Chapter Two

Carter

“I don’t know why there’s a dead rat back there.”

The rage slithers up my spine. It’s all I can do to tamp it down, so it doesn’t explode out the top of my head. Losing my temper with a health inspector isn’t going to get my restaurant back on track. “All I can tell you is that it wasn’t there this morning, and I’ve never even seen a rodent in this restaurant. As you know, I’ve been the head chef here ever since my brother purchased this casino.”

The health inspector clucks her tongue and shakes her head as her superior gaze takes inventory of everything she sees. “Mr. Caldwell, I don’t appreciate your tone,” she says in a snotty voice that makes me want to growl at her. “But I will have to report this to the Nevada Board of Health.”

“Great.” I stifle a groan, raking a hand through my already-messy hair. “This is just perfect.”

Her nostrils flare at my sarcasm. The health inspector closes her notebook and peers at me over her wireless glasses. “Do you mind if I use your restroom on the way out?”

“Whatever,” I mutter under my breath.

“Excuse me?” The health inspector blinks, her facial expression sour and wrinkly like she sucked down a piece of lemon meringue pie with the sugar left out.

“Not a problem,” I manage to spit out. All I want is this hoity-toity woman out of my sight, so I can try to strategize my next move. Damn women and their constant demands. I don’t need them and their drama.

If I want some pussy, I can easily get it out on the casino floor. One date with a loose cocktail waitress and I’m golden. But once I’m done with the female persuasion, I’m done. And I am so fucking done with this one right now. “The customer bathroom is right through those doors.”

I point through the open kitchen doors into the lush interior of Steakhouse, my restaurant that’s located inside the Armónico, my brother Nixon’s Las Vegas boutique casino. The health inspector mutters something under her breath and slips her notebook back in the pocket of her hideous polyester outfit. As I watch the land whale waddle out of my kitchen, I feel a rush of hot anger. Balling my hand into a fist, I slam it down on the prep counter.

“Um, Monsieur Carter?” My pastry chef blinks at me. Red blotches break out on Claude’s neck. Whenever he’s nervous, his heavy French accent becomes even more pronounced, as does his butchering of the English language. “I feel the distressed.”

“I don’t really have time for this right now, Claude.” I suck a deep breath in through my nose. “Is the boeuf en croute all ready to go?”

Claude sighs and throws his hands up in the air. Whipped cream dangles from his hat, and in about ten seconds, it’s going to end up as a sugary casualty on the tile floor. “Sir, I am no zee sure,” he says, putting a hand to his forehead. He looks like an actor in a soap opera, except fat and balding instead of handsome and charming. “It was tres most of zee trouble for me.”

“Well, get it ready,” I snap. “That’s the first thing we’re serving the Michelin critics, and it better fucking knock their socks off.”

Claude gives me a hesitant look. “Sir, please to listen…”

“Go ahead.” I wave my hand through the air. In my years of working with Claude, his artistic temperament has taught me that even if I’m not ready, he’ll say whatever’s on his mind. I just may or may not understand it.

“Would it not be better to have the un course zee fluffier? Perhaps, um, une bouillabaisse?” He reverts to his native French, stretching the word with his mouth.

“I hate fish.” I cringe, shaking my head. In my world, nothing outside of red classifies as meat. I detest fish and anyone who eats it. “Absolutely no fucking way are we serving fish!”

“But, sir, zee monsieurs!”

“I don’t give a shit!” I snarl, pounding my hand on the prep counter until it burns my unfounded anger straight up to my elbow. Deep down, I know Claude only wants the best for me and the restaurant. He’s not just a colleague, he’s a friend. But between the stress of the random health inspection and the Michelin critics, I’m at the end of my rope. “They’re coming from Sakana, they’ve just had fish! And scallops, and shrimp, and god knows what other horrid concoctions come out of that kitchen. This restaurant is called Steakhouse, Claude. Heavy on the steak.”

Claude whimpers. His blue eyes begin to tear, and he rushes away, redness flagging his face a rosy hue. For a moment, I almost feel guilty. But it passes sooner than it should, and then I remember who I am. I’m Carter fucking Caldwell, and Steakhouse is my pride and joy.

Ever since I was a kid serving chocolate soufflé to my mom, I’ve always wanted to open a restaurant. When I graduated from French culinary school, my brother Nixon offered me a great deal – I could open a restaurant in his Vegas casino, the Armónico, as long as I could keep turning a profit. And the best part…full creative control. Nixon stays the hell out of my business and my hair.

Most of the time.

I turned so much profit in the first six months that I surprised my elder brother with my business acumen. Since then, Steakhouse has been my pride and joy. I just have one rule.

No. Fucking. Fish.

All my entrees are well balanced. Lamb, beef, pork, chicken – it doesn’t matter, as long as there’s real meat. And personally, I only eat red meat. I don’t understand people who don’t. Animals were put on this planet for our consumption, why shouldn’t we eat as many of them as possible? Besides, they’re tasty.

Unless there’s meat in an entrée, it’s not a fucking entrée. It’s a side dish, or at best, an appetizer.

I sigh and wonder if I should apologize to Claude. He’s as bad as a fucking woman with his stormy moods. Thank God I pay him enough to put up with a lot of my shit. I know I shouldn’t be so angry about the health inspector, but I can’t believe she picked today of all days to show up. This is the first time the Michelin critics have visited Steakhouse, and if all goes well, I’ll be getting a brand-new rating…and hopefully, a whole new level of visibility that will end up with me on TV someday.

The kitchen is bumbling and busy. Claude leans over in the corner, weeping about my choice of dessert. He wanted to do a traditional plate of French macaroons, but I know those Michelin critics have likely had all the fancy cookies they could ever eat. Instead, I’m going with an old classic – flaming Bananas Foster. I put a twist on mine, though. A glace of caramelized rum on top, with sparkling candles, that really kicks the dish up from “high school kid’s birthday party” to “high dollar Vegas gluttony.” For years, it’s been my secret weapon, and I can’t wait for the critics to try it. Multiple diners have told me it’s heaven on a plate.

“Claude,” I call. “How’s it going over there?”

Claude looks up at me, clearly distressed. “Sir…” The way he pronounces the word sounds like ‘tsar’ – and he better fucking believe it. I’m the tsar of everything I survey. “It is not going well.”

“Well, make it better,” I say, giving him a thumbs up in support. After the day I’ve had, that’s about all the empathy I can muster. “We’ve got to put on one hell of a show tonight.”

I lean against the wall and take a deep breath. So far, I’ve sent out a lamb ragu, a rare hangar steak with hollandaise crème, and chicken “lollipops” with a maple bourbon glaze, and it’s almost time for the big finale.

Claude may be emotional and whiny, but he’s a superb pastry chef, the best in the business. In no more than ten minutes, he has a beautiful Bananas Foster ready to go.

“You did a great job,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder.

Claude looks offended. “I should hope so,” he says, tilting his chin high in the air. “After all, I work tres hard, Monsieur Carter!”

“I know.” I roll my eyes. “Put on a fresh jacket and go out with the dessert. Use all your flair for the dramatic in your tableside presentation.”

I cross my fingers as I watch Claude carefully carry the beautiful dish out of the kitchen. In just a short time, I should know whether or not I knocked it out of the park. Steakhouse has always had a great reputation, but Vegas is competitive…it’s hard to stay afloat in a sea of great food. Tourists from all over the world dine here.

Boom!

I jump, my heart pounding, then rush into the dining area, shoving so hard on the kitchen doors they crack against the wall.

Holy fucking shit.

Three Michelin critics – and Claude – are covered from head to toe in caramelized rum sauce and banana goop. A gigantic pile of the sweet concoction breaks free from Claude’s towering chef’s hat and falls into the wine glass of one of the important diners. The man looks at it in disgust and starts making notes on his yellow tablet.

Oh, fuck me, I think, rushing over to the table. Major damage control is in order.

“Sirs,” I say. “I’m Carter Caldwell. I am so sorry about this!”

One of the critics puts his finger in the banana mess on his shirt and licks it. He makes an appraising sound, nodding his head before he goes back for seconds.

“Delicious, although I find the presentation a touch…Avant-garde.”

“Yes, well,” I say, anxiety threatening to choke me. Turning to Claude, I frown. “What the hell happened?” I ask in a voice just above a whisper, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

“Sir, I do not know!” Claude wails. He trembles, and I sense a crying fit coming on. “All going well, then boom. Banana in zee face.”

“Go back to the kitchen,” I soothe. The last thing I want is Claude breaking down in front of these critics. Aside from the fact that they’re covered in Bananas Foster, they look incredibly professional.

Claude’s chin wobbles, but thankfully, he doesn’t fight me. He scurries off, and I turn to the restaurant critics with my most charming smile.

“I am so sorry about that,” I say again. “Please, what can I get you? An espresso? An after-dinner drink, or a Cuban cigar?”

“A wet towel would be nice,” one of the critics says, pursing his lips into a trout face. Another reason why I hate fucking fish. Every single woman wears that same displeased look whenever her over-inflated expectations aren’t met.

I can feel my smile fading with every second that passes, so I signal a server to dart into the kitchen for the towels, and she runs off, her heels clicking on the hand-scraped hardwood floor.

I frown and lean over the ruined dish. That’s when I see something strange, and that familiar irritation begins anew.

“This shouldn’t be here,” I say, reaching in and pulling out the blasted ruins of what looks like a roman candle shell.

“What is that?” One of the critics stands up and reaches for it. I hand it over, frowning as I stare at the firework. I would never bring something so dangerous into my own kitchen. It’s a fucking lawsuit waiting to happen.

“It looks like a roman candle,” I say. “And it was buried in the bottom of the dish. We use sparkling candles for this dish. I would never endanger a diner in this way. I don’t have any idea where this came from.”

The man frowns and holds it close to his face for further inspection. “It is a roman candle,” he says. “My son sells these. He’s in college, you know how those kids need money. He had me buy about sixty last summer…hell, I think they’re still in my garage.” He laughs, and I force a chuckle.

“Obviously, men, my Bananas Foster doesn’t come standard with roman candles,” I say. “If you wanted a little extra wham bam explosions, why didn’t you just say so?” My attempt at humor comes out more like a pathetic wail. I can’t believe this is happening to me.

“Son, I think someone tampered with your dessert,” the critic replies. He hands me the roman candle back. “You should keep this for evidence. This is serious enough that I think the authorities should be alerted. At the very least, casino security. Maybe they can check the videotapes. This is sabotage, plain and simple. Do you have any idea who it could be?”

I grit my teeth. “Yes.”

In fact, I know exactly who it is, although they’re nameless right now. It’s likely one of the other Vegas chefs, since we’re all such a competitive group. Steakhouse has never had a Michelin star before, and most of the famous ones have at least one. I’m guessing someone tried to mess with me and knock me out of the running.

The only innocent chef must be Pepper St. Claire, the chef at Sakana, the highest-rated restaurant in Vegas. She’s already got two Michelin stars – why the hell would she need to knock me out of the running for just one? I’ve never met her, but I hear she’s a no-nonsense type so wouldn’t have time for this juvenile shit.

“Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,” the critic says. He gets to his feet and wipes his suit clean with a linen napkin, shaking his head. His voice is neutral – devoid of warmth or chill – and I have no idea what he’s thinking. “We should be going now.”

“Okay,” I say, grasping at any attempt to repair the shreds of this visit. “Thank you very much for taking the time to dine at Steakhouse. I really appreciate it.”

The critic nods. “Of course. Thank you for the meal. I’m sure I’ll never forget it.”

“Yes.” It’s probably one of the most unforgettable nights of my life too.

As I watch the critics leave, my heart sinks to my non-slip shoes. This is my one shot at the stardom I’ve worked so hard to achieve and so richly deserve. And just like the roman candles that exploded in the middle of my dining room, my dreams have been blown sky high.