CHAPTER ONE
SEBASTIAN
He’s been here almost every night for weeks. A regular, if you will—but not the good kind.
I don’t know why I don’t toss him out on his ass like I would any other drunk.
Probably because the guy lost his whole damn career because of an errant hockey puck. But watching the downfall of someone you once admired is never easy, and I’ve had the joy of witnessing it up close and personal.
Note the sarcasm.
Today, Brantley Micheals arrived during our brunch rush and ate two plates of chocolate-chip pancakes like a child; he’s been here ever since but moved from his usual seat at the bar and is sitting at one of the high-top tables, chatting with a group of younger guys, a cocky smile dancing on his lips. I can already tell he’s had too much to drink because his stubbled cheeks are flushed and his dark blond hair is unusually chaotic. He’s mostly harmless, and the staff love him, especially my sous chef, Gabriella, and my head bartender, Brett. Still, there have been a few incidents that have made me question whether allowinghim in here isn’t enabling his newly developed alcoholic tendencies.
I sigh and turn, walking through the pub toward the office I share with my older brother, Marcus. Normally, I’m on the front lines as the executive chef, but Marcus requested I take on more administrative tasks, so I’ve reluctantly ceded my head-of-house role to Gabriella. Marcus and I are in the process of opening another Brothers’ Beer & Bourbon location in Seattle now that the Vancouver pub pretty much runs itself, so he’s been spending a lot of time down south hammering out the details.
My office chair squeaks under my weight when I sit, and I rub my eyes, already feeling a hint of a headache. I’m allergic to paperwork. Every time Marcus sends me floor plans for the new location or when I start working on payroll, my brain just gives up.
There’s a reason I normally let my brother handle these things.
What I really want to focus on is the Seattle pub’s menu. I’ve got so many ideas, and I’m itching to be considered for a James Beard Award, which is a big deal for chefs in the Seattle area. That kind of accolade would drive business to the second pub location. Plus, I’ve coveted that award ever since I started cooking with my stepmom when I was a kid. I read about it in a local magazine at the dentist’s office, and remember leaving that appointment with clean teeth and lofty career goals at just ten years old. My dad thought my dreams were silly, and he was wholly disappointed when I skipped college and went straight to Brothers’ Beer & Bourbon to work with Marcus. But my brother understood what I needed, and our father had to concede because Marcus could do no wrong in his eyes.
I realize that I’m just staring at my laptop screen, daydreaming instead of working, and grit my teeth, take a sip ofthe very strong coffee I poured this morning, and then wince because it’s cold. Again.
I need to just sit down and focus. Or maybe hire help.
I’ll admit that the thought is tempting. If I hired a part-time admin to take some of these tasks off my hands, I might be able to recover my motivation. As it stands now, I’m just tired. Tired of working, tired of the gray weather, tired of the routine that my life has fallen into. I need something exciting to happen because it’s starting to feel like I’m drowning in monotony.
Then, as if someone up there were listening, I hear raised voices, followed by the sound of breaking glass.
“Wonderful,” I mutter.
I climb to my feet and walk into the dining room to find Michaels staring dumbfoundedly at a broken beer glass on the ground, which he clearly just knocked from the table, though I’m not sure if it was intentional or not. The guys facing him start snickering, and Michaels’s head snaps up, his gaze darkening.
I’ve never really thought of the kid as a loose cannon. I watched him face off with intentionally aggressive hockey players, and I can’t recall the last time he wound up in the sin bin. So imagine my surprise when the muscles in Michaels’s forearms go so taut that I can see the veins beneath his skin ripple. He shoves the table into the assholes in front of him, who’re now full-on belly laughing like a couple of idiots. Drinks and plates of food crash to the ground as the table topples over and hits one of the guys, who’s wearing a blue and green Canucks jersey, right in the junk. His buddy, a blond guy with a mullet, takes a plate of nachos to the chest.
The restaurant goes deathly quiet, heads turning at the commotion, and my gut twists when I see the blond guy kick the table out of the way and launch himself at Michaels, his fist swinging clumsily.
Michaels might not be in peak hockey condition anymore,but he’s not a small guy, and he easily catches Mullet’s fist and pushes him back. The asshole stumbles and falls to the ground, and Michaels starts pounding on him.
Then, all hell breaks loose.
Jersey Guy jumps on Michaels’s back, trying to pry him off his friend, while a red-faced Michaels screams something unintelligible.
I make eye contact with my security guy, Frank, who’s already on the move. He grabs Jersey Guy by the scruff of the neck, yanking him away from the enraged former hockey star, and I rush forward, almost colliding with Brett as he darts around the bar to help. But there was apparently a third guy in the bathroom, and he doesn’t hesitate to join the fray. He grabs a bar chair and swings it at me.
“Fuck!” I duck as it flies past my head and sails over the bar, crashing directly into a wall of glass liquor bottles, which explode on impact. Liquid sprays in every direction.
Rage surges hot through my veins as I turn my glare on Bathroom Guy, who’s staring at the mess with wide eyes.
“Oops,” he sputters and turns to flee, but he runs directly into Frank, who’s still holding a squealing Jersey Guy. Thankfully, Frank is a beast of a man and has no problem incapacitating both guys with a firm shake.
My eyes drop back to the floor, and I sink to my knees to help Brett, who’s doing his best to pull Michaels off Mullet Guy, who’s curled into a whimpering ball.
“Take it back!” Michaels’s chest is heaving, and his body is hot against mine while I restrain him. He coughs around the words to the point that I’m worried he might be having some sort of asthma attack. I catch sight of his scar, a ragged pink line across his throat, as he swallows.
I manage to pull Michaels off Mullet Guy, who’s clutching his bloody nose as he stares at up Michaels.
“You think you know what I’ve been through?” Michaelsyells, tears and snot streaming down his face. “You have no idea what it’s like to loseeverything, you piece of shit!”
