“You aren’t fucking good enough!”

I whip around on the subway train to determine who the hell is talking to me in such a rude manner.

“Excuse me?” I raise my eyebrows at a pair of sullen-looking teenage boys who in turn give me a hazy, disinterested gaze.

“What?” The one with the backward Yankees ball cap says in an aggressive tone.

“Did you just tell me I’m not good enough?” I ask, incensed.

The teen laughs smugly. “Lady, I don’t know what your problem is, but I am talking to my friend who just got us killed in our competition.”

He gestures to the friend’s cell phone which has some sort of violent gun game displaying on its screen.

“Oh…sorry.” I cast them both a sheepish and embarrassed grin before turning back around.

It just runs with the territory I guess, to always have the shadow of paranoia crawling along my skin.

I’m Hanna Smith and I’m the most recent graduate of NYU’s culinary program. Yes, it’s prestigious and I should be extremely proud of this compliment but instead, I just feel fucking inferior.

Food is my life. Let me rephrase, food is my everything. I remember as a little girl watching my mom cook and I always wanted to be front and center by the oven or at the counter with her, whisking up the perfect batter for something delicious.

Everything my mom makes is scrumptious, and I only hope to follow in her footsteps. But for now, I’m having an extremely difficult time even getting my foot in the fucking door.

I mean, I know I’m an excellent cook, and if anyone is willing to give me a shot I can prove my talents.

Right now, I’m on my way to work. Let’s just say I’m pretty fucking desperate right now. I live in Brooklyn, which is slightly lower rent than living on the island of Manhattan but it’s like comparing apples to…um applesauce.

I had a roommate named Sara, a girl with fuzzy hair that she always wore in a near afro on top of her head. I never saw her in anything other than black or grey leggings and a baggy sweatshirt.

She loved ice cream and Netflix, and she had a job as a telemarketer at a call center. She helped pay half the rent but when her mom unexpectedly died she had to move back home to Delaware to help her father.

So, here I am on my own in the biggest city in the world, trying to not only make a name for myself but live each day praying that I don’t eventually become homeless.

That’s where the important job comes in.

It’s still ridiculously expensive to live in this city or any of its boroughs, but I can’t leave. I have big dreams and goals of opening my own five-star restaurant one day.

For right now, I’m working at one, hoping to impress the best in the business because, in my eyes, a job in the industry is better than nothing at all.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that I’m not actually a chef or cook at this restaurant, which happens to be one of the trendiest up and coming spots in all lower Manhattan.

I’m a waitress, trying my damnedest to work my way to the top, at any cost.

The restaurant has a name that lives up to its chic style, ‘Blending In.’ The executive chef’s goal is to mix or ‘blend’ the hottest and freshest ingredients to make dishes that can identify with every type of pallet.

The executive chef is incredibly intimidating, to say the least. His name is Rocco Bornoli and besides being absolutely gorgeous, and I’m talking flaming, scorching hot, he is also seriously distant, abhorrent, and cold.

He looks like he should be a model instead of a chef.

My train ride to the restaurant is brutal, exhausting, and excruciatingly long. By the time I get there each day, I feel as if I’m mentally damaged by the commute itself, but the gig is too hard to give up.

If I want the best training possible; to learn the ins and outs, ‘Blending In’ is where I need to fucking be.

I take a deep breath before I walk inside, always needing a moment to check my feelings at the door and prepare myself for whatever torture I might have to endure each night.

It’s pretty fucking bad, but I grin and bear it because I know burning bridges won’t help me in the end and it’s better to just smile and nod, even if it’s through gritted teeth and a sour outlook.

I’ve only worked at Blending In for a week, but it actually seems more like an eternity rather than seven measly days.

The staff…Well, they are another story entirely. They won’t talk to me, and I mainly get the cold shoulder unless someone wants to dive in for a reprimand on the off chance I might do something questionable on the job.

At first, their dislike for me was daunting and confusing, but now I’m used to the slack. I overhear shit all the time, and sometimes the gossip has my name written all over it.

Apparently, the other wait staff doesn’t like me because I’m ‘too pretty and blonde.’

I’m not actually from New York, and to try to pretend I’m one of them would be like a sea lion trying to fit in with an actual lion. It just doesn’t fucking happen.

Everyone here has thick accents and dark hair. I’m blonde with blue eyes, five feet nine and a tan that never goes away; I just have the skin tone for it.

I’m from California and the culture shock is still rolling through in waves that ebb and flow from my subconscious. I have no idea if I’ll ever adjust, but if I make a name for myself; honestly, right now I don’t even fucking care.

The customers are nice to me because I’m friendly and engaging, I actually care about what they have to say. My motives aren’t only just to get a decent tip; I’m just a people person, as cliché as that sounds.

I guess people are jealous of my looks and bubbly spirit, but how is it my fault that they are sullen, dull and angry?

“You’re late,” Jana grumbles as I walk in and pass her at the bar where she is setting up for the evening.

“I’m sorry,” I say and try to rush past her but it’s no use. “I missed the six train.”

“I don’t give a shit about your fucking excuses,” she hashes in a gruff voice.

Jana is the manager, and to say she is a bitch is the understatement of the century. She’s also tall but has short dark hair and dark square glasses that most of the time she wears directly on the bridge of her nose.

She’s always aggressive with me and will remind me any chance she gets that she tried to push Rocco away from hiring me.

Back to Rocco, dreamy, sexy hunk Rocco. I have no idea why he hired me, but it must mean he sees some potential in me because he’s not exactly a social butterfly.

He’s in his mid-30’s and he’s been on the Food Network and tons of other shows to promote and cook for celebrities in the most prestigious settings imaginable.

He’s cut, ripped, and every other word you could use to describe a guy who takes care of himself and his body, and I can tell he spends as much time at the gym as he does the restaurant.

It seems like every time I open a magazine article having something to do with cuisine; he’s in there somewhere, featured with a showering of praise about his delicious food.

The drawback? He’s extremely critical and I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen him even so much as fucking smile.

He makes my panties melt, but I know I have to get in line because I’m not the only girl on this island swooning over his dashing handsome looks.

I know I’m one of the youngest of the waitstaff at twenty-three years old, but I do my fucking best and I have to start somewhere. I just need to press on and prove myself.

I go to the back and clock in on the computer, taking a deep breath as I run my hands through my hair.

“Don’t worry about it.”

I turn around to see Daniel, the only ‘friend’ I have at the restaurant. He’s a server too and is a little plump. He also wears glasses and has the softest looking brown hair. If anyone here is remotely nice to me, it’s Daniel.

“Huh?” I turn around and look at him.

“She’s just trying to get a rise out of you,” he nods his head in Jana’s direction.

I blow out a puff of air. “I guess.” I chuckle nervously. “Well, I better go out to the shark tank now,” I joke and give him a modest wave goodbye.

“Good luck out there,” he calls behind me.

“You too,” I say.

I just wish people would take me seriously but just for the fact that I have blonde hair, they immediately assume I’m just some slutty blonde bimbo who can’t do anything.

I warily approach the bar and tense my shoulders, anticipating that Jana will find some way to screw me over tonight to get back at me for being ten minutes late for my shift.

“Go to that table,” she waves her hand dismissively, without even bothering to glance up at me.

“In the back?” I nearly whine but then I catch myself. If I give her a hard time, I will only be making it worse for myself. She’s giving me the shittiest section in the restaurant.

“Yeah,” she finally looks up at me. “Do you have a problem with that? You can go home if that suits you better,” she snickers sarcastically and blows a bubble with her gum.

“It’s fine,” I say and scurry off to greet my customers. I only hope my night will go uphill from here.