“I do,” she says, and there’s concern in her voice now. “Just remember that Grishnak doesn’t play fair. And he’s been waiting for you to show weakness.”
I glance up at the ceiling, toward where Mei is hopefully getting some rest. “She’s not a weakness,” I say.
Greta studies me for a long moment. “No,” she agrees finally. “I don’t think she is.”
I finish my beer in one long pull, letting the cool liquid wash away the knot of worry forming in my gut. The bar is finally starting to look like it might have a future. The last thing I need is Grishnak deciding that future includes him.
But as I set the empty glass down, I catch myself smiling. I make a call to my banker friend to take care of that loan payment immediately, and set up something to make sure I’ll have enough to float this place for the next few months.
Because I have zero doubts that I will recupe the money. This is an easy bet.
The Drunken Dragon will have a real chef in its kitchen. And not just any chef. Mei Fucking Tan, the woman whose videos have been getting me through the darkest nights of this losing streak.
CHAPTER 3
mei
I wake with a start, a single word already forming in my throat: “Fire!”
It’s the chef’s instinct. The eternal fear of leaving a burner on or an oven running while you sleep. But the room around me is cold and dark and entirely, startlingly unfamiliar. The ceiling stretches impossibly high above me, and the bed beneath my back feels like it was built for a family of four. Or one very large orc.
Right. I’m at The Drunken Dragon now. Not my kitchen, not my home, not even my bed. Just a woman with a knife roll, a debt she can’t name without hyperventilating, and exactly one week to turn things around.
I sit up, tugging the oversized blanket around my shoulders. The windows are uncovered, letting in a dull rectangle of pre-dawn light. The room is spartan. A bed, a dresser, a single chair in the corner. The walls are painted a faded blue that might have once been cheerful but now just looks like it’s given up entirely.
My phone, plugged into the wall across the room, shows 5:17. Early by normal person standards, practically midday by chef time. My body doesn’t care that I went to bed at 2 AM afteran emergency planning session with Tovek. It’s awake now, and there’s no point fighting it.
I slide out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shock. The ancient heating system is clearly designed for someone with the blood volume and metabolism of a large orc rather than a perpetually cold human chef. I grab the hoodie I left draped over the chair and pull it on, then make my way to the window.
The view is exactly what you’d expect from the spare room above a dive bar in New Vegas. An alley that smells like old beer and stale cigarette smoke, the brick wall of the pawn shop next door, and, if I press my face to the glass and look just right, a sliver of neon sign from the casino three blocks over.
I stretch, feeling each vertebra pop. One night in Tovek’s guest bed has left me with the kind of full-body ache that usually comes from working a double shift. The mattress is too firm, the pillows too flat, and the whole setup clearly designed for someone with a completely different physiology.
But it’s free. And right now, free is the only box I need ticked.
My stomach growls. I change into the cleanest clothes from my backpack and make my way downstairs.
The bar is silent, empty glasses and damp coasters the only evidence of last night’s business. The jukebox is off, the lights are dimmed, and the whole place has the particular quiet of a space designed for noise that’s currently taking a break.
From the kitchen, though, comes the muffled sound of movement. Cupboards opening and closing, the hiss of a coffee maker, the soft scrape of a spoon against ceramic. I pause at the doorway, watching Tovek with his back to me, reaching for mugs on a shelf that’s easily eight feet off the ground.
He’s dressed in black jeans and a gray henley with the sleeves pushed up. His hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to curl against his neck.
“Morning,” I say, and he turns, not startled but with a slight widening of his eyes that suggests he didn’t hear me approach.
“Hey.” He’s holding two mugs, steam rising from them in thin curls. “I was just about to bring this up. Figured you might want some coffee before we get started.”
He extends one of the mugs toward me, and I take it automatically. It’s only when I bring it to my lips that I realize what I’m drinking. Black coffee, sweetened with exactly three sugars.
My favorite. The way I’ve taken it since culinary school, when my roommate introduced me to the concept of sugar as a coping mechanism. The way I mentioned exactly once in a video two years ago, during a 3 AM livestream when I was making mooncakes for the mid-autumn festival and half-delirious from sleep deprivation.
Tovek is watching me over the rim of his own mug, his expression carefully neutral. “Is it okay? I can make another pot if?—”
“It’s perfect,” I say, and take another sip to cover the sudden tightness in my throat. “Thanks.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied, and turns back to the counter where a tablet is displaying what looks like an order form. “I put in a delivery for the basics this morning. Eggs, flour, butter, the stuff you mentioned last night. Should be here by nine.”
I lean against the counter, cradling the mug between my palms. The coffee is exactly right. Strong enough to stand up to the sugar, with a hint of chocolatey bitterness that suggests decent beans. Not the kind of thing you’d expect from a dive bar’s kitchen.
