The Butcher (2 page)

The restaurant had been his lifelong dream, and Matt had busted ass to make it a reality. And finally, his hard work was paying off. The food truck was still kicking ass at the food fairs every week, and he'd been profiled in
Seattle
magazine and
Bon Appétit
. Several of his recipes (not his
adobo,
of course—that was sacred) had been published in
O
magazine,
People,
and
Martha Stewart Living
. His food truck had also been featured on the popular Food Network show
Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.

Which was why the Fresh Network, the Food Network's prime competition, wanted to produce a reality show about him. And why wouldn't they? When you were on fire, everybody wanted you, and Matt had no problem claiming credit for his own success. There was no place for insecurity in this business, or in any aspect of life, for that matter. His grandmother, may she rest in peace, had always believed in him, even when the Chief—perpetually disappointed that his grandson hadn't chosen a career in law enforcement—hadn't. Matt only wished his
lola
had lived long enough to see him shine. She would have been the proudest Filipino grandmother ever.

And now, inheriting his grandparents' house was just the icing on the cake. He'd been born and raised in that house, and everything about moving back into it felt exactly right.

When Matt had told his girlfriend about his grandfather's decision
to move into the old folks' home and give him the house on Poppy Lane—a real house, with a backyard, a working fireplace, and four large bedrooms—Sam had started decorating it in her head. She'd automatically assumed that her boyfriend of three years was taking their relationship to the next level, and that she was included in Matt's grand plan to give up the bachelor pad he rented in Belltown to move into the gorgeous old Victorian in the prestigious neighborhood of Sweetbay, where the grass was greener, the incomes higher, and everybody was married with a couple of kids and a dog.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

First, Matt wasn't ready for kids anytime soon. Hell, he barely had the time to spend with Elmo, his five-year-old Abyssinian cat.

Second, he wasn't ready for cohabitation. Matt didn't want to live with anybody right now, not even Sam. He'd had roommates in college, and had been utterly turned off to having other bodies sharing his living space. He couldn't wait to spread out, cook for himself in a proper kitchen, and buy an obnoxiously large stainless steel barbecue for backyard get-togethers. He most certainly didn't want pastel bedsheets, a living room that smelled like vanilla candles, and long strands of brown hair all over the bathroom floor.

And lastly, doing this on his own was just really important to him. He'd always been this way, and he was getting tired of having to explain it to people. The Chief had refused to take a dime from Matt for the house, citing that it was his inheritance anyway, but Matt would happily have taken out a mortgage if that's what his grandfather had wanted. He didn't ever want to feel like someone had given him a handout. He didn't believe in taking shortcuts to the finish line.

Maybe he was being a bit overzealous about it, but it was honestly how he felt. His explanation to Sam, of course, was much more subtle.

“There are things I need to do on my own, and this is one of them.”

This had hurt Sam, probably more than she was letting on, but she said she understood and let it go. For a while, anyway. But as the weeks passed, and she listened to him talk about the house and all the renovations he was planning, she became more and more vocal about why it was
exactly
the right time for them to live together, and how she was certain they were ready to take the next step.

“We love each other and we've been together for three years. I'm clean, I'm financially responsible, and I still have sex with you three times a week,” Sam said. They were lying in her bed, naked and sweaty. “I don't understand what you're so worried about. I'm not even asking for a ring.”

Her timing was irritating. She knew damned well she'd just drained him of all usable body fluids, and now she was hitting him up with this conversation yet again.

“I'm not worried.” Matt was careful with his tone. He was in no mood to argue. Frankly, he didn't have the strength. “It's not about you, or us. It's about
me
. I need to do this. After ten years of busting my ass with nobody's help, things are finally going in the direction I want them to. I need to keep doing things on my own.”

“So I don't get a say at all?” Sam's hair was plastered to her face, her cheeks still flushed. Despite her aggravation, he thought she looked sexy as hell.

“Honestly, I don't see why you would.” Matt hated the wounded look on her face, but he felt cornered and vulnerable. He pulled the sheets over his exposed body. “Don't take it like that. That's not what I mean. All I'm trying to say is, this doesn't change anything between you and me.”

“But what if I want things to change?” she said in a small voice.

“You're still my girlfriend. I'm one hundred percent devoted to you. But there are things I need to do first before
we
change things.”

“It's always about you.” Sighing, she turned away. “I don't know why I'm even surprised.”

He flinched. She wasn't wrong, and he wasn't sure how to respond. “Just be patient,” he finally said. “We'll get there.”

Pushing the sheets off her naked body, she headed to the bathroom. “I'm already there.”

A few days later, Sam had brought Jason into the ongoing argument, and that was the last straw. Jason Sullivan was Matt's closest friend, but Sam had known him longer; they'd been friends since childhood, and he was like a big brother to her. A big, overbearing, intrusive brother. She'd told Jason everything, and of course their mutual friend, who at times wasn't so mutual, agreed with Sam. Jason, normally a laid-back and open-minded guy, seemed awfully opinionated about Matt and Sam's relationship.

“There are a lot of financially good reasons why you guys should move in together.” Jason sounded infuriatingly reasonable. They were in their usual fifty-yard-line seats at CenturyLink Field, courtesy of Jason's three years playing quarterback with the Seahawks. Though his friend had retired from the NFL four years ago, football fans still recognized Jase, and going anywhere in public with him was always an ordeal. The Hawks were down 17–14 to the Niners, and Matt could not believe that Jason Sullivan, of all people, would initiate a conversation about his relationship during a football game.
The sacrilege
. He munched on garlic fries and tried to drown out the annoyance of his friend's well-meaning voice.

“She's got cash on hand for the renovations you want to do, she can pay half the bills, and she's almost as good a cook as you are,” Jason said,
using his fingers to tick off each point as he went. He sounded a lot like Sam. “And she's a neat freak, so you can finally fire your weird cleaning lady. Think of the money you'd save. That could mean another food truck next year, my friend, maybe even another restaurant. How about
that
.”

Matt sipped his beer, squeezing the plastic container so hard it warped. He didn't care if his friend was a famous ex-quarterback and that people all around them were surreptitiously snapping pictures of him with their cell phones, he was seriously considering dumping his beer over the guy's head. If it hadn't cost nine bucks, he might have. “No. And I don't want to talk about this with you anymore.”

“I'm just saying, think about it. Everything in your life is falling into place. The food trucks are hot, the restaurant's doing well, you've got those people from the Fresh Network calling, and now you're moving into the big house. Don't you want someone to share all that with?”

“I already have someone to share all that with.”

“Elmo doesn't count.”

“He would beg to differ.”

“Consider how Sam feels.”

“Let it go, Jase.”

Jason sighed. “You've been with her for a long time. You haven't asked her to marry you, which, okay, I get, because marriage doesn't exactly appeal to me right now, either. But you don't even want her to live with you? In that big-ass house? Have you stopped for a second to think that maybe you're being a tiny bit of an asshole here? You gotta throw her a bone, man. Relationship Advice 101. You don't give a little, they leave.”

Matt said nothing.

“Is it even an option at some point?”

Matt scraped up the last bit of garlic from the bottom of his paper
cup, wishing his friend would shut up. “I don't know. But don't you fucking tell her that.”

“Why not? Why waste her time then, man? She's paid her dues.”

“She knew the drill when we first hooked up.”

“She thought you'd come around.”

Matt was a quiet for a moment. “I love her. She knows that. I don't get why that's never enough.” He thought about saying something else, but decided against it.

Jason shook his head and took a long swig of beer. Belched loudly. The woman in front of them in the Russell Wilson jersey turned around and glared at them. Jason flashed her a grin and winked. It seemed totally obnoxious to Matt, but it worked; the woman's dirty look melted into a smile.

“Oh my God, you're Jason Sullivan,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Can I take a picture with you?”

“Of course.”

The woman handed her phone to Matt, who refrained from rolling his eyes even though he wanted to. This kind of thing happened all the time. He took their picture and the woman turned back around, squealing to her friend beside her.

“Sam's a good girl,” Jason said, jumping right back into the conversation. “Just, you know, give it some more thought. All I'm asking. Not that I'll ever get what she sees in you, anyway.”

“She's with me because I'm a swell guy,” Matt said, his jaw tight. The crowd roared as the Seahawks made a first down. “And hey, I don't see you putting a ring on Lily's finger.”

“It's
Lilac,
you asshole, and we've only been seeing each other for three months. Completely different thing.”

“And Rachel?”

“Fling. Never destined to go anywhere.”

“What about Susan?”

“Suzanna. And she was already married. With two kids.”

“She was?” Matt couldn't help but laugh. It was hard to stay mad at his friend. “I didn't know that. Who's the asshole now?”

“You are. Sam's one of the good ones. And you're going to fuck it up.”

Instantly Matt's face flushed, and he clenched his fist. Jason glanced down.

“What, you gonna hit me?” his friend said quietly. “Thought we were all done with that shit.”

Matt forced himself to relax. “We are.”

“Good, I'm glad those classes you took weren't just for show.”

Gritting his teeth, Matt didn't respond. Truthfully, there was nothing he could say. He'd lost his temper one too many times in the past, and after a bar brawl and a night in jail, had been forced to undergo a three-week anger management course over a year ago. The Chief had had to pull strings so he could avoid jail time. It wasn't something he was proud of.

Finally he said to Jason, “I thought you were on my side.”

“I'm on both your sides.” Sighing, Jason finally threw up a hand. “You know what? I tried. And I'm done, I'm out of it. Buy me a beer and I'll shut the hell up, because God knows we both want me to.”

And that, for the most part, had ended it. He didn't know what Jason had said to Sam after the game, but she'd backed off once and for all, and for that Matt was grateful.

His grandfather's house was in the center of Sweetbay, one of Seattle's oldest neighborhoods, and also one of the most desirable. A little to the north and west of downtown, Sweetbay was situated on a small tip of land that jutted into Puget Sound, and quite a few of the homes had water views. The houses were a mix of Tudor, Victorian, and Craftsman, and they all had perfect green lawns dotted with bright flowers and trimmed shrubs. Trees decades older than Matt lined the streets, and on a summer day when the wind from the ocean rippled the leaves just right, the whole neighborhood seemed to smell of good fortune.

If you asked one of the old-timer residents where they lived (and there were a lot of old-timers in this neighborhood), they would answer “Sweetbay,” not Seattle, as if the place was a town all by itself. And in some ways, it was. It was completely self-sufficient. It had its own little shopping area complete with a Whole Foods, a movie theater, and an assortment of cafés and coffee shops. There was even a farmers'
market on Saturdays (not quite big enough for Matt to justify a food truck, but it was cute nonetheless). Most everything was within walking distance, and the best part of all? Sweetbay was only a ten-minute drive to downtown Seattle, making it the ideal yuppie neighborhood for those who could afford a house in the city.

Though he'd moved out of the Belltown apartment and into the Sweetbay house a few days earlier, Matt had just bought a new bed from Restoration Hardware, and that was what was inside the second U-Haul truck he'd rented this week.

The truck was brand-new and not too big, easy enough to maneuver through leafy Poppy Lane. Jason and another friend, PJ Wu, who was also his assistant head chef at the restaurant, were following behind him in Matt's utility van, because the bed was heavy and would be a bitch to unload. Matt took his time driving, minding the signs posted everywhere that said
SPEEDING ENDANGERS OUR KIDS
, which was interesting considering there were hardly any kids in Sweetbay. It would make more sense to change the signs to
SPEEDING ENDANGERS OLD FARTS
.