Um, surprise? Covid has me self-isolating so in an attempt to clear up a cluttered WIP folder and bring back some writing mojo, I thought why not? I'm only going into this with 3/4 chapters written but the rest is plotted out. Won't be super long, either way. Hoping to update twice a week Saturday and Wednesday, but we'll see whether I can write that fast 😬

Thanks to Monica, Lauren, Ciara and May who read the beginnings of this last year (in March 😂) and Mel who read some of it before Christmas. I've tinkered since, so any mistakes are definitely mine.

High Heat

Masen

Chef's beefy hand lands on my shoulder, tightening over the white fabric, the expression on his face apologetic. Glancing down, my eyes find my whites splattered with grease and food after an insanely busy shift, before returning to his face.

His mouth is moving, but I stopped listening to what he was saying approximately twenty seconds ago when he told me he was 'letting me go.'

"I thought I was doing really fucking well?" my mouth says.

"I'm sorry, kid. We just can't afford to keep you on."

Chef claps his hand down again on my shoulder and then tries to give me a pep talk.

"Maybe this is the push you need to go onto bigger and better things."

I snort.

Gilbertine is one of the most exclusive restaurants in the whole of New York City. Landing a paid internship here straight out of culinary school felt like I'd won the lottery. Bigger and better things don't come up very often. Cutting my teeth in a two-time Michelin-starred restaurant, with a chef like Gordy, for the last couple of years has been a fucking dream.

Only dreams don't last. Who fucking knew?

"You're a rockstar, Cullen. You'll be fine." He rubs his knuckles into my hair before he walks off, leaving me standing in a deserted kitchen.

A faucet drips somewhere, and then there's the steady, rhythmic sound of water thudding on metal. Automatically, I move over to the sink, staring as water drip-drip-drips, before reaching out an inked hand to turn off the faucet properly.

I turn, casting an eye around the place that's helped me grow—thrive—my hand trailing down stainless steel surfaces before I let out the heaviest of exhales.

Fuck.

Exiting out through the fire door, fumes from the traffic sit low in the dingy alleyway, stinging my eyes and my throat. My head tilts upwards, to a night sky tinged with an orange glow, a fine drizzle coating my face, the beanie I shoved on, and the thick sherpa-lined hoodie I treated myself to at Christmas.

There's a homeless guy—Jeddah—propped up near the dumpsters, a bottle just visible from the brown paper bag he has at his side. He's claimed this as his spot for at least the last year, if not longer: a regular. He has a dog too, who he calls Dozy. She picks her head up and looks at me as I step toward them, a low whine coming from her mouth.

The door slams shut behind me with a squeal.

"Alright, Mase?" Jeddah asks, his voice rough, shifting forward in a dirty sleeping bag.

"Yeah, here you go. Sorry it's not much." I hand him a small white cardboard box of food I had left over from my dinner, my eyes travelling over his wizened face. Panic flickers in my stomach; the thought that I'm one paycheck away from homelessness is fucking terrifying, and now a very real prospect.

"Thanks. See you tomorrow?" Jeddah grunts.

I shake my head.

"They let me go," I tell him.

"Sorry to hear that." His words slur slightly, and I'm not sure whether he'll even remember this tomorrow. He'll probably finish the rest of the bottle and forget.

"Look after yourself." It's a prayer as much as anything. I swing my backpack fully onto my shoulders and begin the night-time commute home on the subway, hands in my pockets, head pounding with stress.

…

I find Emmett sprawled out on the sofa when I finally make it back to the cramped Brooklyn apartment we share. Eyes itching with tiredness, feet burning from starting early and finishing late—it's almost one in the morning and I know despite that I'll still be up a good couple of hours yet, trying to unwind. I probably won't sleep at all though, not now I have this hanging over my head.

He doesn't even bother to look up from his phone, or greet me as I take my AirPods out, my ears immediately assaulted with the sound of—

"Dude. Are you watching porn?"

I look over his shoulder as I kick off checkered Vans, noises of undeniable pleasure ringing out from his cell.

"Nah, it's like one of those TikTok challenges. All these girls are doing a Harry Met Sally, somewhere really public. Funny as fuck!"

"A 'Harry Met Sally'?"

"Y'know, the movie with Meg Ryan… she fakes an orgasm in a diner?"

He shakes his head disapprovingly at me when I carry on looking at him blankly.

"It's a classic! How can you not have watched it? It's one of my mom's favorites."

I shrug. I didn't really have the mom thing growing up. The closest I had was Maria, and she was much more into her Spanish telenovelas and indulging my love of food.

"I got let go," I tell Emmett instead, sitting down next to him heavily, wanting to share this massive fucking curve ball with someone.

Emmett almost drops his beer.

"Ah, man. Are you serious?"

I nod and grab a bottle of Bud out of the case he's left on the coffee table, reaching for the bottle opener lying on top of a stack of magazines.

"Yup."

"But… why?"

I raise my shoulders up to my ears, swallowing down a large mouthful.

"Can't afford to keep me on, or some shit like that."

"Huh. Well, that sounds like bullshit."

I scratch at my neck, uncomfortable. I doubt they can't afford to keep me on either, but Chef isn't the type not to pull someone up if they're shit. Fuck knows how many times he has let me know I'm a fuck up… but I still had a job at the end of it. I must have really pissed someone off, higher up. Management or something. They were around the other week.

"So, what are you going to do?" Emmett asks, after a pause, like I'm supposed to have an answer for him.

"I don't know. Look for somewhere else, ASAP."

"You could always sell yourself, Mase," he says, trying to be serious but failing, as his dimple shows on his right cheek. "You'd be in high demand."

I shove him hard, before slumping back in the old buttery leather, brown sofa, fingers peeling the label off the bottle as the condensation softens the glue.

There's got to be options. There always is.

Anything is better than crawling back to my dad with my tail between my legs.

I can hear him now.

I told you.

If you just listened to me for once.

Emmett nudges me, showing me his cell again. A blonde girl in the middle of what looks like Central Park. She looks around, mouths at the camera 'oh my god' and then sits down on a bench behind a suited Wall-Street type on his phone. I can see his Rolex glinting in the sun.

The girl winks, licks her lips and then starts breathily moaning, her voice getting louder as she gets braver.

"Oh, God. Oh, God," she pants, tossing her hair back, so it hits the suit in the head. "Mhhhhhm. That feels so GOOD. Oh, God, baby. Oh. Yes! YES. Shit, you're gonna make me—"

The man gets up, his face twisted up in disgust. Emmett howls with laughter as the guy glares, before stalking out of shot and leaving the blonde dissolving into giggles, cutting away to all the people now staring at her, half-aghast, half-amused.

"Yeah, baby girl, you get some!" someone hollers in the background.

"See? Fucking hilarious," Emmett says, nudging me with his elbow again. I only manage a weak smile. Any other day I'd find it hilarious, but not today.

Emmett swipes up, and the next TikTok is already playing—a pretty brunette in a bright kitchen—dusky pink cabinets and pastel plant pots on open shelving behind her. She starts talking, a sliver of her tiny waist showing, a glimpse of a tattoo, curling from under the crop top she's wearing as she moves. A wing, maybe? Or a flower? It's difficult to tell. She shows various-sized prep bowls on white marble work surfaces—quinoa, diced onion, coconut milk—but then Emmett's thumb starts scrolling and she's gone.

"Go back," I demand, hand on his arm. "Who's that?"