Chapter Ten
Selena
Unutterably broken.
Those words ring in my ears again and again as I lead him from his garage, his drunk-stumbling footsteps following my wake.
I set him on his tattered couch and sit across from him, afraid to let go of his hand for risk of losing him.
The Jarrett I remember is a proud soldier, a fighter who’d spit in Satan’s face and tell him how hard he fucked his mother the night before — and how he didn’t use a condom. This man who sits across from me right now is someone who is broken into pieces.
So many pieces that I don’t know if he’ll ever be put together again. What pain he has goes deeper than I’d thought possible someone to hurt. Years upon years of hurt and suffering, with the only treatment he’s received being booze, fucking, and killing. He’s of no use to me — or anyone else — so shattered. I need to put those pieces back together.
“Jarrett,” I start. I let his name hang in the air between us while I fumble for the kind of words I’ve never had to use before. “I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through. Because compassion is fucking arrogance sometimes. But I can tell you that I don’t judge — life’s shit on me enough that I don’t have that right — and I can listen.”
When he looks at me, I see behind the curtain of his fierce green eyes. I see wounds that have festered for years; cuts to the soul that have grown into chasms.
“I had a bad day,” he says.
It’s an elegant understatement.
But I don’t prod.
I squeeze his hand again and I wait.
“I have this job to do. For the club. I have to put together this charity thing for a week from Friday. But I don’t think I can do it.”
There’s distance in his voice. Like the best way he can speak about his problems is from far away. Where it’s safe.
“How can I help you?” I say.
Maybe there’s a note in my voice — something urgent, impatient — or maybe it’s just in his nature right now, but he frowns.
I squeeze his hand again.
I need to pull him back to me.
“Jarrett, the least I can do for you is help you out here. I owe it to you for giving me somewhere to stay. All I’m trying to do is be fair here and pay you back for the kindness you’re showing me.”
The embers of suspicion within his eyes flicker and die to spent coals. He sighs.
“I need to get a caterer. The chef who runs The Bellhaven in Tacoma.”
I nod. “I’ll take care of it.”
He squeezes my hand. Something resembling a smile tugs at his lips. “Thank you.”
* * * * *
An hour and a half later — thank you very much, nearly-broken bike and piece-of-shit transmission — I’m in the parking lot of The Bellhaven. It’s just past lunch, the rush should be over, but still, the parking lot is mostly full and there’s a lingering crowd of diners inside.
At least the food here must be worth all this bullshit.
I park my bike on the street. This is not my kind of scene; some kind of yuppie crossbreed of a diner and a pub, with an overly-sanitized, family-friendly atmosphere, every element of it a perfect substitute for an Ambien. Even the bar is just some fake construct; built just a couple years ago, probably, but stained and carved to look so much older. It has none of the character you get with actual use.
I might’ve hated beyond words working for the Devil’s Riders and the Bloody Jackals, but The Devil’s Den was my kind of place. Dirty enough so you know it’s real, with years of character and blood and life worn into the surface of the bar.
“Do you have a reservation?” says some pony-tailed young woman who’s the perfect encapsulation of the cheery hostess. “We’re really busy right now. As we usually are.”
I shake my head. “I’m here to see some guy about catering.”
“Oh, are you with that one guy who was here earlier? Is he ok? He just stormed out.”
There are many words to describe Jarrett Hayes, but ‘ok’ is definitely not one of them.
“He’s fine. So who do I have to talk to?”
“Chef Nick is in the back.”
“And?”
She blinks, looking flustered. “And, um, you can just go back there.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. Chef Nick is approachable,” she says the word in a kind of gushy, fawning whisper. “He doesn’t like how stuffy a lot of other chefs are. The back of the kitchen is kind of his workshop. And his school. It’s where he trains others and receives inspiration for new recipes, so don’t worry about getting in the way too much. Unless he’s meditating.”
I thank her and smile before I turn away and roll my eyes.
They’re definitely fucking. Poor girl.
She’s got that ‘new relationship with the cool boss’ glow. I’ve seen it plenty of times before. Hell, I’ve been in her position at least one time that I care to remember and more times that I’ve willfully forgot. Then I grew up and realized that most of the guys in Chef Nick’s position that have to prey on women who work for them, usually don’t have much to offer. They don’t have the guts to hunt and fight for a woman.
I sigh and start down the hallway.
Not that I begrudge the girl for trying to get ahead. But I haven’t even met the guy and I can already tell the only thing Ms. Ponytail is going to get out of her relationship with Chef Nick is disappointment and an intimate familiarity with his acoustic rendition of ‘Wonderwall’.
One look at him across the kitchen and I’m sure I’m right.
He’s got a fucking man-bun.
Two, if you count the one in his beard.
I stand at the threshold to the kitchen and take it all in.
Chef Nick isn’t an unattractive man at first look. He’s tall-ish, though Jarrett’s taller. H’s well-built for a man who works with food all day; there’s a small gut on him, but it’s nothing some crunches and a month or so of dieting wouldn’t take care of. His hair — though it is pulled back into that hipster fucking man-bun — is thick, dark-black, with slight waves to it. Tan skin, combined with his dark hair and thick man-bunned beard, hints at some Mediterranean in his past.
He moves through the kitchen with a frenetic kind of energy; Pulling a pinch of spice from one bowl in his mise en place and tossing it into a wok he’s holding atop a fiery burner.
Three vigorous wok-flips later, he upends the contents onto a plate before him. Two chefs watching — both young kids, probably in their first actual sous chef jobs — nearly fall over each other to pat him on the back.
I cross the room, naturally spinning around the chaos of chefs and line-cooks moving from burner to workstation and back as they keep up the breakneck pace necessary to feed a crowd as large as the one out in the restaurant.
“Are you Chef Nick?” I say, knowing very well the answer.
He turns and eyes me up and down like I’m just another thing for him to eat. “I am. And you are?”
“Taken,” I say. “But looking to hire you for a job.”
The smirk curling his lips disappears.
“Well, Taken, I’m pretty busy, as you can see. I don’t know if I’ll have time for your job. But I might have time for you. How about we start there and see what kind of deal we can work out?”
I give him my best ‘fuck-off-and-die smile’. I’m good at it. His blank expression turns into a frown.
Then I roll up the sleeves of my shirt.
Ink spirals prismatically around my arms, some of it good and worth every cent paid for, some of it terrible. The kind of terrible that I feel like I’m still paying for it.
But it’s all an obvious product of the lifestyle.
“Nice ink,” one of the younger wannabe-chefs says, as I’m rolling up my sleeves. “Who’s your artist?”
“Is some of that henna?” the other one says.
I give them a ‘fuck you’ smile, too.
Because fuck them.
“Thanks,” I say, then I point to one that dominates my left forearm. “That one’s from the Devil’s Riders. They run meth and prostitution down in Reno. This one over here,” I say, pointing to a spiky thing snarled around my right wrist that looks like a brutalist rendition of handcuffs; I keep them as a reminder “These are from the Bloody Jackals. They traffic drugs and rob Mexican cartels for sport.”
“Whoa.”
“Do you want to know what kind of woman would wear ink like this?” I say.
One of the Masterchef Juniors shakes his head.
Chef Nick’s unseasonably tan complexion lightens a little.
“I’ll tell you,” I say. “It’s a woman you don’t want to fuck with.”
“Maybe I was wrong before,” Chef Nick says, haltingly. “I think I can cater for you.”
“You’re fucking right you were wrong. I need you for a party. The party isn’t for me. It’s for a club not too far from here, out in Stony Shores, called the Wayward Kings. They’re not the friendliest guys, but they’re trying to host this charity thing Friday after next and they want you to do the food. Do you think you can do it, or do you want to disappoint them?”
Chef Nick is as pale as a snowman. “I think I can do that.”
“Thanks,” I say. My heel squeaks against the floor as I turn and head back down the hallway. “I’ll call you. And answer quick, please — I don’t ever want to come back here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he calls after me.
I smile.
Step one: complete.