Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance (18 page)

Yeah, mate, it’s fuckin’ lovely at the top.

She shoots me a look before quickly moving to her station and tying her apron on, her back to me.

“Oy, hit that list, yeah?”

Marco nods. “Hey, go find yourself an espresso IV drip bruv, you really do look like shit you know.”

“The list, Marco.”

He grins, “You got it, chef.”

Chloe doesn’t turn to look at me until I’m right next to her, like she’s just noticing I’m there. Which is total fucking bollocks, by the way, since I watched her shoot me about three not-so-hidden glances on my way to her side of the kitchen.

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

I frown, “What’s with the ditch this morning?”

I cringe the second I say it, realizing what an utter twat I sound like. Like some sort of jaded chick the day after.

Seriously, what the fuck is this girl doing to me?

Chloe just shrugs and turns back to dough she’s rolling out, dusting it with the occasional sprinkle of flour, all while doing her damnedest to avoid looking at me. “You were going to make me late.”

I arch a brow at her, even if she isn’t looking at me. “You
just
got here.”

“My shift just started.” She cocks her head as she turns towards me, “I’m not
late
or anything.”

“No, you’re not
late
, you’re just acting a bit crazy since you kicked me out of your room last night.”

She whirls at me then, her face bright red and her eyes wide, “
Oliver!
” She hisses, her eyes darting around the kitchen. “Jesus, keep it to
yourself
,” she spits out.

I roll my eyes, “Fucking hell, relax. I’m not exactly going to go around telling everyone.”

She glares at me, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, did you want me to send out a staff notice about how I made my new pastry cook come all over my cock last night?”

Her face goes quite crimson and she drops the rolling pin in her hands to the floor with clatter. Her eyes dart around the room again,
again
like she’s worried someone’s listening to her dirty little secret, which somehow starts to really piss me off.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says quickly, shaking her head as she picks up the rolling pin and tosses it in the basic sink next to her station.

“You know, I think I remember you saying the same thing last night just before I gave you the best orgasm of your life while you sucked off my finger.”

I have no idea what’s pushing me to be such a prick here, but it’s like I can’t even stop the words from coming out of my mouth. And the worst part is, I know I’m acting like this because for the first time literally
ever
,
I’m
the one getting kicked out of a room or getting ditched at the front door. How in the
hell
did things get so turned around?

Shit, that’s what
I
do best. Leaving, sneaking out, ditching, not calling back; you name the scummy post-sex move, I’ve done it. I’ve spent most of my adult life using my charm and my looks, and my position either in the streets, or the army, or now the restaurant world to drop panties and spread legs. And after? I’m fuckin’
gone
and on to the next. 

Except now I’ve got
this
fucking girl. Chloe fucking Caulfield; the girl who stood
me
up. The girl that told
me
“no sex” last night.

The girl who kicked
me
out.

I’m not sure what the fuck is wrong with me, but I need to get my shit together is what I need to do.

Chloe’s whole face wrinkles up as she turns to me with her mouth open, “I did
not
‘
suck off your finger’
you disgusting pig, I-” she stumbles over her words, her face growing bright red again and her fists balling up at her sides. “You know what, I knew last night was a huge mistake.”

“Oh?” I cross my arms over my chest and smirk at her, “Why’s that, luv? Cause once you’ve had a taste, you can never go ba-”

“Because you’re
disgusting
, and a man-whore, and...and...
repulsive.
”

Her eyes flash as they meet mine, and for maybe the first time in my life, I’m actually at a loss for words. Fuck, I mean what do you even say when someone calls you
repulsive
?

You say nothing, that’s what you say. 

I hold her gaze with my own for one more second, glowering at her, before I turn and abruptly stalk back across the kitchen to the service pass.

Nice one.

*****

If I was tired before, a few hours later right before we start service I’m fucking
fading
. I’m stumbling, squinting at the menu in front of me for any last minute changes while Ian, the front of house manager and Maître d’ taps his foot impatiently and straightens his fucking tie for the hundredth time.

“Oy, Ian, chill; you’re making me nervous.”

“Oh,
am I
?
Sooo
sorry, chef.” His tone is dripping with sarcasm, and though I give him a sharp glare, he’s another one who gets a pass. Not just because I’m Goddamn exhausted, but because Ian’s been a home run of a wingman more times than I can count.

Let me just say, a gay friend is secret weapon you
definitely
want to have when you’re cruising for girls.  

I finally realize I’m not even reading words on the menu and pass it back to him with a mumbled “it’s fine” and a middle finger when he rolls his eyes and snatches it back from me.

“Mate,” Marco is leaning against the counter next to me, eyeing me.

“What?” I’m irritable, and tired as
shit
, and I just want to get through this fucking day so I can sleep and figure out how to get Chloe out from under my Goddamn skin tomorrow.

“You’re fading.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Marco.”

He opens his mouth but then hastily closes it and shakes his head.

“What?”

“Nothing, chef.”

“Marco, Jesus,
what?
”

“Nah, mate, you’re like, the boss right now, and we’re at work.”

I roll my eyes and punch him in the arm, “Fuck you, spill.”

He darts his eyes around the kitchen full of cooks all busily preparing their stations and getting pots simmering and basically not looking our way before he huddles close to me and reaches into his pocket, “Need a bit of medicine to get through?” 

Fuck.

I stare at the little baggie of coke in his hand. Coke is
never
a good plan for me, even when I’m out to party. It messes with me too much, makes me crazy.

Of course, I’m practically seeing double right now with sleep deprivation, so perhaps this is what they might refer to as “desperate times, desperate measures.” I check the time on the wall, the minute hand ticking dangerously close to when we’ll open for our first seating. Yeah, sniffing drugs might not ever be a
good
plan, but I’m suddenly wondering if it’s the
only
plan.

I look over Marco’s shoulder at Chloe off in the corner of the kitchen. She looks up and then glances at me, as if feeling my eyes on her. And for a second, I’m about to push Marco away and tell him to fuck off and just get on with my night. But then my eyes meet hers and she just
glares
at me, like I’ve
wronged
her in some way.

And it pisses me right the fuck off.

Fuck it.

“Oy, let’s do this,” I mutter at Marco, rolling my eyes when his light up. We haven’t done this shit years; not since before the army when we were into the street life. It was a bad idea when we were young, dumb, and broke; it’s a fuckin’ awful idea when we’re older and at our fucking
job
.

Just the same, when we’re out back by the kitchen entrance, I can still feel the giddy rush you always get when you’re about just about to do something incredibly fun but incredibly stupid. Marco’s tapping lines out on the flat of his chef’s knife - “cutting cold” we call it in kitchen-speak - and I’m still trying to convince myself this isn’t the worst idea in the world when the backdoor suddenly bangs open.

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.”

The 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.