Chapter 8

Journey

I’m giddy enough to skip like a schoolgirl to my first day on the job, except that I’m sore between my legs. Every step is a twinge. Who knew this could happen even without, well, penetration?

I hate that word. Even saying it in my head gives me the ick. But holy shit, Jay’s fingers. Jay’s…everything. It was the most perfectly magical day, and night.

My hazy, dreamy state dissipates when I enter the kitchen at the Rubicon. A brand new sous chef jacket hangs in a locker in the back room. I pick it up and turn it over. My name is embroidered in gold on the chest. That was quick. I think I’m gonna like it here.

Smiling to myself as I button up, I decide that maybe I had the wrong first impression of Richard. Yeah, he’s a little eccentric, but clearly he likes me. I mean, this jacket is sweet. He must have been busting my chops about climbing the ladder and stepping stones and all of that.

A nervous-looking woman close to my age comes in and unlocks a locker next to me.

“Hi,” I say, a little too enthusiastically and eager to make friends.

She jumps and looks up. “Oh, hi! I didn’t see you there.”

I laugh. “Clearly, you’re preoccupied this morning. I’m Journey.” I hold out my hand, and she takes it with a firm handshake.

The look in her eye is a little guarded. “I’m Lola,” she says, looking me over. “And we’re all a bit preoccupied under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” I ask, searching her face for clues.

Her eyes widen at me, and she glances at my jacket. “You haven’t heard? That’s crazy, I would’ve thought the sous chef would’ve been the first to know.”

Oh no. I knew this was too good to be true.

“First to know what?”

“Richard is gone.”

What does this mean? “Did he get fired?”

She shakes her head. “No. Girl, Rushmore sold the hotel restaurant to Young Riggins. They took ownership this morning.”

I shake my head in disbelief. I have yet to learn who Young Riggins is, but it sounds like a good name for a yacht rock band. I don’t mention that I don’t know who they are, but the second name sounds familiar. I might have heard of a Michelin-starred chef in Dallas by that name, but there are so many. Being just a girl from a small town in Iowa, I’ve only been to Dallas a few times.

“That can’t be right, I just interviewed with Richard yesterday. He called and offered me the job last night!”

Unless I was having a fever dream. But no, I remember clearly that I interrupted my shower to answer the phone.

Lola shrugs. “That may be, but the scuttlebutt is, it all happened overnight. It was really sketchy if you ask me.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and squints off in the distance as if trying to sleuth something out.

“I wonder what happened,” I say. “I wonder if I still even have a job.”

“We’re all wondering the same thing,” Lola says.

Just then, a tall, dark-haired man with glasses in his early 40s enters the locker room. He looks more like a pencil pusher than a restaurant guy.

“Hello, ladies,” he says. We’re having a staff meeting in the dining room to make introductions. Please join us.”

Managerially, he claps his hands once and does the finger-guns move before disappearing down the hall.

I turn to Lola, who rolls her eyes. “Here we go.”

I follow her down the hall, past the executive chef office, and into the dining room.

Everything looks exactly as it did yesterday, and it’s wild to think everything is about to be uprooted. Line cooks, servers, bussers, dishwashers, and bartenders mill around the room. It takes my breath away that an entire army is about to have their lives changed. Everyone is talking in nervous, hushed tones, making me jumpy. Lola and I sit next to each other at the bar, and I’m temporarily entertained by the bartenders’ banter.

“I heard it was a hostile takeover,” says the one with a mustache.

“That’s idiotic. Hostile takeovers involve stockholders and boards of directors and shit,” says the taller one.

“Hey dummy, Rushmore Holdings owns this hotel. That’s a global corporation. It’s on the New York Stock Exchange,” says Mustache Man.

“It is?”

“Yeah.”

The tall one gets a faraway look. “Did Young Riggins buy the whole-ass hotel though? Or just the restaurant?”

Mustache man shrugs. “Man, I don’t fucking know the ins and outs of every deal. What do I look like, Mark Cuban?”

The tall one gestures around his neck. “A little bit. The chins.”

“Shut your face hole,” Mustache Man says, whipping a wet bar towel at the tall one.

Lola’s side-eyes me, and we both burst out laughing. I needed that.

“I’m Jack,” says the tall one, reaching across the bar when he notices Lola and me laughing. “I see you’ve met this troublemaker.”

“Journey.”

“New sous chef, hopefully for longer than today! Nice to meet you.”

“I’m not a troublemaker,” Lola puts in.

Mustache Man takes his turn shaking my hand. “She totally is. I’m Tim.”

“Nice to meet you both,” I say, grinning. I hope everyone I’ve met so far keeps their jobs because this is the friendliest place I’ve ever worked.

“Good morning, everyone!” Cash Young’s voice booms over the dining room, and everyone quiets down. Lola gives me a frightened look, and we swivel our barstools around to face the music.

“I know you’ve all got questions, and I want to put you at ease. None of you will be losing your jobs. Today, anyway.”

The staff mostly falls utterly silent.

“That was a joke,” says Cash. Quiet, obligatory laughter fills the room, but everyone is still on edge.

Cash goes on, “Obviously, Jason and I will be seeing how well you all work with him and with each other. We’re not in any hurry to make any drastic changes. So I want you all to relax and know your jobs are safe.”

Lola exhales and drops her shoulders exaggeratedly.

“I know right,” I say, still unconvinced I’m not on the chopping block. Last hired, first fired and all that.

Standing beside Cash is a man wearing a tell-tale white chef’s jacket. I can’t see his face, as he’s turned away from the group. He’s having a side conversation with a perky little blonde, who, from this angle, appears to be fawning all over him. Her uniform polo shirt is unbuttoned as far as it will go, and she’s practically clapping her tits in his face. Yikes. I can’t stand it when people moon all over attractive chefs. I mean, we chefs are pretty sexy and badass, but it’s not like we’re rescuing children from burning buildings or anything.

Huh. He does have nice hair. That’s funny; he has the same brown curls like—wait…

“I’d like to introduce you to your new executive chef,” Cash says, tapping the shoulder of the guy in the white chef’s jacket, who’s accepting a very sensuous handshake from the perky blonde. The chef turns to face the crowd of workers.

“Chef Jason Riggins, but you’ll know him from now on as simply ‘Chef.’”

“Good morning.” Jason Riggins stares straight at me through the chorus of “Chef!”

I’m the only one in the room who is speechless.

My throat is dry, and I wish I could crawl under the bar with Don Julio and not leave until I have to be carried out.

Chef Jason is Jay.

My Jay. From last night.

“What’s wrong?” Lola nudges me.

“What?” My eyes snap to hers, and her wide-eyed gaze implies I’ve missed something important.

She hisses, “Cash is trying to introduce you. You’re the sous chef, right?”

“Me? Um. Yes?” I squeak.

She gives me a sharp elbow.

“Then get over there and introduce yourself!”

“Right.”

My stomach lurches as I slide off the barstool. My face must be as red as a tomato as I begin the eternal march toward the middle of the room, where Jay—I mean Jason—stands.

But why should I be embarrassed? Jason never told me who he was. I did nothing wrong.

I take up the spot next to Jason, hip-checking the little blonde, who sniffs and walks away.

Giving a meek wave, I say through a mouth that feels like I ate cotton, “I’m Journey. Nice to meet you all.”

Cash and Jason stare at me. “Journey, why don’t you tell everyone a little something about you, as you’re going to be Jason’s right-hand man. Woman. Sorry.”

I swallow. “I’m Journey,” I say again, pretend-brushing away a stray hair from my face, one of my nervous tics.

“Yeah, you said that,” Cash says.

To my surprise, Jason shoots his business partner an evil look that satisfies me. But only for a moment, because Jason has a lot of explaining to do to me. A lot.

“I’m from a little town outside of Des Moines. I graduated last May from the Culinary Institute of America. I interned in the Bay Area and hope to bring some of those ideas to Dallas. But I haven’t spoken to the Rushmore Group about growing an urban garden on the roof yet, so maybe Chef Jason can put in a good word for me.”

Wow, that actually got some laughs and a few claps.

My shoulders relax. Jason turns to me and gives me the official handshake. The familiar texture of his two big hands covering my small one conjures up so many recent memories from last night that I’m shaken to my core. His face is unreadable.

I stand there silently as Jason moves on to talk about tonight’s service, running down the menu for me and the servers.

As for me, I don’t hear a word he says.

Whatever. I’m in shock. None of this means anything.

I’ll get through tonight, go back to my crappy hotel room in Plano to get my shit, and then I’ll hightail it back to Iowa.

What other choice do I have?

The room quiets down when Jason steps forward. With his arms folded across his chest, the chef meets the eyes of each staff member one by one.

I hate that I love this.

“The first thing I need every day when I walk into this place is a clean kitchen.”

Silence.

The perky blonde raises her hand.

“What’s your name?” Jason barks.

“Bethany. We just met, remember?” Bethany tucks a lock of hair behind her ear flirtatiously. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Jason is straightforward and doesn’t acknowledge his mistake. This is a power move, for sure. “Do you have a question, Bethany?”

“It’s just that, um, the cleaning crew does all that every night after service,” says Bethany, looking stricken that Jason Riggins doesn’t remember meeting his apparently biggest fan just a minute ago.

Some of the staff murmur in agreement.

Jason clears his throat. “This is how it’s gonna go. Today, everyone pitches in. I want that kitchen scrubbed from top to bottom. That means light fixtures, walls, and underneath the mats. I want the fucking light switches to shine. And then I’m reorganizing everything in that mess so none of you remember Richard was even here.”

He didn’t use the title “chef” in reference to Richard. Another power move. I would love this man if I didn’t hate him so much.

“And from now on, I want that kitchen run as if you don’t have a cleaning crew coming in to mop up after you. In fact, let’s all pretend I fired them. Cooks, I want those stations clean as a whistle before you leave at night.”

A few line cooks, respond with a meek, “Yes, Chef.”

“Did everyone hear me? Because I didn’t hear you,” Jason says, loud enough for everyone to hear, even the stray cats in the back alley.

I think a few of the servers jump before they respond. “Yes, Chef!”

“That’s better. Now get going so I can start cooking already.”