Beat Down (UnBroken: The Series Book 3), page 2
Is this sous-chef work? It is. But one of the things I feel strongly about in my kitchen is that no job is too small. I hope to never make an up-and-coming chef feel like they are less than. I’ve been there.
It was soul crushing.
After pulling my earbuds out and stowing them in my bag, I step into the center of the kitchen and, like they do every single day, the waitstaff files in and everyone gathers around.
I give a rundown of the night’s specials and lay out a few adjustments to the regular menu as well as the desserts we have prepared. As much as I would love the simplicity of outsourcing our desserts, I just can’t. Attention to detail aside, the number of times under the previous chef we had to shift gears and scramble because the supplier screwed us over is mind boggling.
I don’t know how that bakery managed to stay in business with the crap they pulled over the years—shorting deliveries, bringing product that wasn’t just subpar, but outright not sellable, or just not bothering to show up at all. It was unprofessional. And the barely contained chaos of our schedule went to shit more often than not.
“Um, so we don’t have tiramisu tonight?” one of the new servers asks.
Heads turn, and she takes a step back at the sudden attention.
“There’s a guy sitting at the bar and he asked me to bring him some. I’ll… I’ll go tell him we don’t have it.” She shifts toward the door.
“The hot guy with the beanie?” a different server asks, already heading toward the cooler.
The new girl’s cheeks turn bright pink, and she fans herself with a small tray. “Yes. I should tell him that’s my name. Maybe he’ll take me home and—”
Tension rolls through the cramped space—enough that the FNG, fucking new girl, shuts her trap real quick.
“Will you take that out to Ian and see if he needs anything else?” I ask the server who plated up the dessert. “Okay, that’s it. Go feed the people of Hell’s Kitchen.” I end the quick daily meeting and dismiss everyone.
There’s no need for me to be a bitch in my kitchen. I need to maintain my professionalism, but if I try to address the new girl right now, that’s exactly what I’ll be. Because with the way she was blushing and bouncing her overly colored-in eyebrows, I don’t doubt she’d offer herself up as Ian’s dessert.
Would he take her up on that? Given the opportunity, would he push her up against the bar and kiss her? Take her back to his apartment and—
I don’t want to think about it.
I know Ian isn’t a saint. I’m protective of him and I’ve just never had to deal with any of his sins face to face.
Thank God.
But standing here imagining sixteen different ways to kill an employee and make her body disappear is absolutely not professional. So, I make my way back behind the line and close my eyes, taking just a moment to prepare myself for the coming rush. And come, it does.
In the blink of an eye, the calm has become a full-blown storm with wave after wave of orders to fill and diners to dazzle. And we do exactly that.
The night runs smoothly—no hiccups—which is a rare kind of thing. Usually there’s at least one major incident and a handful of ass-kissing desserts comped to make up for mistakes here and there. They happen, it’s part of the service industry.
We strive to eliminate that kind of thing, but not a single one of us is perfect. I catch the new girl’s eye as she fills salt and pepper shakers at the end of the night.
It’s not worth making a big deal out of what she said earlier—there’s enough turnover of waitstaff that she’ll likely be gone before long. I hate to think that way—it’s so defeatist—but facts are facts. It would be wrong not to address it, though.
However, as I approach, she ducks her head and practically runs out to the dining room where it’s safe. Obviously, I’m not about to dress down staff in the front of the house. That would be bad form.
So, I grab my bag and head out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom. With the door locked behind me, I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose, shoulders back, until my lungs are full. When I release the breath, a big chunk of the tension from the busy night leaves my body with it.
I do it again and then open my eyes. I don’t know what I was expecting, but my reflection isn’t half as weary as I thought it would be. My cheeks are flushed, and my skin is glowing. From sweat or the feeling of accomplishment, I don’t know. Probably a bit of each, if I’m honest.
The changes I’ve made here at Kitchenne are good. The whole environment is better, less tense.
Even as those thoughts filter through me, I am well aware that I do need to talk to the new girl. Set expectations for how staff relates to customers, what is appropriate and accepted here. And what absolutely will not be tolerated. Openness and honesty are the best approach and something that was paramount to implement when I was promoted after Bastien, the previous head chef, left.
He was a bastard to work for. Arrogant. Dismissive. Condescending. And a cheat. I knew every one of those traits as fact. Except for the last one. I didn’t find out about that one until his wife showed up at his apartment in the early morning, after flying overnight from Paris to surprise him.
Mission accomplished.
I think all of us were surprised, though her less so than me. Evidently, she’d been down this road before. It was stupid of me to get involved with my boss, and there were so many red flags that I completely blew off.
But within a few months of being caught with my pants down—literally—Bastien transitioned back to France, and I was promoted.
Not really how I wanted to move up the ladder, but here I am. Trying to do better.
I quickly wash my face, pull off my UnBroken hat and do a refresh of my hair into a low messy bun. Swap out my chef’s coat and checkered pants for jeans and a t-shirt.
After dropping my uniform in the outgoing laundry, I hunt down my newest employee and set things straight.
• • •
“I wasn’t sure if you were avoiding me and slipped out the back door,” Ian says as I slide onto a barstool next to him.
Dee, the bartender, holds up a wineglass and I nod to her silent offer. She sets the glass on a coaster in front of me and goes back to stocking the bar for tomorrow.
“Never,” I say, swirling the deep-red liquid around the bowl of the goblet.
“Everything okay?” Elbows braced on the edge of the bar, he turns his head toward me, studying my face.
For a guy who makes bank by making a ton of noise, Ian is really quiet. Calm. Serene. He’s the observer, the one who watches and listens, seeing way more than just what’s on the surface. And I can practically feel his gaze on me.
I bop my head from side to side and take a sip of wine, letting the flavors roll over my tongue. “How was your bar experience after I went back to work?” I ask.
A chuckle rumbles up out of Ian, shaking his shoulders. He leans over, bumping me with his knee as his arm rests against mine. “Someone in trouble?”
“Just a random survey on service experiences in exchange for a specialized menu not offered to the general public.” My smile is thin, tight, and not entirely heartfelt. My quick chat with the server before joining Ian went fine. I just need to make sure she didn’t feed me a line of shit.
“The tiramisu?” He turns on the barstool, encasing me in the space between his muscular thighs. His gaze roams across the nearly empty dining room before focusing back on me. “Nothing crazy. I’m guessing she’s new.”
I nod and roll my eyes in response. “Nothing crazy?”
He shrugs and taps at the screen of his phone, frowns, and then flips it face down. “She failed the test once she figured out who I was.”
I love the simple method he uses to gauge a fan’s interest; I just hate that he has to use it. Ian is way too good for them. “They’re all fools.”
He laughs on a huff.
“If any one of them took a minute to get to know you—the real you, the one I know and love—they’d be blowing up your phone. You’d never be able to get rid of them,” I add on when he gives me a look that screams he thinks I’m full of shit. “They’d follow you to the ends of the earth. You’d have your very own little stalker army.”
His hand goes to his ever-present beanie, pushing it back on his head before settling it back in place.
“Gavin and Kane would be green with envy, and because you’re such a good guy, you’d make sure the groupies gave Nate the same attention.”
“Yeah, Nate’s doing just fine. Or he would be if he got his head out of his ass. Did you know Alex is here?” One eyebrow pushes high.
My jaw drops and I blink a handful of times, trying to make sense of his question.
“Alexis Thompson? That Alex?”
“Yep. He’s been working with her. She fell or something and hurt herself. Nate says she’s scared. Struggling to get back to dancing.”
“So they’re working together? What does that look like?” I can’t, for the life of me, imagine those two occupying the same space, let alone working. Alexis broke Nate’s heart, and not one of us thought he’d ever get over it.
Ian checks his phone, shakes his head, and then sets it face down again. “You know how he was all fucked up when the tour ended? Got into shit with Kane and busted his hand?” His beard rasps as he scrapes his hand across his chin. “Yeah, that old dude he jams classical with at the arts center in Brooklyn set him up to help a friend, find his passion again. Dude had no idea Nate and Alex were a thing, and now they’re stuck in a tiny room every day for hours on end. Him playing, her dancing.”
I’m speechless.
“Dancing…?” Well, mostly speechless.
“Ballet, I’m guessing. She’s been here all along. Studying and then dancing with the New York City Ballet. Nate said she was pretty high up, looking at a big promotion or something, and then she got hurt. Got stuck in her head and couldn’t dance.” He lifts his pint glass to his lips, bicep bulging, and swallows down the rest of his beer.
“So, they’re together again? Is this their second chance to get it right?” I ask because, holy plot twist if it is. If they can make things work this time, anything is possible.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Who knows. But she’s thrown him totally off base.
I watch as his throat works and when his eyes shift to me, I drop my gaze to the ink wrapping around his arm, snaking up and disappearing beneath the plain black t-shirt that is stretched to its limit.
Dear Jesus. When did Ian Scott grow up?
CHAPTER 3
BREATHE
IAN
“You sure she’s coming?” I drain my beer and push the empty glass toward the edge of the bar as Nate and I wait for his muse to join us. I should have told the bartender to just keep them coming tonight. Or maybe it’s time for me to get serious.
My phone buzzes almost nonstop. The notifications from my Insta and shit are fine. Random fan messages are totally okay. But the repeated requests to hit this chick up are getting to be too much. She’s gone beyond stroking my ego and straight to being a pain in my ass.
I silence everything and shove it deep into my pocket. I need a fucking break.
The bartender approaches and plucks up my pint glass, holding it up in question. “Another one of those and a whiskey. Neat,” I say. That should help dull the constant buzz of my phone.
“Old-fashioned, please.” Nate looks toward the door, and a grin splits his face in two. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
I follow his gaze and stand as Nate’s high school girlfriend squeezes through the crowded bar. “Holy shit, it’s the ballerina extraordinaire, in the flesh.” I pull her into a hug and swing her around as soon as she’s close enough.
Back in Virginia, she was part of us, and we were all pretty much inseparable. I grab the barstool I’d tucked away for her earlier and shift it between Nate and me. We order drinks and food and catch up on everything that’s happened since the last time we saw each other.
Alexis skims over walking out on Nate in the middle of the night and leaving for New York without a word. We all know it happened. There’s no need to drag that shit out again and shove it in anyone’s face.
Everything is good. My belly is full of good food, and warm from good whiskey. I lean back in my chair and sip at the fresh tumbler, watching one of my best friends and the woman he has always loved.
That’s how shit should be. Solid. Lasting, even if there was a big fucking hiccup in between.
I want that. The solid that they have, the way they just picked back up like no time has passed. Like they’re friends. Instead, I have a bad case of unrequited love and a handful of hookups while we’re on tour.
Does the attention soothe my fragile ego? Yes. Yes, it does.
Is it sometimes too much? Also, yes.
It’s never quiet in my head—beats and rhythms play on a constant loop. But the frustration, the stress, the chaos, it’s all toned down. For now.
Like she can hear my thoughts, my phone buzzes with a message from River. The superfan who is quickly trending toward being a full-fledged stalker. It feels creepy and dirty and slimy. I don’t like it.
River, the girl I used to stroke my ego.
River, the groupie I tried to lose myself in and now, won’t leave me alone.
River, who will never compare to Sasha.
“For fuck’s sake. Be right back,” I mumble. Taking my whiskey with me, I palm my phone and head down the short hall toward the back of the restaurant.
My options are to step out back into the alley, the kitchen, or the damn restroom. None of those are great choices.
I need to think. Figure out what the hell is going down with this chick. Why does she think it’s a good idea to message me non-fucking-stop? What makes her think I’m her BFF, down to chat?
Servers brush past me on their way to and from the kitchen, and through the clanking of pots and pans and above the din of conversation, I can hear Sasha’s voice, loud and sure, every time the door swings open.
I step back and to the left, pressing my back against the wall, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of her. Round rosy cheeks, flushed from the heat of the stovetop. Lush lips pulled up in a smirk as she jokes with one of her sous-chefs. Her bright eyes dance with mirth. All topped off with a one-of-a-kind ball cap sporting the band’s logo on it, holding her hair back and out of her way.
Gavin had that hat made at one of those cheesy airbrush places down in Destin before we were anything. Before we knew we’d have a next gig, when we were playing shitty beach bars and sleeping in even shittier motels. We played for peanuts, drank our faces off, and low key fought over who had to share a room with Kane because none of us wanted that experience.
Every move she makes is packed full of confidence. Watching her cook and create in the kitchen has always been one of my favorite ways to soothe my soul. And like always, it makes me feel better, though I know it’s just temporary.
Soon the calm will fade and the chaos will creep back in. All because I’m stuck on the fear that I’m not good enough, that I’m a nobody. And just like that, the validation draw is too much to resist, even if it’s coming from the most annoying fan I’ve ever dealt with.
I swipe the screen, waking my phone, and watch as a truckful of notifications fills the screen. One by one, I deal with the easy ones, swiping most of them away because I can’t respond to everything. But dispersed throughout are more messages from River. My head bobs and my finger taps away at the glass of whiskey I’m clutching as I tally up the count.
Thirteen. In the short chunk of time it took me to step away and find some privacy, she sent me thirteen messages. My cheeks puff out as I push the air from my lungs. Shit is getting out of hand.
So I drain my glass, slip through the door to the basement, and find a stack of crates to plant my ass on. Arranged on the shelf next to me is the backstock of liquor. I peruse the labels, bypassing the labels for well drinks and pull down one of the top-shelf bottles. I set my empty glass on the stone floor and twist the cap off the locally distilled bourbon. I bring it to my lips and tip the bottle back, drowning the noise in my head.
I pull my beanie from my head and drop it to my knee. With my free hand, I scrub at my tight curls where they lie flat against my skull and tug at the strands.
I don’t know what I need to do to take care of this problem. To make it go away. I do a quick search of her Instagram and Snapchat, but there’s not much there. It’s like she opened the accounts and then, after posting a picture of her cat and a handful of memes… nothing.
She doesn’t even have her location tagged. I have no idea who this chick is. No idea where she lives. A first name and details I wish I could scrub from my brain. That’s it. That’s all.
I lift the bottle to my lips and fill my mouth with amber liquor. It burns, but not nearly enough. Or maybe too much. I swallow again and again, until the burn starts to turn to numbness.
The cold, rough brick of the basement wall bites into my back as I sag against it. I can’t ditch the girl I don’t want. I’m too chickenshit to go after the girl I do want. I’ll just sit my ass down here where no one will come looking for me and drink my insecurities away.
CHAPTER 4
DOWN AND OUT
IAN
“You don’t remember getting busted in the storeroom?” Sasha laughs, bright and boisterous.
I love the sound. Could listen to it all day, every day. But when I’m trying to navigate traffic to get out of the city, it’s distracting as fuck. I’m the world’s shittiest driver trying to show off for my damn crush who thinks of me as an extra little brother.
“Nope. I got nothing.” I check my mirrors, take a deep breath and stay exactly where I am. This is fine. I don’t need to change lanes.
“Okay, but I assume Nate got you home after that, right? Or did you go home with him?”
