Addicted: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance (20 page)

It was long moments after my vision stopped that I realized that the music had faded away too, with Meat Loaf back on the microphone. Staggering, I pulled back and out, my cock slipping out of her with an almost obscene
schluuuurp.
"My God," I gasped, feeling the sweat glistening on my brow. "That . . . ."

"That was the best I've had in years," Gina said back to me, turning and giving me a naughty smile. "God damn Julian, you are one talented fuck. But I think it's time for us to get back to the reception before they wonder where we slipped off to."

"Uh . . . yeah," I said, still with my mind whirling. What the hell had just happened? "That was amazing."

"Thanks, sweetie," Gina said, coming over and kissing me. She reached down and grabbed my cock "that's one nice piece of equipment you have there," then she sashayed over to her dress and pulled it back on, before coming over and actually lifting my pants up for me. Carefully working the zipper back up before sliding the fastener, she reached into my pocket and pulled out her panties.

"Now now, if you want a souvenir you have to ask for it," she giggled as she stepped into the bathroom to clean up. I could tell she wanted me to say something in reply to her slutty banter, but my mind was still too staggered to really formulate anything. "Well, if you ever want to get together again, call me," she said. When she was done, she came over and slipped a piece of paper with her number on it into my pocket in place of her panties. "Seriously, if you're ever in Detroit, give me a call."

With a quick peck on my lips, she turned and got her high heels, leaving me still standing there. I staggered over to the same lounge chair I'd just finished fucking her in and sat down, still perplexed. What the hell had just happened?

"
Y
our secret ingredient is
. . . ribs!"

I looked over at Shannon, whose face narrowed as she slipped into her mental space that I knew she went to whenever she was mentally game-planning. We were in a borrowed kitchen to simulate the fact that we'd be cooking in an unfamiliar space, and we were in the three-minute planning period that the producers had told Shannon would be given to her before her time actually started. Of course, due to the magic of television editing, that three minutes would look like about ten seconds, but it heightened the drama that way. The guy acting as official timekeeper, the owner of the private cooking school we were using for this practice, tapped his desk as one minute of the time passed. Two minutes left.

On the chopping block in front of the room was a selection of ribs, with pork, beef and lamb all there. Another secret of the
Iron Chef
competition is that the producers tell the contestants beforehand that they will be competing with one of five different possibilities for their secret ingredient. So it wasn't like we were walking in totally blind. We even knew who we'd be competing against, one of my culinary heroes, who specialized in Mediterranean food and had a spice palette similar to my own. It made my palms sweat, but I felt good about it.

"All right guys, huddle up," Shannon said. She used a lot of football analogies, her father played quarterback for Nebraska back in the seventies I think. "Okay, here's the plan. Pork ribs broken down into pulled pork for sliders, baby back beef ribs, a lamb crown roast, and pork bits pan roasted for a caramel on a pork fat ice cream. Smith, I want you making up our sauce. Hobards, you're on the crème anglaise and getting the fat off of some pork ribs. Aksoy, you're on the crown roast. Remember, we only have an hour, so you'll need to move your ass."

Moving my ass was an understatement. A crown rack of lamb usually took at least an hour alone to make, half of the time being prep and another half being cooking, before worrying about plating, presentation or side dishes. I'd have to shave time somewhere, that was for sure.

The timekeeper tapped his table, and Horst, who was playing our host and referee, nodded. "Ready? And go!"

"Bang the gong, we are on!" the timekeeper, a funny man who loved using cheesy lines from the original dub of the Japanese version, yelled. Ignoring him, I sprinted over to my station on the line and immediately started my
mise en place
, or preparations. In a professional kitchen, having everything in just the right place saved precious seconds later.

I tore through the Frenching of my lamb rack, where I shaved off the lower end of the rib to make it look like bare bone in a rapid pace, while Horst overlooked my work. "Keep going," he said, slipping out of his referee role to do some coaching. "Don't miss that silver skin just to save some seconds!"

I saved some time by using garlic paste rather than chopping fresh garlic, and had my rack in the oven by the thirty-five-minute mark. I immediately turned to Shannon, who was chopping away like a madwoman on her own dishes. "Chef! Station clear!"

"Good. Help Smith with his vegetables."

"Yes, Ma'am!" I immediately went over to help one of Alinea's best saucers with the vegetable prep for the other dishes. He told me what to do, and for the next ten minutes the only thing we focused on was working our way through potatoes, bell peppers, some radishes, turnips, and a pile of parsnips that I figured would be quick roasted and turned into a puree. With ten minutes to go, we were doing pretty well, I thought.

The last five minutes was total chaos, with all three assistants bringing things over to Shannon at full speed, either plating them as she ordered us, or turning the pots and pans over to her to plate. I got a dollop of hot parsnip puree splashed on my right hand, burning me, but I didn't stop until the timekeeper counted down the last seconds. As soon as the time was up, I ran over to the sink and stuck my hand under the cold water, soothing the already red section on the back of my hand. Shannon came over to check on me. "You okay?"

"Yes Chef," I replied, gritting my teeth. Burns were one of those things you learned to deal with in a professional kitchen, as much as you tried to minimize them. "Just got some parsnip on me."

Shannon nodded. "Sorry about that. I was getting a bit wild with my spoon there." It was nice of her to admit she had been the one who burned me. In all the hubbub, I didn't even know who it was. "Keep it there for five minutes, then we'll all sit down, taste and critique."

It was my favorite part of each practice, the tasting and critiquing. Whereas in the real show we'd have food critics and different TV personalities giving us points, in the practices we only had the four of us, Horst, and the timekeeper. Horst also rotated out, making sure we got different points of view on the food.

The first course was the sliders; which Shannon had done herself. Everyone agreed the pork was juicy, but there was some debate as to whether the sauce needed more spice or more vinegar. "It's going to come down to the judges, really," the timekeeper said. "Like, if you have Judy Joo or Curtis Stone up there, then you can really lay down the spice. On the other hand, if Amanda Freitag is up there, lay off the spice in favor of the vinegar. Total judgment call."

My course was up next, and I was happy that everyone praised my prep work. "The French cuts on this and the spice rub are perfect," Hobards, one of Alinea's pastry chefs said. "Great work."

"I agree, but check that your internal temperature stays in the range I want," Shannon critiqued. "Did you use a thermometer or a timer and the oven dial?"

"Just the time and oven dial, Chef," I said. "Sorry."

"Not a problem now. I know we all get used to things in our own kitchen. Just remember, in Kitchen Stadium everything will be a bit different from what it's like in Alinea. The right time for our oven may not be the exact time there. This kitchen seems to be a bit hot in theirs compared to ours."

"Yes Chef."

The rest of the critique went well, which I expected. It was our fifth practice session together, and we were two weeks out from flying to New York for taping of the show. As we broke up, the clock on the wall beeped that it was now noon. Shannon looked up. "Okay team, you all have at least three hours off before I expect those of you working shift down at Alinea at your stations for service prep. Horst, I'll take the pass tonight, so you can be off until five. Let Banner oversee prep, he's been aching for a shot at sous for a while. I'll keep him in check tonight."

"Good. Now go get some rest, everyone."

We broke up to let the guy who ran the cooking school turn the cleanup over to his apprentices, and headed out into the Chicago sunshine. After five weeks of practice since returning from my Mom's wedding to John Castelbon, my life was going a thousand miles an hour. At least twice a week Shannon had us in for a team practice such as what we'd just done, as well as daily little quizzes and other mental preparations for the show itself. I'd spent dozens of hours with Shannon overlooking my work and filling my head with knowledge, and I knew for sure that in those weeks I'd learned more than I had in my entire four years of culinary college at Kendall.

I was grateful that I actually had the rest of the day off. I'd worked the previous five days, and Shannon was making sure going into the show that her battle crew was staying close to the supposedly normal forty-hour work week. Although to tell you the truth, at that point in my life I had never met anyone, from line cook to executive chef, who worked in a high end kitchen and only did forty hours a week. Most did fifty, with ambitious climbers doing sixty to eighty hours regularly. Twelve hour days were not that uncommon, five and sometimes six days a week.

Just outside the restaurant was a bus stop, and I hopped on the number 8 bus, which took me close to my apartment. Left Bank at K station is one of the best high rise apartments in the entire city, and I rented one of the three bedroom units through my trust fund. I figured that someday I would purchase my own place, but I didn't want to waste my money unnecessarily. In the meantime, I rented the large unit because I wanted Mom and John to have a place to stay, and it allowed me to have guests over from time to time without too many difficulties.

I was walking the few blocks from the bus stop to my apartment when my phone buzzed, and I pulled it out of the small messenger bag that I used as my everyday carrier. I was surprised when I saw that it was Julian calling me. In the weeks since our parents had gotten married, my new stepbrother had pretty much disappeared, going back to Los Angeles I thought. It was only due to habit that I even had his phone number programmed into my phone at all. "Hello, Julian?"

"Hey Krystal. How's my new stepsister doing?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear, double checking I had the right person on the line. The display on my phone still said
Julian Castelbon
. "I'm okay Julian, how about you?"

"Well, not so good actually," Julian said. "I'm kind of stuck out at O'Hare, as my license has been suspended and I can't seem to find a hotel that has a room open for me. Listen, I know this is weird, and I apologize, but do you mind if I crash at your place?"

I noticed he hadn't told me anything about why he was in Chicago, or even why his driver's license was suspended. Typical Julian. I sighed. Still, he was family, if only for the past month and a half. "Fine Julian, but just for a few days. Grab a taxi over to Left Bank at K Station. It's on Canal Street, but most taxi drivers know where it is. When you get to the lobby, give me a call."

"Sounds great. Thanks, Krys. I appreciate it." The phone went dead in my ear, and I thought to myself as I saw my building come up,
What have I gotten myself into?

I
hung up my phone
, still somewhat confused. What the hell was I doing in Chicago, anyway? And why in the hell had I just called Krystal acting like I was tapped out and needed a place to stay? Just what the hell was happening to me?

About six weeks prior, things had been super clear. After getting the call from Johnathan that he was getting married, and that his new wife had a daughter close to my age, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to fuck the hell out of my new stepsister, and leave her three holed and sopping wet, humiliated. The videotape of that would make a great Christmas gift, in my opinion.

When I met her though, something in me kept me from sealing the deal. There was something in the way Krystal acted, like while she was attracted to me, she also didn't really care for my personality or even who I was. Typically, when someone looked down on me like that, I'd just tell them to fuck off and get on with my life. But there was something in Krystal's behavior, something that said
I'd be interested if you just got real
that screwed with my head.

When at the reception, my ploy didn't work, I ended up fucking Krystal's aunt, Gina Aksoy. While not too bad, when I was in the middle of the act, hearing Krystal's voice sent me into a fantasy that shook me to the core. I ended the night, instead of being a super-alpha stud like I'm accustomed to, to being left sitting in remembrance and almost romantic longing.

The six weeks since hadn't exactly been normal either. Going back to Los Angeles, it just felt like a lot of the things that I'd done for fun before just didn't quite have the same sort of thrill anymore. Hitting up the clubs and slut hunting didn't have any appeal for me. At first I thought it was that it was just too easy, but that never stopped me before. The same with starting fights, trying to find the newest starlet to try and ruin . . . all of it. About the only thing that gave me any pleasure was going to the gym, where I became a pretty constant fixture. Even Randy, the shift manager who I could say was a buddy, had noticed. "Yo JC," he said to me one day after I finished a workout and was getting ready to go. "Let me bend your ear for a moment."

Nodding, I followed him back into the back office, while the front desk was turned over to some pimply faced high school kid who normally just folded towels and cleaned up the locker room. Randy sat down and reached into the small refrigerator he kept next to his desk. Grabbing two cans of protein shake out of the chilled interior, he passed one over to me. "New stuff, just came in," he said, popping the top. "Forty grams of micro ionized whey, berry flavor, and carbonated. To me, it kind of tastes a lot like Hawaiian Punch mixed with Sprite."