She laughs, that bright, unexpected sound that makes my stomach do things it has no business doing. “Yes,” she agrees. “But worth the wait.”
We stand like that for a long moment, her body warm against mine, the chaos of the kitchen continuing around us. Through the pass window, I can see the dining room. Tables full, drinks flowing, the energy of a place that’s found its rhythm. The regulars are toasting us, glasses raised in our direction, smiles on faces I’ve come to know as well as my own.
And there, above the bar, the massive neon dragon that gives the place its name. The Drunken Dragon, in careful script that’s been flickering since the day I bought the place.
Except it’s not flickering now, is it?
CHAPTER 13
mei
The Nevada sun is trying to murder us through the convention center windows. I’m not being dramatic. It’s literally turning the competition floor into an oven, and we haven’t even started cooking yet.
I wipe sweat from my forehead and try to remember how breathing works. We’re setting up at Section 17, dead center of the room with a perfect view of every competitor and judge. Six months ago, I would have sold a kidney for this opportunity. A shot at the New Vegas Annual Cook-Off. A chance to prove I wasn’t completely washed up at thirty-two.
Now? Now I’m just trying not to throw up.
“You good?” Tovek asks.
I look up at him. He’s wearing his competition uniform, the black chef’s coat with “The Drunken Dragon” embroidered across the back. The sleeves are rolled up to show the tribal scars on his forearms, and his massive hands are unpacking our knives with the kind of precision that makes my stomach do complicated things.
“Fine,” I say.
It’s both true and a complete lie. The bar is turning a profit. My social media is back in the green. For the first time in months, I’m cooking for something other than survival. I’m also a complete mess of nerves and hope and fear, because wanting things you might not get to keep is terrifying.
“Bullshit,” he says. There’s no edge to it. “Talk to me, Hot Pot.”
The nickname does things to my chest that I’m not ready to examine. “It’s the stakes,” I admit, arranging our ingredients with way more care than they need. “If we win, hell, if we place, it changes everything. The debt. Grishnak. What happens to the bar.”
“We’ll handle it,” he says. His voice is steady in a way that makes me want to believe him. “Win or lose. Together.”
Together.
The word sits between us like something physical.
“Focus,” he says. His hand is warm at the small of my back. “One dish at a time. One judge at a time. We’ve got this.”
I nod and turn to survey the competition floor. It’s packed. Twenty teams arranged in a massive circle, each with their own prep station and cooking area. I spot the vampire collective from the east side with their theatrical presentation. The halfling twins who run the bakery in Old Town. The troll chef from Sunrise Casino’s new steakhouse who’s been trash-talking The Drunken Dragon since we entered this thing.
Then I see him.
Grishnak is sitting in the front row of the judges’ section, radiating calculated menace. He’s watching us with the kind of attention that makes my skin crawl.
“Ignore him,” Tovek says, following my gaze. “He’s not a judge. He’s just hoping to see us fail.”
“Not today,” I say. I mean it. “Not with a hundred and fifty grand on the line.”
The prize money is exactly what we need. Enough to clear the current payment we owe Crimson Financing, and nearly wipe out the bar’s remaining debt. Plus the platform that comes with a first-place finish. The Culinary Quarterly feature. The festival appearances. The boost to the bar’s reputation that would make us untouchable by Grishnak’s standards.
It’s worth the risk.
The host takes the stage. He’s a satyr with a carefully styled beard and the confidence of someone who’s done this a hundred times. “Welcome, chefs and food enthusiasts, to the eighteenth annual New Vegas Cook-Off!” His voice booms through the speakers. “This is where legends are made, where careers are launched, and where the culinary stars of tomorrow prove they have what it takes to stand the heat!”
I roll my eyes. “Could he be any more dramatic?”
“Probably,” Tovek says. There’s amusement underneath his neutral tone. “Just wait for the mystery ingredients.”
The satyr is building to it now. The big reveal. “This year, our judges have selected two ingredients that represent the very essence of Las Vegas itself. Fire and ice, risk and reward, the alchemy that happens when opposites attract!” He gestures to the massive screen behind him.
