On the Steamy Side (2 page)

“Damn straight you’ll do it all on your own. I’m not supporting this foolishness. You want to throw your life away in some kitchen, throw away all the hard work your mother and I have done to give you better options than that, go right ahead. But don’t expect any help from me.” Devon laughed, shocking himself with the bitterness of it. “I gave up expecting anything from you a long time ago, Dad.”

And then he kissed his mom on the cheek, waved to his brother, and walked out of the school without a backward glance.

He was finally on his own for real.

Devon told himself it was nothing new, he’d been alone in every way that mattered for years—but it felt different, somehow.

Well. He’d get used to it.

Lower East Side, ManhattanSeptember 2010

“I’ve got fantastic news! Prepare to congratulate yourself, yet again, on having the intelligence, and the money, to hire me.”

Devon Sparks squinted through the dark miasma of illegal cigarette smoke and the humid press of sweaty, raucous bar patrons to see his publicist, Simon Woolf, wrinkle his nose and give the stool beside Devon’s a swipe with a cocktail napkin before perching on it.

“You look uncomfortable, Si,” Devon drawled, amused. “You disapprove of my taste in dive bars?” Devon caught Simon’s derisive sneer as he looked around Chapel and the dingy, smoke-filled underground room they were in. Propping his elbows on the scarred oak bar, Devon cocked his head and watched his personal publicity shark move his ever-present PDA fussily out of the way of a few crumbs scattered around the bowls of bar mix, popcorn, and wasabi peas.

Simon ought to see the place when the real after-hours crowd came out—kitchen crews coming off service, off-duty cops, and ER docs mixed with punk musicians and the avant-garde theater crowd.

Holding himself rigid to keep from brushing elbows with any of his fellow bar patrons, many of them pierced and tattooed and leathered up, Simon didn’t appear to appreciate the democratic nature of the scene.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have met at your place.” Simon’s aggrieved tone had Devon rolling his eyes and holding up a hand to the bartender. Christian was an old friend; ex-employee, actually. He’d know what to fix Simon.

“Order something,” Devon told him. “You look like you could use it. And you know exactly why we’re meeting here.” Devon had just finished a grueling season of the show, culminating in a week-long shoot at a chain fondue restaurant where no fewer than seven idiot servers had spilled molten cheese or chocolate on him. “I’m fucking exhausted, and I wanted a drink.” A silky note of malicious amusement threaded through Devon’s tone as he continued, “And you agreed because it’s your job to do whatever the hell I say.”

After the week he’d had, it was a balm to Devon’s soul to be back in the position of dealing with underlings who could be relied upon to twist themselves into pretzels to avoid pissing him off.

The premise of Devon’s show was that he went into unfamiliar professional kitchens for a single night and cooked any type of food, for any size restaurant, with tools and a staff he’d never worked with before. The tag line of the show was Anything you can do, I can do better.

The producers had sent him all over the place, from banquet halls serving shrimp cocktail to hundreds of guests, to tiny, hole-in-the-wall corner joints. It was the Cooking Channel’s top-rated program, watched by millions across the country. It was big enough to have spawned a series of spoof sketches on Saturday Night Live.

The fact that Devon was sick to death of it was his dirty little secret.

“No, it’s my job to keep you in the superstar stratosphere to which you’ve become accustomed,” Simon corrected, peering suspiciously at the martini glass Christian set before him. “What is this?” he asked, taking a tiny sip. Which turned into a longer guzzle. “Hey, it’s actually not bad.”

“Not bad,” Devon snorted. “Hey, Chris, you hear that?”

The bartender cut his dark gaze to Devon, straight, hippie-length brown hair swinging against his shoulders.

“I sure did, and boy, do I ever thank him for the kind words,” Christian drawled, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat to Simon. Devon wasn’t sure his publicist caught the sardonic edge Chris gave to the gesture.

Simon took another sip, brows drawn in concentration. “It’s clear like a martini, but it has a more complicated flavor, something I can’t place.”

Devon sat back on his barstool. This ought to be good.

“White peppercorn-infused vodka, junipero gin, dry vermouth, ouzo, and a dash of white crème de menthe. I call it a Fuck Off & Die.” Christian smiled, wide and insincere, before moving off down the bar to take another order.

Simon gaped after him for a moment, then shrugged and took another drink. Devon sniggered into his glass of straight Kentucky bourbon—yeah, it was that kind of night—and Simon gave him a cross look.

“What? It tastes better than it sounds.”

“It would have to,” Devon said. “Come on, spill. What’s so important you braved the perils of the Lower East Side to come and meet me? I know you’re not here for Adam’s going-away party.” If there were anyone Devon considered a friend, it was his former executive chef, Adam Temple. The other reason Devon had chosen Chapel for his post-shoot decompression was that Adam and his one true love were about to leave the country for an extended vacation. Tonight was Adam’s big sendoff.

There was an outside chance it would be amusing.

Simon shook his head. “Right, my news. Are you ready?”

Devon raised a sardonic brow. “This better be the fabulous news you think it is, Si.” In the past, they hadn’t always been in complete agreement on what constituted a wonderful career move for Devon. But then, Simon’s single-minded intensity of purpose was his biggest recommendation as a PR guy, so Devon supposed he shouldn’t complain.

Looking a little apprehensive—and why wouldn’t he? Devon had more than earned his reputation for intolerance of incompetence both in and out of the kitchen—Simon cleared his throat. “Well. We should’ve asked that rude bartender if he stocks champagne behind the bar. Although, real y, what are the odds? We’ll have to celebrate without the champers. You’ll love this! Here, take a look.” With a flourish, he produced a copy of Restaurant USA, a magazine that reported on news and trends in the food industry.

Devon took it and flipped idly through the first few pages. “What? Looks like the standard stats and stories to me. Fewer Families Dining Out. Spain is the New France. What do I care about that?” Simon grabbed the magazine back and turned to a dog-eared page Devon hadn’t noticed.

“There,” he said, pointing a triumphant finger at the headline.

Devon squinted at the page and felt his blood congeal to the consistency and temperature of gelato.

Cooking Channel Superstar Named #1 Chain Restaurant Operator.

“No.”

Was that weak bleat Devon’s voice?

“You bet,” Simon beamed. “The Sparks brand beat out every fast-food chain in the country. They graded on profitability and name recognition, and you won!”

“Oh, God, there’s art with it,” Devon moaned, snatching the magazine out of Simon’s hand. There beside the article was one of Devon’s publicity stills. Devon stared at his intense blue eyes, his artfully tousled dark brown hair, the seductive expression on the face that had landed him at #23 on that big list of Top Fifty Hottest Men.

Then his gaze drifted to the right and fell on the maniacally grinning white-painted face of the beloved red-haired, yellow-jumpsuit-clad icon.

“You don’t look happy, Dev.”

Was that a hint of nerves Devon detected in his publicist’s voice?

It sure as shit better be.

“Not happy? I’m sharing the limelight with a fucking clown. I beat out the king, the colonel, and the little girl with the red braids. Wait till everyone I know sees this. They’re going to laugh their asses off!

Simon. Christ. You’re supposed to be the best publicist in the city—that’s why I hired you. How could you let this happen?”

“This is a good thing,” Simon, ever the Spin Master, protested. He snatched the magazine back and snapped it shut, as if by covering up the evidence he’d dissipate the head of steam Devon was building up. “When people visit New York, or Miami, or Vegas, they want to eat at a Devon Sparks restaurant!

You’re the go-to guy. This survey proves your effectiveness as a brand.”

“What if I don’t want to be a goddamn brand?” Devon shouted, uncaring of the heads that turned or the voices that began whispering.

Shouting felt good. He hadn’t let loose in a while. “I’m a serious chef, or at least I used to be. A real chef would be humiliated by this so-called honor. My restaurants serve haute cuisine, for Christ’s sake, not burgers and chicken nuggets! I’m going to be a laughingstock.”

“Now, Dev,” Simon said in the soothing tones reserved for lunatics and hysterical children. “You’re making too much of this. It’s not like this story is going to get picked up by the news media or anything.

Restaurant USA is a trade pub; no one even reads it. Do you read it? I never read it.” Devon gritted his teeth against the urge to reach across the bar for a bottle to bean Simon with.

Just then the bar door opened, distracting Devon from his homicidal thoughts and admitting a swirl of laughing, shouting people. Giving them a quick glance, Devon stiffened. He knew them. Christ, he’d employed half of them at one point or another. The New York culinary world was not unlike major league baseball—there was a finite number of talented players, and the biggest managers traded them back and forth.

“Hey, Sparks,” one of them called out. “Congratulations on the chain, man. Should we start calling you Ronald?” And the crowd erupted in laughter.

“You know who reads trade publications, Simon? People in the fucking trade. That’s who. My peers.

My friends. My goddamn employees.” Devon gestured at the crowd and lowered his voice. “This so-called ‘honor’ will be proof to them that I’ve sold out, lost myself, ransomed my soul to the capitalist gods.”

That I’m not a real chef, and never will be again.

The worst part? Devon was starting to think they might be right.

“Whoa, enough with the drama,” Simon protested, nerves pitching his voice high and grating. “That Restaurant USA piece isn’t worth all this, Dev, come on.”

Devon stared at his PR manager. “Shit. You pitched the magazine, didn’t you? The whole thing was your idea.”

As soon as he said it, Devon knew he was right. It was exactly Simon’s style, aggressive and bold, heedless of the cost.

“Who, me?” Something in Devon’s face must have registered how much he wasn’t buying what Simon was selling, because the guy held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! Maybe I did pitch them the chain thing. I thought it would be cool, show how successful you are! Success breeds success, Dev, you know that. I definitely never thought you’d get this bent out of shape about it.”

“You never think,” Devon said, his throat so full of hot anger he could hardly force the words out. “You just push and push, and you don’t fucking think about what kind of shit you’re pushing me into.

Because I’m the one that has to swim in it, not you. Well, no more. I’m done eating what you shovel, Simon. You’re fired.”

Horror flashed in Simon’s eyes, and the denials and cajoling started at once, but Devon had zero trouble tuning them out. All he felt was a bone-deep sense of relief.

It wouldn’t fix everything, but it was a start.

“You can’t do that,” Simon protested, aghast.

Devon bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Haven’t you heard the hype? I can do anything.”

“I wrote that hype!” Now Simon was shouting, too, his purple cheeks clashing with the deep brown of his Zegna suit and the artful highlights in his dirty-blond hair.

“What are you going to do,” Devon asked, grinning, “sue me for copyright infringement? Give it up, Si, it’s over.”

“We’ll see about that,” Simon said, clambering down from the barstool. “I’ve worked hard for you, Dev, you know I have. And now that things are finally coming together, now that you’re finally living the life you said you wanted, you’re going to throw it all away? And for what? No, I refuse to accept it.

I’m leaving now. I’m going to give you some time to think about this before one of us says something he’ll regret.”

“Don’t hold your breath expecting me to change my mind.”

Spittle flew from Simon’s mouth. “I’m Simon Woolf. I don’t sit around hoping for things to happen, I make them happen. I made you!”

Simon threw his arms wide, forgetting about the cocktail still sitting on the bar. The drama of his exit was heightened considerably by the shattering martini glass and spray of Fuck Off & Die all over the woman standing behind him.

The woman, unsurprisingly, squawked in unhappy surprise as several ounces of chilled liquor cascaded over the back of her head.

“What on God’s green earth?” the woman sputtered, the words thick and smoky with the cadence of the South. Her brown ringlets dripped with Simon’s cocktail.

Devon got a brief glimpse of bright green eyes and round, pink cheeks before she turned on Simon, hands on curvy hips, sneaker-clad toe tapping.

“Do you mind?” Simon snarled. “We were in the middle of a private discussion.” Even viewing her face in partial profile, Devon was impressed by the expression of affronted shock that came over it. Holy shit, Devon thought, Simon better run.

A fizzy feeling of intoxication better than anything he’d ever found at the bottom of a bottle was still coursing through Devon’s veins. He was riding high on life, grooving on the idea of having his life back, not being indentured to the producers and DPs and makeup artists, and oh, yes, publicists required by the show, for three months of glorious hiatus while the producers set the next season. He was nearly perfectly happy right now to sit back and watch the bonus surprise floor show.

“I most certainly do mind,” the woman informed Simon with icy civility. “Maybe you didn’t notice, sir, but you just doused me with your drink.”

Vibrating with anger, Simon looked around and pointed to a stack of cocktail napkins halfway down the bar. “There. You’re closer to them than I am. Now, Dev, as I was saying . . .” The woman interrupted Simon once more by tapping him on the shoulder.