The Right Moves - The Game Book 3 (4 page)

“The
spiced prawn risotto, Blake! I need the damn risotto!” Joe yells across the busy kitchen. With the constant swinging of the doors and clashing of pots and pans, it’s a wonder I can hear him at all.

“Right. Risotto.” I pull open the heavy fridge door and walk into it. Shelves of pre-cooked meals wrapped in cling film stare back at me, and I look side to side, holding in my groan. “Risotto. Risotto. Where’s the fucking risotto?”

“Where’s the fucking risotto?” Joe yells, punctuating his words with a bang of a saucepan.

Good question.
“There’s none here, Chef!”

“Then get your ass out here and make me some
fucking pronto! I need it in one hour for the party coming in – they’re Friday night regulars and always order the damn meal!” The doors bang open. “For the love of beer, Jackie! How many of these goddamn tickets are you gonna pin on my board?”

“As many as I’m given!”

“Forty-five minute wait for food!”

“But–
”

“Get out the kitchen before he throws the salmon at you, Jackie!” Matt, a trainee chef fresh from high school, yells at her.

The doors slam again as she walks out. I grab the prawns from the freezer compartment and leave the bag running under some water to defrost while I gather the rest of the ingredients like there’s a rocket up my arse. When Joe says he wants something now, he means yesterday afternoon. It’s busier here than anywhere I worked in London – but I guess that’s what I get for taking a job in one of the most popular restaurants in the center of Brooklyn. So Brooklyn is no Manhattan, but it’s close enough and big enough to be busy as hell.

I cut the carrot
s, slice the olives, and finely chop an onion and a red chili pepper. The onion and rice cook in a huge pan, turning a golden brown color before being drowned in white wine. When the chicken stock has soaked into the rice, I add the rest of the ingredients, including pine nuts, and give it a good stir. A touch of black pepper, a few more minutes, and it’s ready to go.

The spicy smell of the chi
li wafts up to my nose, and my stomach rumbles quietly. Damn. The biggest problem with being in a kitchen that makes the best seafood this side of Brooklyn Bridge is I want to eat it. There’s only so many take-outs and quick-fix meals a guy can eat before he starts missing finer food.

And God knows there was plenty of fine food in my childhood. With my parents’ high profile jobs, they were always dragging us kids to functions and dinners and expensive charity nights that probably cost more t
o organize than was raised. And of course, the dinner parties with business associates that all happened to have good-looking, well-mannered sons and daughters that were pushed on Kiera and me. For a second, I feel a twinge of regret that I’ve left her to that by herself – and now Allie will be subjected to it, too. Even if Allie is a carbon copy of Mum, happy to marry a rich man and let him fund her lifestyle while she draws pictures of pretty dresses or whatever.

“The fucking risotto!” Joe bellows.

I shake off the lingering thoughts of my life in London and spoon the risotto into a large glass dish, ready to cover and whisk into the fridge after it’s been plated up. I carry the dish across the busy kitchen and place it in front of Joe.

“Least it smells like risotto,” he mumbles, grabbing a spoon. He puts some in a small bowl and tastes it –
he doesn’t yet trust my ability to cook. It’s written all over him, and proven by the look of surprise currently plastered on his face.

“Damn, kid.” He nods. “This is good. Plate it up and get that damn
Jackie in here to take it out.”

A breath I didn’t realize I was holding leaves my body, and I grab some clean plates from the shelves behind me.

Maybe now he’ll stop doubting me.

I press the button to alert the wait staff there’s food waiting and take the risotto dish to the back.

“You can take off once that risotto is away, Blake,” Joe calls. “It’s under control here and already half an hour over your shift. You did good tonight, kid.”

I shut the fridge door behind me. “Thanks, Chef. I’ll see you Monday.”

“See ya. Damn it, Matt! Stop that fucking pan boiling over!”

I scoot out of the kitchen and grab my coat before he decides he’d rather send Matt home instead of me, and get the hell ou
t of Double Bass Restaurant. Downtown Brooklyn on a Friday night is busy – not as crazy busy as I’m sure it is on the other side of the East River – but enough that the ten minute walk to my apartment is at least mildly amusing.

As I think this, a group of three girls round the corner in front of me. One of them stumbles into my side, and I grab her arms to steady her.

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” She giggles, putting her hand to her mouth.

“No problem.” I smile at her and drop my hands.

One of her friends gasps. “He’s British!”

Oh God. I
should have just smiled and carried on walking.

The girl who fell into me stops. “Are you like, real British with a proper accent, or one of those really annoying ones?”

“I … I should be going.” I step back a little as the girl giggles again.

“Oh, it’s a proper one!” She beams at me and puts a hand on her hip. “Did you just move here?”

I also should have listened to the attitude-filled warning about American girls and British guys my brother gave me before I left. Or learnt how to speak like one.

“
Yeah … Last week. I really have to go. Sorry girls. Have a good night.” I sidestep.

“Then you must need someone to show you around!”

“I have a map, but thanks.” I wave awkwardly and turn away.

“Well, how about my number in case you change your mind?”

“Really, I’m good.”

“I could take yours!”

The brick wall across the street is looking like a really, really good place to bang my head against right now.

“I don’t have one
.” I all but run around the corner and the rest of the way to my apartment before I take a breather.

I let myself into the block, see the lift is out of action, and climb the stairs. My apartment is a welcome sight, and I drop onto my sofa, letting the door swing shut by itself.

God. Damn.

I’m no stranger when it comes to attention from girls. I mean, I’ve had girlfr
iends in the past and a few one-nighters, but I’ve never experienced anything quite like that. And all because I’m bloody British.

Am I gonna have that whenever I talk to a girl
? ‘Cause if that’s the case, I really need some lessons on how to speak like an American.

“Hello?” I answer my phone as the screen lights up.

“Darling!” My mother’s voice trills down the phone. I slide down the cushions, wishing the sofa would just open up and swallow me.

“Mum,” I reply. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Blake. How are you? You haven’t called me.”

“I’ve been busy. You know, settling in and stuff.”

“
And stuff?
What is ‘stuff’?”

I pause. “Dance.”

“So you can find time to prance around like a fairy but not to call your mother?”

“I came to New York to dance, Mum. Remember that?”

“Yes, yes, so you say. What I’d like to know is when you’re coming home. It’s ever so quiet around here.”

“I’
m not coming home.”

She says nothing for a minute that seems li
ke an hour. “I thought you may have had enough by now.”

And there
it is: the famous Smith parents’ belief in their children. Or maybe they reserve this special brand just for me.

“I’ve been here a little over a week,” I remind her.

“Well, yes, but you’ve never really been away from home for that long. Goodness, Blake, you went to your grandparents for a weekend when you were eleven and hated it so much you never went back without us. Although, it was your father’s parents, so perhaps I can understand that.”

“Yes, thank you, Mother,” I say dryly. “In case you fail to notice, I am no longer eleven years old. I’m twenty-one. You know. An
adult.
”

“Then whyever are you talking to me like you’re a hormonal teenage girl?”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. God I love my mother, I really do, but she is the most testing woman on Earth. I admire her for demanding respect at all times, but honestly, if she’s gonna piss me off, I’m going to talk to her like I’m a child. Sometimes that’s the only way to get her to listen to me.

“Anyway, never mind all that. I’m calling to let you know the good news!”

“The good news? Did Kiera finally give in to your matchmaking?”

“No.” She sounds slightly put out. “Although, I believe she’s warming up to Dr. Lyle’s son, Martin. He’s a bit of a sap, but he has a bright future and stands to partner in his father’s practice, so he’s definitely suitable for her.”

And he’s about as interesting as a one hundred meter race being run by a group of slugs
.

I make a non-committal sort of noise I hope she’ll take as an agreement. Occasionally it’s easier to just say nothing.

“So, my news!”

Spit it out, woman.

“My shoes are moving Stateside!”

Oh God no.

“They are?” I ask hesitantly.

“Yes! I have a long weekend
of meetings in New York in two weeks’ time, and I wanted to let you know now so you can make sure your schedule is clear. It would be nice to have dinner one night and catch up. You can tell me all about your fair-er, dancing.”

I fall sideways, burying my face in a cushion. “That’s great, Mum. I’m really happy for you. I know you’ve waited for this.” Okay, so I’m a half-hearted happy for her. At least the half of me that’s happy is beyond ecstatic
… If only because now Dad doesn’t have to hear her bitching about American fashion chains and their rejection of her British designs any longer.

“It’s been a long time coming. So, about dinner. I land on Thursday morning, so Thursday night would be best for me. I can’t be late though, as I have a meeting at eight am
on Friday and the jet lag will be a killer as it is.”

“I have dance class on Thursdays.”

“Well, you’ll have to miss a class.”

“No can do, Mum. I could be dying and Bianca would expect me to be there, shoes on and ready to perform to a world class standard.”

“Well, when do you leave your class?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“I suppose we can have dinner at eight.” She sighs. “Really, I can’t wait for the day you’ll give up on this silly dream of dancing.”

I bite my tongue as she carries on her all-familiar tirade about my choice to dance. As always, Tori doesn’t factor into it. And it makes me even more determined to succeed.

And even more pissed that Mum’s shoes finally cross the Atlantic mere days after I do.

~

I head into Bianca’s studio for an afternoon dance session. There isn’t really enough room to practice in my apartment, so I pulled her aside after our last class and asked to use the space this weekend. She readily agreed, telling me she’ll be doing paperwork anyway.

The large room is eerily silent without anyone else here. The only time it’s been this quiet is on Thursday when I watched Abbi dance to a melody
only she could hear. Even then, I was too enthralled by her graceful movements to notice the lack of background noise.

I slip off my joggers and hoodie and swap my socks for ballet shoes.
My eyes trawl around the studio, and I can’t remember the last time I had this much room to dance alone. A part of me doesn’t want to remember. So I don’t.

I dance instead.

I throw myself into it with everything I have. All the rising emotion inside me – the uncertainty about moving here, the hesitance of living alone, the fear of failure – comes pouring out through the tips of my fingers and my toes. I dance unconsciously, aware of my feet touching the floor and lifting off but not aware of anything else. My posture, positions, steps … I don’t know anything about them.

They’re just there.

I stop, my breathing heavy. Emotion and ballet has always been a heady mixture for me, both a blessing and a curse. Today, it seems to be the latter, and I blame Mum’s phone call. She always brings out the worst in me.

I cross the floor toward my bag, ready to go sooner than I expected, but Bianca’s voice stops me.

“I don’t see people like you often.”

“I’m not quite sure how I’m meant to take that.” I turn to her, my hand hovering over my hoodie.

She smiles. “It’s a compliment. Usually, the people that dance as well as you do don’t need me. They’re already at Juilliard. Teaching someone of your skill is a rare treat for me, and this year I have two of you.”