. He looks over me, wagging his yard-long pointer finger.

“Yeah, Carter,” Reagan says. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a disapproving look. “You know what would happen to most guys who try skimming from their own brother?”

“I wasn’t trying to skim anything!” I shout to Nixon. “Come on, you have to believe me! I’d never steal from you!”

Nixon’s face turns angry and menacing, and he comes toward me, raising a boulder-sized fist. Screaming in fright, I whirl around, and–

“Ah!” My eyes jerk open, and I fall from the couch to the floor with a thud, landing in a disgraceful heap of wrinkled clothing. Shit. I rub my forehead and close my eyes. I can’t believe I fell asleep on the couch.

Too much gin. Now, it’s morning, and the sun sparkles brightly in the Vegas sky. My bottle of Bombay Sapphire contains about two inches of liquid. My head pounds a staccato rhythm, and my stomach feels like a balloon that happens to be dangerously full of vomit and poison. I can’t believe I passed out on my own couch, like some frat kid after a party.

“Ugh,” I moan as I get to my feet and wipe my sweaty hands on my pants. For a moment, I feel okay. Then it sets back in – a crippling headache, light sensitivity, and the shakes. Stumbling into the kitchen, I grab a bottle of orange juice from the fridge and drink straight from the lip. It tastes sugary and sweet and revolting, and I can barely set down the bottle before spewing a stream of orange goo into the sink.

Great. I’m due back at Steakhouse in a couple hours, and I’ve got a hangover to rival Hemingway. Maybe it would be okay if I met the same end as the master author.

I need to pull myself together. Rinsing out my mouth with water and spitting in the sink, I wipe my lips on a kitchen towel and throw it to the side. Just as I’m about to take the hottest shower of my life, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket.

“Wonderful,” I mutter under my breath. “What now, Claude? Another freak dessert explosion?” I don’t even check the number before swiping open the call and holding the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m calling for Carter Caldwell.” The female voice on the other end of the line is sweet and accented lightly with Alabama southern belle.

“This is he,” I say, suppressing another hungover groan.

“Congratulations, Mr. Caldwell! My name is Simone, I’m calling to inform you of your brand new two-star Michelin rating. Congratulations!”

My heart stops in my chest, and I lurch to the side. Bracing my hand against the wall, I blink.

“Is this a joke?” I ask, mind racing. How can this be possible after the roman candle debacle? “You can’t be serious!”

Simone laughs. She’s humoring me. “No, sir, it is not a joke.”

“But…”

“We have decided you are worthy of a high rating,” she says in a voice that makes me think southern women are every bit as charming as they’re rumored to be. “It is a great honor. As you know, the Michelin Guide is the only guide that matters.”

“Oh, I know.” My breath comes in fits and gasps, and I can hardly even think straight, but I know this news is too good. I can’t even savor it – it’s such an unexpected surprise that I reach down and pinch my arm.

Simone asks for my address, promising to send a brand-new copy of the new Michelin guide. By the time we hang up, I’m practically shaking with glee.

I can’t fucking believe it.

Sabotage notwithstanding, Steakhouse is back on the map.

Putting my phone in the charging cradle, I hop in the shower. Despite my hangover, I’m feeling bulletproof. I crank up the radio and sing along, dancing around under the spray of water until the worst of my headache begins to fade. By the time I emerge from under the water, I’m feeling new, reborn.

When my phone buzzes again, I freeze. What if it was a mistake? What if they called me instead of someone else, and they’re taking it back?

I’m almost too afraid to answer, but then I hear Nixon’s voice in my head: don’t be a pussy, bro. Straighten up and fly right. Gritting my teeth, I grab the phone and swipe open the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Robin – I’m from the Food Network. I’m calling for a Mr. Carter Caldwell.” My eyes bulge for the second time this morning because I can’t believe this is all happening. To me. On the same damn day.

“Hello?” she repeats.

I realize I’m standing with my mouth hanging open like I’m catching some flies. I need to answer the woman before she hangs up on me.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say in a rush. “I’m right here. I mean, I’m Carter.”

Robin gives a polite laugh. “I’m glad I got you on the first try.”

“Yeah.” I wrap a towel around my waist. “Are you calling about the rating?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My Michelin star rating,” I say, feeling a little bit like a braggart. “You must’ve found out, right?”

Robin laughs again. “No, although that is wonderful news. Congratulations! I’m actually calling about a new show – you’re one of the chefs we want to explore.”

“What?” I have no idea what she’s talking about. As much as I’d love to move to L.A. and break out, I haven’t auditioned for any television shows.

“A new show,” Robin repeats. “We would love if you came to Los Angeles and audition for a new show we’re piloting.”

“Wait,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “So, I haven’t been chosen? It’s just an audition. For a pilot?”

This time, Robin’s polite laughter sounds a little irritated. “Not yet, but we’re sure that with your credentials, you’ll be a front-runner. It would be a great opportunity for you, Mr. Caldwell. A way for you to leverage your new star rating.”

“I’m sure it would,” I say, wondering how I’ll squeeze this in on top of everything else I’ve got going on. “That’s good news, thank you.”

“We’re pleased about it,” Robin says. “So, do you accept?”

Two Michelin stars and an audition to get the hell out of Vegas? In one morning? Is this for real?

“Yeah. I really want the opportunity to audition.”

“Good!” Robin says. “I’m so pleased to hear that. We’re looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Caldwell.”

When we hang up, I sag in delighted surprise. I lean against the wall and take a deep breath, trying to collect myself. I can’t believe it. In just a few minutes, my life has completely changed. For the better.

My mind starts to wander, and I wonder what’s going to happen now. Maybe this is the chance I’ve been waiting for. Maybe this is finally my time to shine, to get out from under the massive shadow of my brothers.

As I dress, my brain whirls around faster than the High Roller. I can almost see it now – Carter Caldwell, celebrity chef of the ages. Sure, my brothers may be famous in Vegas…but that’s nothing compared to the kind of attention that I’m going to get once my mug is on the docket at the Food Network.

Later that day, when I get to Steakhouse, I’m relieved to see everything looks back to normal. My staff slices and dices, cleans and preps, basically doing everything they can to make me proud. I wonder if I shouldn’t have Claude make a special kind of cake, for when I tell everyone about our new Michelin accomplishment.

Just as I’m making sure I have enough champagne to give everyone a flute, I see Nixon’s familiar face round the corner. He’s dressed in custom Armani with a power red tie.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?”

“I was on my way to my office, and I realized that with all the Michelin uproar, you might have forgotten about the benefit,” he says. “We’re having Lincoln’s fundraiser tomorrow night.”

“Oh, shit.” I clap a hand over my mouth. I’m the most selfish brother ever. I totally did forget about the Cerebral Palsy fundraiser. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, did you forget?” Nixon smirks, leaning back on his leather loafers. He pisses me off. He knows damn well I forgot about it, and while he could have let it go, he didn’t.

“No,” I snap, even though my competent perfectionist brother has got my number on this one.

“Well, I’m here to bring some relief,” Nixon says. “I figured with the whole Michelin thing that you might want a night off, so Dante offered to host it at Sakana. Since he rarely does anything nice, even for charity, the foundation’s board took him up on it.”

I blink, thinking I need to clear out my ears. Since when did we take Dante Giovanetti up on any of his bullshit offers of hospitality. “What?”

“Sakana. You know, the–”

“Yeah, I know. The fish restaurant at the Mona Lisa.”

Nixon lifts a shoulder. “There’s more than just fish. Shellfish too. I’ve been there. It’s spectacular.”

“There’s no meat.”

“Well, no,” Nixon says, frowning. I watch neat little rows of wrinkles break out on his forehead. Fuck. Even his aging process is perfect. “Carter, you can’t possibly be upset about this.” He steps in close, and I see a muscle twitch in his jaw. “I’m the president of Helping Hearts & Hands, remember? I’m going to always do what’s best for the charity.”

“Well, I’m not on the board,” I say, determined to stay pissed. I pull it over my body like a cloak and wear it. “And this is my restaurant, not yours.”

“Yeah, but it’s in my casino,” Nixon retorts. “Anyway, I know you’re going to be a good sport, right?” He claps me on the shoulder. “We’re all showing up to make a big donation. Remember? Six figures? Linc’s so excited.”

I don’t want to give in. What I really want to do is stand here like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum over a lollipop until my brother relents. But ever since we got in staring contests as kids, I’ve lost. I don’t stand a chance today, either.

“Fine, whatever.” Nixon’s news has dulled my excitement over my new Michelin rating. Now I don’t even feel like gloating about it to my smug older brother.

“Don’t be like this,” Nixon says in a warning tone. “It’s time to grow up, Carter.”

“I know,” I say, forcing a smile. It’s not like I didn’t get the condescending message the first thousand times he told me. “It’s fine. Really.”

“Good man,” Nixon says. He turns on his heel and cheerfully strides out of my kitchen, whistling under his breath.

As soon as he’s gone, I grab a metal bowl and throw it down on the floor in a fit of temper. My brother’s the calm one, and I’m the dramatic one. It’s just the roles we were thrown into as kids, so why change now? The bowl clatters and booms and everyone jumps into the air, staring back at me with shocked expressions.

“What?” I ask. “It was an accident.”

They all know damn well it wasn’t an accident.

Before anyone can reply, I push past my staff and lock myself in my office. Sakana, really? I can’t fucking believe it. Not only does Sakana serve nothing but mealy, slimy fish, the chef is a little wannabe hayseed straight from the sticks. I’ve never met her, but I’ve heard stories of her spunk and piss and vinegar. Her name is even too ridiculous to handle – Pepper St. Claire, like something right out of a goddamn romantic comedy.

And now, Pepper McFish is trying to make a name for herself on the Vegas stage.

That’s my stage.

If she thinks she’s going to beat me, she has another thing coming.