Thief: A Bad Boy Romance (62 page)

Marco swears and dips the knife down behind his back as we both glance back; it’s Delia.

“Oh, um,” she turns to head back inside, the cigarette she was about to light resting between her lips, when she suddenly pauses and looks at us more curiously, “What are you two doing out here?”

“Never you mind love,” Marco says, grinning at her. She arches an eyebrow, and then like a Goddamn idiot, Marco makes a little sniffing motion with his nose.

I’m going to kill this fucking guy.

Delia’s eyes light up and she checks behind her before stepping towards us, “Oooo….do you mind?”

“Not at all!” Marco beams, bringing the knife up from behind his back as Delia move to join us. She’s all smiles at me, but I’m too busy glaring daggers at Marco to even bother noticing.

This is
way
off book. Being out here doing fucking
cocaine
right before service with my buddy the grill guy is one thing; doing it with the damn wait staff is fucking
pushing it
.

But then again, I
am
fading here. I’m on zero fucking sleep, my heads all turned around and upside-down from whatever the fuck is happening with Chloe, and I just need to Get. Through. This. Night.

The powder is cold as it hits my nostrils, and then fire when it hits my bloodstream a second later.

Theeere it is.

I’m letting the rush wash over me, and pushing the knife away towards Marco when the door opens again. And this time, it takes me a second to turn and focus, and realize that it’s Chloe.

...Chloe standing in the doorway, glaring at me as I stand there with a rail of coke on a fuckin’ knife with Delia giggling and stroking my arm.

I’m opening my mouth without even really knowing what to say, but then she’s shaking her head and just walking back inside anyways.

Fuck
.

I shrug Delia away from me with a growl and start to march after Chloe when the door slams open
again
and this time I’m face to face with Ian.

His eyes dart behind me and then focus on me as he narrows his gaze, “You ready?”

I frown, “Yeah, of course.”

His eyes drop to my nose, and he arches his eyebrows and makes a little brushing motion on his nose. Shit. I quickly bring a hand up to brush away any remnant powder.

“Are you
sure
you’re ready?”

“Ian, fuck off, I’m fine.”

He’s not smiling. “Oh, you are? Lovely, because the shit is about to hit the
fan
inside.”

T
he London times is here
. The fucking
London Times
food reviewer is at
Jolie.

To put this in perspective, picture finishing filming on a small independent movie and having Roger Ebert pick it up to take a quick look. Or imagine finishing your solo song on the stage and then having to face Simon and the other judges of that talent and singing show you happen to be on.

Yeah, it’s like that.

Okay, the reviewer’s
supposed
to be this big secret, but any modern restaurant in London worth it’s truffles knows who he is, fake mustache or not. He’ll come twice before writing his review. You get two hits to make it
perfect
. There’s no third chance, ever.

Needless to say, there’s an absolute
chill
over everything in the kitchen as soon as Ian drops the bomb on us. Well, a chill over
almost
everything, because I’m still seething mad at Oliver. It’s stupid because it’s not like I have any damn right to feel jealous or whatever. But...
ugh
, I don’t know. I guess there was just something about seeing him out there, with
her
, that has me seeing red. And it’s the absurdity of me feeling
jealousy
about someone like
Oliver
that maybe bugs me even more.

His face it etched in wood when he comes back inside following an utterly white-faced Ian. Yeah, this is a
big
fucking deal. It may not be the Michelin guide, but it’s the
Times
. This is the sort of review that will make or
shatter
a place like
Jolie
, and we all know it.

There’s a silence as Oliver stands in the middle of the kitchen, blinking and swallowing thickly. He finally looks up and around at everyone, his face stony. His eyes catch mine, and for a
second
I think about giving him some sort of encouraging word or gesture. A nod, a smile; anything I guess.

But then the back door opens and Marco and
Delia
scurry guiltily inside, and that second passes.

Yeah, no, screw him.

Oliver nods sharply at the silent kitchen staff, “Alright, stations; let’s do this.”

We fall into the rhythm of a working kitchen, everyone lost in their own jobs and their own tasks as orders come in. But this time, it’s different. This time, there is
silence
aside from the sounds of knives chopping or grills sizzling or whisks whipping. The whole place is standing on this knife edge, just waiting for
that
order to come through.

It does, finally. And from then on, the whole place goes into overdrive. Ian is hovering at the service window, making sure each and every thing that goes out looks perfect, even if it’s only going to be walking
past
the reviewer’s table. And Oliver is a freaking
mess
. He’s sweating, his eyes darting all over the place as he starts to get more and more agitated at the window. I can see his movements getting more erratic, his muttered swears getting louder and louder.

Finally, I manage to find some sort of excuse to move past the front line right by him. I tap his arm, “Hey, are you gonna be okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Oliver,” I hiss, “You’re a
mess
-”

“I said, I’M FINE,
cook!
” I flinch as he turns, roaring at me loudly. Loud enough that Ian jumps back from the service window and that half the kitchen looks up quickly. I clench my jaw, my eyes seething as I see the fire in his.

“Get back to your fucking station, Chloe,” He growls, glaring at me and all business now. All cocky, arrogant, firing-on-all-cylinders Chef Oliver.

“
Fine
,” I sneer, and turn sharply on my heel to head back to my station.

“Fine
WHAT?!
” He roars.

Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me. He’s going to pull this NOW?

I grit my teeth and turn back, glaring at him defiantly, “I said
fine-
”

“I heard what you said!” He roars again. He suddenly snatches up a plate and hurls it against the wall, shattering the plate, scattering broken shards and an array of radicchio salad everywhere; “It’s YES CHEF; do you
fucking
understand?”

It’s like a slug to the gut, and I can feel my whole body start to tremble, and I’m furious at myself when I feel the sting of tears in my eyes.

Do NOT cry; do NOT fucking cry in front of him.

“Are we
clear
, Chloe?”

I’m shaking my head at him slowly, the tears stinging my eyes and my pulse thundering in my ears. I’m thinking of the way he made me feel, the things I
let
him do, and the things we should have said yesterday, or this morning; things I can’t
imagine
saying to him now.

The charming, rough-and-tumble boy I knew from before is gone, and it’s so stupidly obvious to me now that I’m suddenly ashamed at myself for not seeing it before. The boy whose charming and quirky antics, whose bold and cocky bravado swept me off my feet all those years ago - the boy I thought I was finding all over again - is gone.

The arrogant, pig-headed, prick of man he’s grown into has buried him completely.

“Chloe-”

“Yes, chef.” I say it quietly in a voice not my own; a voice distant and forced.

Yes, you fucking prick.

“Good, now get back to your station.”

What the hell happened to you, Oliver Beckett, and where did you go?

* * *

W
e don’t speak
a
word
through the rest of the shift, or through closing. And at this point, I don’t even give a shit what happens with the
Times
table.

Who cares?
Fuck
Oliver and his little temper tantrum. Fuck him getting his reviews and his groupies and his Michelin stars. And fuck him
especially
for doing cocaine outside with
Delia
, like he’s some sort of
actual
rock star or something.

What a
joke
.

I’m lost in my own little ball of negativity, scrubbing down my station, when I suddenly feel a presence behind me.

“Hey.”

I whirl, and Oliver’s just standing there with his arms crossed, just
grinning
that incessant fucking
smirk
on his face at me, as if nothing’s happened between us since the previous night.

“Oh
what
now?”

He frowns, “Could I talk to you in the office?

I drop my jaw at him, “What am I,
fired?!
”

He wrinkles his brow, “What? No, Jesus. Just come talk.”

“I’m still closing up,
chef
.”

I turn on my heel to go back to scrubbing the counter down, but I gasp as I feel him pull close behind me. His hand pushes my hair back from my ear as he leans in, “Look, you know what that was.”

“Yeah, you being a royal
asshole,
” I toss back.

“I can’t play favorites, Chlo-”

“Well you can play fucking
fair!
” I hiss, whirling back to him jabbing my finger into his chest, “That was fucking ridiculous, and you know it.”

“You were out of line.”

“Says the man doing
drugs
off the blade of a knife with his, what, eighteen year old staff?” I sneer at him. “So what, five years later you’re still into high school girls?”

I narrows his eyes at me; “She’s nineteen, and trying to get into college.”

“Oh, Oxford?” I smile sweetly at him, and he grins.

“Look, you looked like you were going nuts and I just wanted to see how you were doing, dick.”

He shakes his head, “You can’t do that, not in here.”

“What, show emotion?” I say hastily, pushing my hair back from my face pursing my lips at him.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Oliver, you’re right, I know exactly what you mean. You mean you don’t want me getting
attached
or something, like one of your ‘
girls’.
”

He scowls, “Jesus, Chloe, that’s not what I fucking said-”

“Listen,
chef
,” I spit out, stabbing him in the chest with my finger, “
Get over yourself.
” And then it all pours out; everything I should’ve said the second I walked off the plane at Heathrow. “You know,
this
little thing between us should have happened a long time ago. But it didn’t, and then we made up for it last night, badly. End of story.”

Oliver looks away before he shakes his head turns his gaze back to me, his eyes burning into mine, “You’re not letting me-”

“Listen,
chef
, we’re good, okay?” I shake my head, and pinch the bridge of my nose before I look up at him. Then I’m saying the words and
believing them
, because I have to. Because I can’t have
feelings
for Oliver Beckett, not with who we are now.

“I know what you’re looking for here and I’m looking for the same thing. We’re done, okay? No more games, no more back and forth. You be you, I’ll be me. In a few months I’ll be out of your hair and we’ll
maybe
have to see each other on Christmas or something, okay?”

He tightens his jaw and glares at me, but he’s silent.

“Look, I need to finish here.” I look up at him, “Please.”

Oliver nods and holds my stare a second longer before he steps aside and I storm away.