In the Raw (8 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Jamie

I didn’t know what to expect when I walked into pastry class on Friday afternoon. The first round of competition on Wednesday night had been brutal after a full day of lecture and class. At the end, I was exhausted, but elated to be continuing on to the next round.

I still couldn’t get a read on Ethan, which was beyond frustrating. As mercurial as he was, I couldn’t predict whether he’d be agreeable or act like he wanted to rip my head off.

“Monsieur Lassiter? Since Mademoiselle Martin is still sick, I would like you and Monsieur Martin to continue to be partners.
Oui?
Merci.
” Chef nodded and moved on to the next station.

We’d practiced pastry dough and fillings all week but today we were making several desserts and putting it all together for Chef Boulanger’s inspection and grading. I could only hope cooperative Ethan would make an appearance today.

I stared at the ingredient list and closed my eyes, turning my head to crack my neck. I hadn’t slept much since I was still stressed over the crap with my dad and a headache was slowly working its way up my neck.

“You going to stand there and hold the list, Golden Boy? Or are we going to whip these desserts into shape?”

I jumped, startled by Ethan’s sudden appearance. I opened my eyes and shot him a smirk to cover how unsettled I was feeling. “I was born ready, Martin. Which would you like to work on? The pastry shells or the cream filling for the cannoli? Or the tart?”

My smirk widened when I saw him squirm a little bit at the mention of the cream filling. I handed him half of the ingredients and walked toward the pantry without another look, calling over my shoulder. “Cream filling it is, Martin.”

“Asshole,” he hissed.

I snickered but kept walking. I had cannoli to make and an uncomfortable but agreeable Ethan as my partner. I’d never been one to make the first move but I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to keep my hands to myself. Ethan might punch me in the face but not trying would be even worse than that. I wanted him—not the fake Ethan who kept everyone away with his biting sarcasm. I wanted the real Ethan. The one who poured every single ounce of his passion for food, for cooking, for life into everything he did. I wanted all his intensity directed at me.

Ethan was already back at our prep station when I brought all of the ingredients we’d need for the cannoli pastry and the apple tart. I hid a smile when I saw him peering at the recipe instructions, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Need some help there?”

“You focus on the dough, Golden Boy. I’ve got this.”

He poured some heavy cream into the bowl for the filling and cranked the mixer on to high. Cream splashed everywhere and when I lowered the speed Ethan glared at me.

“You know I’ve made whipped cream before, right?”

“I’m sure you have, but if you overbeat it, the filling won’t have the right texture.”

He stared at me as he reached over and cranked the mixture back up. I turned it back down.

“Hey, stop touching my mixer and focus on your dough, okay?”

“Alright, but if you overmix it—”

“If I screw it up, I’ll fix it.”

We worked in silence for a while, the rest of the classroom a flurry of movement around us. Everyone’s complete focus was on their task. Even Reed had steered clear of us since he’d been eliminated from the scholarship competition.

When I took a break from the dough, I peered into the mixing bowl. Unattractive globs of coagulated cream stuck to the side.

Ethan caught me looking and when he saw the ruined cream he cursed. “Yeah, don’t say it. You told me so. Give me ten minutes and I’ll do it again.”

Fifteen minutes later, when I noticed Ethan had stopped working on the filling for the cannoli, I shot him a questioning look. “Is the whipped cream done?”

He didn’t answer and I watched him, amused as he stared at the movements of my hands with rapt attention. I’d already cut in the butter with my fingers after adding the egg yolk and Marsala wine, resulting in smooth, pliable dough.

I smirked when I saw him shift uncomfortably. I pulled the dough between my hands and a strangled moan escaped his lips when I grasped the end of the dough and squeezed it with one hand.

My smile faded away when he finally looked at my face. The longing I’d felt for three long years was echoed in his expression. Ethan might bitch and moan about everything under the sun. He might even hate everything about me and my family. The look on his face made one thing clear, though. Despite himself, he wanted me. Not just to help him pass this class. He wanted to feel how good my mouth would be wrapped around his dick as I stared up at him from my knees as my hands dug into the flexing muscles of his ass.

I swallowed hard as we stared at each other hungrily. I wanted to yank him across the table and show him how much I wanted him. I didn’t want to care who saw. We both flinched as someone’s pan hit the floor with a loud crash and then the moment was gone. With a blink, his look was replaced by the usual cocky smirk and I knew asshole Ethan had returned. The vulnerable, hungry look I’d glimpsed was gone and buried under all those self-protective layers.

He cleared his throat and tilted his head toward the side of the kitchen. “I’m going to check on the fryers.”

“Ethan.”
Stop hiding from me.

“Have the dough ready, Golden Boy. We need to get our asses in gear if we’re going to have all our shit ready by the end of class.”

Without another word, he left me alone to roll and shape the dough for our dessert. I slammed the dough on the counter in frustration. When Ethan returned, he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched me.

“I got you a spot for this Saturday’s breakfast shift.”

I stared at him. “Saturday, as in tomorrow?” How in the hell could he have gotten me the shift so fast?

“Don’t be shocked, Lassiter. You asked for a spot in the kitchen from hell. I’m just keeping my end of the bargain.”

I grimaced when he phrased it that way. “I would have helped you regardless, jackass. All you had to do was ask.”

He laughed and began to stack the dough circles I’d cut for the cannoli. “I told you. I’m not a charity case, Golden Boy. You help me, I help you. Don’t get too excited, though. You’ll be working part of the morning in the back on the line. Nothing glamorous like my spot at the omelet station on the main floor, but it’s a spot. Once the guests arrive, you’ll probably have to run plates to the floor and bus tables.”

I watched Ethan’s fingers as he wrapped the pieces of cannoli dough around the metal tubes, applying egg wash to keep them closed. The tubes would keep the pastry in the traditional shape as they fried and be perfect for filling with the cream mixture. Transfixed, I knew I was staring as his long fingers smoothed over the length of the tubes. I shook my head, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the almost obscene motion of his hands.

“I don’t mind the hard work, Martin. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked for the shift. You’re not the only one here who wants to be a chef, remember?” I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at him defiantly. He needed to be reminded he wasn’t the only one who could cook around here. He might think I was some spoiled brat with a silver spoon but I’d earned my place in the scholarship competition like he had.

He sized me up, eyes shrewdly assessing, and nodded. I tried not to feel triumph at this small sign of his acceptance.

“You’re a good chef, Lassiter. Not as good as I am, obviously, but you’re good. Fair warning about Saturday, though. Chef Kitterick is in charge of the kitchen. He barks and screams like the world is ending, but he’s fair. Just don’t drop anything and keep the orders straight. Otherwise it’ll make me look like a total asshole for getting you the shift. Got it?”

I chuckled and scratched under my eye with my middle finger, echoing the gesture I’d seen him give Reed. “And we can’t have that, can we, Martin?”

Ethan barked out a laugh. “Exactly. Don’t fuck this up for me, Golden Boy.” He grabbed the tray holding the dough-wrapped tubes and turned to walk back to the fryers.

“Ethan?”

He looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows cocked. “I’m good, Lassiter. I’m not going to mess up the cannoli.”

There were too many things I wanted to say to him, the least important of which had to do with cannoli. Instead, I smiled and grabbed the tart pan for the oven. “I wanted to say thanks for the shift. But yeah, don’t screw up the cannoli. I need a good grade in class today especially if I’m going to get my ass handed to me in the kitchen this weekend.”

I thought he was going to drop the dough he laughed so hard as he made his way to the fryers. I watched him work as I cleaned up. I hated that he affected me this much. Even more, I hated that for a brief moment he’d let me see I affected him as much as he affected me. I wanted to do something I’d never done before and take a risk on Ethan. Even if it was a one-night thing, I’d take it. But deep down, I wanted more. I wanted him to finally see me for who I was. I wanted him to want me for more.

Chapter Sixteen

Ethan

The school’s restaurant was quiet when I walked through the front doors. I might be perpetually late for class, but I never screwed around when it came to my shifts in the kitchen. Technically the shifts were reserved for students on financial assistance, so getting Lassiter a shift was breaking the rules. The head chefs usually didn’t give me shit unless something went south and hopefully Lassiter would keep his head down.

I pushed through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, stashed my stuff in my locker, slipped on my chef’s jacket and headed over to check in. I’d be at one of the main floor stations, a coveted assignment earned through long hours of working the line over the past three years.

When I turned the corner and scanned the faces of the grunts busily prepping the vegetables for the stations, I stopped dead in my tracks. Golden Boy’s knife skills were impressive, his movements quick and efficient as he tackled his prep work.

Most of the students who worked the restaurant’s kitchen got overwhelmed by the pace their first time out. But Lassiter looked completely at ease, as if he’d been there for weeks instead of minutes. I could walk over and say hello, but I remembered my first day on the line. Sometimes it was better to focus on the shit in front of you instead of worrying about what someone else thought of the job you were doing.

I left him to his work and poked my head in Chef Kitterick’s office. “Morning, Chef. Need any more hands on the line before I prep my station?”

“Check the stock for your station before things get too hectic and see if anyone needs their hand held. The new guy seems to be holding his own. Franco fucked things up so bad last weekend I almost lost my shoe sticking my foot up his ass. If the newbies can’t handle it here, they’ll never survive out in the real world. Now stop flirting with me and get cooking.”

I snickered and wrapped my apron around my waist. “Yes, Chef.”

Two hours later, breakfast service was in full swing. The joking with the fellow cooks at the nearby stations was as rowdy as usual when movement in the dining room caught my eye.

Lassiter made his way through the packed dining room, arms loaded with a full tray with a stormy look on his face. On his heels followed a taller man dressed in an expensive suit, equally as angry.

Had Lassiter screwed up and pissed off a suit? No one came back to the kitchens unless they had some kind of complaint or knew someone. I yanked off my apron and pushed through the swinging doors. I winced when the heat assaulted me. Back in the pit of hell, it was at least thirty degrees hotter. I’d be soaked with sweat when I returned to my station in the air-conditioned dining room later.

I pushed past the first few stations until I found Lassiter and the man who’d followed him back by the walk-ins. The narrow galley area meant I could see them but they likely wouldn’t notice me.

“James, do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to find you here? I come downtown to meet a client and instead of having an enjoyable meal he tells me my son is waiting on tables like a common busboy. Would you care to enlighten me as to why you dropped off the paperwork for Daniel Jacobs only to slum it in the school’s kitchen? The same school that will become inconsequential after May. I’m not paying tuition for you to spend your time pretending to be a fry cook and sling cafeteria food.”

My eyebrow rose at his words. Lassiter’s dad? And why would all of this be “inconsequential after May” when Golden Boy had another year before graduation?

Lassiter’s dad leaned closer to get in his face and Golden Boy pulled back as if he’d been slapped.

“Who do you think cooks on the line in all your restaurants, Dad? So-called menial workers who spend hours cooking for minimum wage. I’m here to get the experience I’ll need for the real world. I need this experience or no one will take me seriously or hire me after I graduate.”

“You don’t need experience in the real world, son. You’re a Lassiter. You’re wasting everyone’s time pretending you’re going to be some fancy chef when all you need to focus on is your place in the company. Restaurants are business. The sooner you figure it out, the better.”

Jamie clenched his fists but met his father’s steely look. “I know this is all a business. That’s what you’ve drilled into my head since I started classes here. But this is the kind of experience I need and I’m trying to figure out what works for me. I wish you’d—”

I cleared my throat. When they both turned, the younger Lassiter’s face went ashen. His father leveled a glare at me that might have intimidated a lesser man. I crossed my arms over my chest and returned his look. “Is there a problem here?”

I didn’t miss the way the elder Lassiter’s cold eyes raked over my sweaty hair, visible piercings and judged me unworthy of his attention. “This is a private conversation.”

“If it was private you wouldn’t be doing it in a kitchen full of menial workers. We might not wear thousand-dollar suits but we can hear just fine. And you’re heckling one of my workers while he’s trying to work.”

Lassiter’s dad didn’t find me the least bit amusing as he glared.

“Young man, I suggest you go back to washing dishes or whatever you were doing—”

“Cooking. I attend this school. In the same class as your son, who happens to be one of the most talented chefs I’ve ever seen. He could out-cook your entire team of wannabes blindfolded.”

“Ethan—” Jamie’s voice was full of warning. I knew in my gut they’d had this conversation more than once.

“You know this person? I thought you knew better than to associate with people like him, James.”

I didn’t bat an eye, though his son flinched. Daddy Lassiter wasn’t the first to dismiss me and he wouldn’t be the last. “What’s your name? I want to talk to your instructor about your poor attitude. You’ll never find work talking to your superiors with disrespect.”

I snorted and shook my head. “People like me? You mean regular people who do all the work while you reap all the profits? My name is Ethan Martin, but don’t waste your time. My instructors already know I’ve got a shitty attitude and I’m not corporate food mill material. But I’m an awesome chef and that’s what matters around here. As for respect, I’ll give it when you earn it. I’m in charge of this shift and I don’t appreciate you screwing up my workflow.”

I turned and barked at Jamie, “Lassiter, get your ass back out there and see if anyone needs any help.”

I didn’t even wait to hear a response. I turned and walked past the snickering freshmen on dishwasher duty. “You didn’t hear a word. Got me?” I growled and they both turned back to their soapy sinks without another word.

The elder Lassiter stormed out of the kitchen followed by the only one I gave two shits about. Before Jamie could leave the kitchen, I grabbed his arm and pulled him off to the side. His blue eyes blazed with some indefinable emotion and a faint flush stained his cheeks.

“You okay?”

When he stared pointedly at my hand on his arm, I hurriedly let go, jamming it in my pocket.

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard my whole life, Martin.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, debating over whether or not to bring up the fact I’d heard everything his dad had said. “It still doesn’t make it right. Just don’t let him make you into some soulless clone.”

“You know I don’t want to be like him. Shit, Ethan. Did you think I was blowing smoke up your ass when I proposed the farm to table idea for the communications project? That’s the kind of chef I want to be. No, it’s who I will be.” He looked down at the floor and muttered, “One way or another, regardless of what his plans are.”

I paused for a moment, not sure how to respond when we were in a busy place with a lot of people listening. “Good. Now, go back to your station before you land me on Kitterick’s shit list, okay?”

He squared his shoulders and grinned. “If you think I’m going to call you Chef Martin, you’re mistaken.”

“Oh, you’ll call me Chef one day. My restaurant will kick yours in the ass.”

I shot him a cocky grin and went back to my own station. As I tied a new apron around my waist, I watched Lassiter’s dad walk through the dining room in a huff. I groaned when I scanned the dining room. Reed Jackson was sitting at a table off to the side, no doubt trying to brown-nose the hell out of the bored-looking older man sitting at his table. When he saw Lassiter’s dad, his eyes lit up as he hurriedly excused himself and trailed after the older man like a puppy. Lassiter’s dad paused and listened to Reed for a minute before glancing in Golden Boy’s direction.

Reed nodded before Daddy Lassiter left the dining hall in a huff. Reed glanced over at Jamie, who was busing tables again, and made his way back to his table and dining companion. I loathed Reed on the best of days, but if he tried to fuck with Jamie by going behind his back to deal with Daddy Lassiter, he would regret it. I raked my hand through my sweat-soaked hair and gritted my teeth. I was an idiot to think getting Golden Boy this shift would make us even. It would be a nightmare if he got me in shit with Kitterick.

When my shift ended I cleaned up my station as usual and pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen. I searched for Lassiter and let out a disappointed breath when I couldn’t find him anywhere. I finally settled for asking one of the dishwashers, “Hey, what happened to Lassiter?”

He shrugged. “He finished his shift, Martin. I haven’t seen him since.”

Disappointment washed over me. I knew I shouldn’t care, but I’d wanted to check in with him after his shift to make sure everything else went smoothly. It would have to wait, though. I needed to check in with Kitterick and sign out for the day.

I walked past the main kitchen area and into the office in the back. Kitterick looked up from some paperwork and sighed. “You want to explain why you gave Doug Lassiter’s son a shift?” His eyes narrowed. “Martin, these positions are reserved for financial aid recipients only. You better have a goddamn good reason for flouting the rules.”

I squared my shoulders. “He wanted the time and experience in the kitchen, Chef. He’s a hard worker and did his job like anyone else. His dad’s a dick who won’t let him get this kind of experience any other way. I’m sorry but if anyone is going to get in trouble for his working here, it should be me. It was my choice to give him a shift.”

Kitterick stared at me across his desk without moving a muscle. The silence between us stretched for more than a minute before he rested his elbows on the desk and grimaced.

“This business will eat you alive if you run it with your heart and not your brain. It’s admirable to want to give someone a chance but next time run it by me. I won’t have people bitching about preferential treatment. Now get the fuck out of my office, Martin.”

I left Kitterick’s office without a backward glance before he changed his mind. I’d hoped to stay under the radar with Kitterick and talk to Lassiter. I’d screwed up on both accounts.

We still needed to work on our project, which meant I needed to man up and call Golden Boy. Next, I needed to worry about the second round of the scholarship competition. We’d both kicked ass in the preliminary stage, but with my shitty performance in our pastry class he definitely had the advantage.

What scared me the most? It wasn’t the prospect of studying that got my heart pounding and made my palms sweaty. It was him.