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“What sucks?” Mike asks.
“I can’t kick him out now,” I whine.
Mike shrugs, but doesn’t say anything.
I don’t know what to say either, so I settle on the obvious question: “Are you hungry?”
Chapter Four
Tension
Dane
As fun as last night was in the beginning, the feud between Breann (apparently, she’s the one I was calling Buzzed Girl) and Yoga Chick only intensified after our exploits. Once the enmity stopped translating itself into physical contact for me, I lost my tolerance for it.
Getting out was no small feat, though, as both Breann and Yoga Chick were constantly looking to me to resolve individual, and increasingly odd, disputes.
“I think the ficus looks better by the sofa, but Breann thinks it looks better by the window. She’s crazy, right?”
I wouldn’t have gotten out of there at all if I hadn’t directed them toward the bathroom, saying some bullshit about how I thought the bra hanging over the shower rod was sexy. It was about the stupidest idea I’ve ever had, but it worked well enough. They both went in there to argue over whose it originally was.
Today’s been great, though.
Not only did I move into my new place, but I nailed my friend’s secretary while my roommate was passed out with a hangover.
This is why I love my job.
Okay, so I lied to Roommate Chick about what I do. Yeah, I play guitar and I sing, but I’ve never played a show.
“What the fuck happened to this foie gras?” I ask my sous chef.
Yeah, I lied about my job, but I’m sick of people asking me to get them reservations or teach them my favorite recipes. It’s a nightmare.
Telling a woman that you’re an executive chef at one of the better French restaurants in the city is great if you’re looking for a quick lay, but living with someone who knows you’re a chef—it’s just not worth the hassle.
That is one of the better things about this job, though; it has been years since I’ve had to use a pickup line to get a date. Women love chefs. Tell them about something sizzling in a pan and you can almost feel the change in humidity.
It worked wonders on Secretary Chick.
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t feel like taking it off the stove before you burnt it to shit?” I interrupt.
Yeah, Ramsay’s got nothing on me. Well, nothing but the TV shows, cookbooks, multiple restaurants of his own, fame, and fortune.
Still, I’m pretty sure I get more play than he does.
I’m calling that a victory.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask. “Do it again!”
“You’d think with tattoos like that, the health department would be more worried about hepatitis,” someone behind me says.
I turn around.
“Jim, you old fuck, get the hell out of the kitchen before my restaurant loses a star,” I jab back.
“You are an ungrateful little shit, aren’t you?” he asks.
