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“This is a little more serious than a drunken argument at Whiskey Under the Rocks, Ben.”
“Mm. You wouldn’t get into Cove even if you want to, anyway. My eyes and ears tell me Dante’s put airport-style security at the borders. Full pat-downs, bag checks, the lot.”
I turn around at the sound of Benny gagging. He pulls something out of his mouth with his bandaged fingers and dumps it on the table. “Is that a piece of fucking pineapple?” he exclaims, looking down at the yellow lump in disgust. “On fuckin’ pizza?”
I smirk into the back of my hand. “Wasn’t bought for your consumption, fat-ass.”
Benny’s phone buzzes, and he takes the stairs two-at-a-time to take the call.
Once again, Penelope proves the age-old adage of, if you think of the devil, it’ll appear. Through the door on the other side of the seating area, I see her saunter into the kitchen and slow to a stop as she approaches the sinks. Her eyes slant at the mountain of dirty dishes.
“Is this all from last night?”
Chef Marco saunters over and tosses her an apron. “Yeah. Usually gets done after the shift.”
“So why’s it still here?”
He shrugs. Taps a cigarette out of a carton and tucks it into the crook of his mouth. “Boss’s orders.”
She rakes her fingers through her ponytail. “Son of a bitch,” she grunts.
I lean my elbows on the table, warm satisfaction filling my center.
“I’ve killed men for saying nicer things about my mama, Penelope.”
Her shoulders snap into a tight line, her gaze roving around to find mine. The surprise of seeing me in the shadows of the next room melts into hatred, which then crystallizes into something more mischievous.
Still holding my eye, she flicks on the hot tap, squirts dish liquid into the sink, and bends her elbows, pretending to roll up imaginary sleeves. My gaze drops to the watch sliding up her forearm—my fucking watch—and my mood darkens.
“I’m sure she was an absolute doll,” she says sweetly, before plunging her hands into the soapy water.
Leaning back against the booth, I hide my amusement behind my knuckles. I’d insisted Laurie put Penelope on back-of-house duties under the pretense that all newbies should learn the ropes of every department, but really, it’s because the new, more modest, uniform isn’t coming in for another few days. It’s less of a punishment for making me question my morals last night, and more of a stupid, self-preservation thing. With so much shit going on with my business, I’m not sure I have the restraint to spend another evening glaring at her over my poker hand while she shakes up cocktails for my guests.
Still, giving the regular pot-washer a paid night off was a petty chess move. And fair play to her, shoving my Breitling into a bowl of suds with a sexy smile is excellent retaliation.
But she’ll never win the war against me. Not now that I know she calls Sinners Anonymous.
Right on cue, steel-capped footsteps thunder above my head and down the stairs.
My men appear like a pack of hungry wolves in the crew mess and make a beeline for the pizza and sandwiches laid out on the dining table. I nod politely as a slew of thankscome my way. Blake chomps off a huge chunk of a sub and grunts approvingly in my direction.
“Is it your birthday or something, boss?”
Is this idiot for real? I celebrated my thirty-fourth birthday three months ago on a private island in the Maldives. Eyelid twitching, I manage to give him a tight-lipped smile. “Just getting into the Christmas spirit of giving.”
Through the sea of broad shoulders and suits, I watch Penelope scrub at the dishes from last night. She pauses every few minutes to huff strands of hair out of her eyes and wipe her brow against her shoulder.
After reverse-dialing the last number called from the phone booth last night, I couldn’t get back aboard my yacht quick enough. I’d intended to settle down behind my desk with a glass of whiskey in one hand and my dick in the other and let Penelope’s sins unravel through my Bose speakers.
They didn’t come. Turns out, Penelope has been using the hotline like a fucking diary. Talking shit for the sake of talking shit. Vapid tidbits about her day, random musings about whatever book she’s reading, or recaps on conversations she’s recently had with her neighbor. Ironically, the only call that mildly piqued my interest was the one she made in the phone booth: I have three library books, and I’ll never get to return them.
The three, drawn out breaths that had preceded it suggested it wasn’t what she’d originally planned to confess.
Still, skimming through the most boring inner workings of her brain hasn’t completely been in vain. One interesting fact I learned about Penelope is that she detests ham and pineapple pizza, and tuna sandwiches make her gag.
Which is why I bought my men both for lunch.
“Where do you want us to put the plates, boss?”
