Luck on the Line (15 page)

She keeps walking over to me and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I said—”

“Oh, I’m not here about the interview,” her syrupy sweet voice tells me. She holds out her hand and we both shake harder than we need to. “Clarissa Adams. I’m from
The Boston Inquirer
. Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

“All interviews go through our publicity department,” I say with the best pageant smile I can muster. I don’t even know who our publicity department is. But I recognize her name. She’s the reporter who wrote those spotlights on James.

I get resting bitch face in return.

“I was just hoping to talk, girl to girl.”

“Sure. I can give you all the information about the opening—”

She interrupts me with a high pitched cough. “Actually, my
readers
are more interested in Chef James. I heard you all got into a bit of a brawl last night.”

“Where’d you hear that?” I ask, the pleasantries leaving my voice.

She shrugs and makes herself at home at the bar. She takes one of the cocktails we’re sampling. Belle busies herself washing some glasses but keeps looking over.

“Everyone watching the game on TV caught him on the jumbotron.” She laughs. I hate that she laughs.

I want to bite my tongue. There is no way that I should say anything to this “reporter.” But I’m defensive and pissed off and she’s drinking my cocktail. “It was one of those things that you had to be there for. We were provoked. This guy threw beer at me. He insulted us. It was a whole thing.”

I’m surprised that she’s jotting things down instead of recording me. Then again, writing down dialogue is the best way to get words mixed up.

“Why are you so interested?” I ask.

Clarissa Adams smiles. She has perfect teeth. “He’s such a local boy. We like to focus on our own.”

“So are many of the chefs here in Boston.”

“I just think it’s
so
great that you and your mother have taken Chef James in, you know, despite his rough beginnings.”

I press my tongue to my canine. I hold her stare to see how much she’s bullshiting. If I ask her
what past
then I might not like what I hear. Who the hell does she think she is? But there’s that curiosity again. I want to know everything about James and she can sense it. I think back to my conversations with James. He keeps his personal life out of it. Then again, we’ve only just met, so his personal life isn’t my business. Until now.

“Are you two…?” Clarissa asks, pursing her lips to the tip of her pen cap. A suggestive, blonde eyebrow waits for my response.

My mind flashes to James’s lips on mine and I’m sure that despite my best efforts, my face is scarlet. She’s caught me off guard. Man, she’s good. She can destroy lives with just the spin of her words. “No, not at all. 
I’m sorry, but what’s your interest with James Hughes? Is circulation down at
The Boston Inquirer
?”

She doesn’t take the bait. Clarissa looks up at the construction and points out. “Isn’t the tasting this weekend?”

That does it. I wish I wore earrings so I could take them off along with my proverbial gloves. “Look, I’m going to be straight with you, Clarissa. Whatever you’re trying to dig for, you’re not going to find. Lots of people get into fights at games. Fuck, that guy deserved it. Chef James has proven himself to be a great asset to the restaurant and there’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind.”

She takes a long sip and sets the glass on the table. “I’m glad you’re so sure about that.”

“Do you have
any
real questions that pertain to the restaurant? Or are you here because you have a crush?”

Clarissa digs into her purse for a small manila envelope. It’s unmarked and sealed. “Just take a look at this. Give me a call when you’re ready to talk.”

My skin crawls, like I’m the stomping ground for a thousand spiders. “Bribery is very unattractive.”

Clarissa smirks. “It’s not bribery. It’s more of a gift from me to you. You seem to be running the show since The Star’s star is out of town. Don’t look so surprised—we’re a gossip rag after all. It’s my job to know everything about people of interest. And right now, I find you all very interesting.”

I take the envelope and push it across the bar. Belle catches it before it lands on the floor and sinks it in the garbage. If I have to spend any more time with this crazy bitch, I’m going to throttle her myself.

“Like I said, if you have any questions pertaining to The Star and its employees, I’ll get you that publicity number. Belle will see you out when you’ve finished your cocktail.”

I turn on my heel and mumble to myself, “I hope you choke on it.”

I wait in the kitchen where Nunzio is trying out different heat levels for the jalapeno cornbread. He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong, just cuts off a chunk onto a plate and hands it to me. Good man.

When I hear Clarissa’s pumps exit the building, I go back to the bar where Belle has fetched the envelope from the garbage.

“How bad did you want to open it in front of her?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Not as badly as I wanted to pour that drink over her head.”

“Hell hath no fury,” Belle says.

I trace the edge of the envelope as the realization hits me. “Leave it to James to bone the half of Boston that includes a vindictive gossip columnist.”

Belle makes me another drink. She scoffs, “Girl, what makes you think it’s only half? Have you seen the eyes on that boy? I’m going to need a warning before he comes to work. Wear sunglasses or something. I don’t know why you didn’t do one of those open kitchens so you could watch the chefs go to town. I’d pay extra just to see Chef James sweat on my food. Mm-mmm.”

Belle lightens my mood considerably. When the day is gone, and still no James, I go home with Clarissa’s envelope burning a hole through my hands. I know that if I look at it and see something I don’t like, I’m going to regret giving her the power to utterly piss me off. If I don’t look, then I’m sure she’ll find another way to get at me. The sensible thing to do would be to give this to James. It’s surely about him.

At the penthouse, Felicity has ordered Indian food. She left me some chicken korma and naan on the counter and holed herself in her room. If I were any kind of good person I’d invite her out, even if it’s just to watch TV. But my brain is on a single track on the James Hughes Express, that will inevitably lead to a dead end or cliff.

I sit in the living room with my plate of food, a glass of wine, and the envelope at my side. Of course, its default channel is Foodie TV and
Sliced Champion
is on. The host introduces the four competing chefs. First, a middle-aged woman with pink hair from California who claims to be the best at everything. Next, a young gay New Yorker who wants to bring sexy back in your mouth with the sheer power of his cordon bleu. Then, an older guy who used to be in finance, but he wanted to kill himself, so he created a restaurant that does mac n’ cheese every way possible. Finally, there’s James.

I jump on my seat and choke on my wine. He’s not as verbose as the other chefs. He stares at the camera like he’s looking in a mirror and judging himself. Not the confident swagger I saw at the coffee shop a few days ago. I guess prize money goes a long way. Unlike the rest, he doesn’t have his own restaurant and he doesn’t boast his skill. They shoot footage of him walking through Boston Common. “Food saved me,” he says. “Being in the kitchen is the closest thing I’ll ever get to art. It’s home, like Boston. I’m here to be the next Sliced Champion.” The camera cuts to my mother and then I can’t take it anymore.

Clarissa Adams wins.

I dig my finger into the opening and tear it open. I suck my finger at the sting of a paper cut. Inside, there’s a single photograph. I know it’s not photoshopped. It can’t be. Clarissa can’t be that good. His face is washed out by the white light of the flash. He stares at the lens the same way he just did on TV—hard, serious, unsure. Only in this photo—this mug shot—all of that is dialed up ten times. I never noticed the tiny scar above his eyebrow or the one by his chin. He’s younger here. You can tell by how much slimmer he is. His cheekbones are more pronounced, his facial hair less scruffy.

Perhaps I spoke too soon when I told Clarissa that nothing would change my opinion of James. I wonder what he did. Wonder if this is the thing that food saved him from.

It’s not the first time I’ve been attracted to a criminal. I dated a guy who went to jail for forging signatures on tabs after giving himself really fat tips. We broke up because he was canoodling with all of the waitresses, though.

I could be wrong, calling James a criminal. After all, one mug shot does not a felon make. Lots of celebrities have them, for anything from drunk driving to murdering their spouse. This particular freak out involves calling my mother. I told myself I wouldn’t do it. As the phone rings I wonder what I’ll say. I think I’ll go with:
Hey, did you happen to do a background check on the guy that’s plastered to your restaurant name?
I hang up before I get her voicemail.

Then I call Bradley. He’s at a loud bar and begs me to come out. I almost invite him over, except that I remember how he told Sky about my job at Hogs & Heifers, and how he told my mother I was in town days before I said I was. If loose lips sink ships, then Bradley’s—as beautiful as they are—would do James in like the Titanic.

So I go to the only place I can to get answers. There are times when your body betrays the very careful neuroses of your mind. For starters, James and I were two pieces of clothing away from doing the deed in the living room last night. I’m 100% sure that’s the reason he didn’t show up to work. I consider that maybe he
did
have a family emergency, despite Nunzio’s terrible lie-face. I decide we’re going to sit down and have a nice, calm, polite conversation about everything.

As the night hugs James’s neighborhood of Back Bay, and I search for the door with his name on it, I have a very loud argument with myself. It goes something like:

Lucky #1: Go home.

Lucky #2: I have to see if he’s faking it. Also, if he’s a wanted fugitive.

Lucky#1: Don’t be silly, he’s totally faking a family emergency.
Probably
not a fugitive though. He’s all over TV. He would be the worst fugitive ever.

Lucky #2: I hate it when you’re right.

Lucky #1: You
think
you have to see, but really, this is like pouring salt in the giant gaping wound that is your heart. Like the time you found a used condom in your boyfriend’s apartment when you two hadn’t used condoms since you went on the pill? You hid in the closet and pretended you were at work all night while he had a girl over and he fucked her on the couch. But you never came out of the closet—you just wanted to see for yourself. Then you broke up with him and he didn’t even seem beat up about it. The wound. The salt. Oh, the salt!

Lucky #2: This isn’t the same. He might be worried that the only reason he got hired is because he’s hot.

Lucky #1: That’s the reason most people get hired in this business. Tell him to grow a pair.

Lucky #2: Duh, that’s why I’m going to his house. If I can find the number. All these brownstones look exactly the same.

Lucky #1: Close your eyes and try to channel your drunk memory.

Lucky #2: There’s no such thing as drunk memory.

Lucky #1: Yes there is. It’s the thing that prevents you from showing your face around the same people you embarrassed yourself in front of. Maybe James’s drunk memory doesn’t want to see you.

Lucky #2: I hate you.

Lucky #1: I hate you, too.

An old woman with a dog walks past me. The furry white thing barks at me and I bare my teeth at it. That’s when I remember the dog doorknocker. James’s apartment is right below it. I let myself into the gate once the lady and her evil canine go into their brownstone.

Just as I’m about to knock, I realize James isn’t alone. He’s fighting with someone. Their muffled screams are broken up by a lamp falling to the floor. What if he’s in trouble? Should I call the cops?

There’s a muffled, “Dammit, Frankie.”

And a, “I don’t know what else to do.”

The silence is long, and painful. I should not be here. Whatever James is into, I’m going to have to talk to my mother. I move too fast and a light goes on above me. Just as I’m retreating, the door flings open and a tall guy who looks like James—plus ten years—barrels into me. They have the same eyes, but this guy is halfway to being a silver fox. He reaches out and grabs my shoulders so I don’t fall backwards. His face is red where a fist landed. He grunts a brief greeting, or a dismissal, and then kicks open the gate.

I’m watching what has to be James’s older brother walk away when his voice startles me.

“Lucky, what are you doing here?’

I whip around to face him. He’s shirtless. “Uhhh.”

Yesterday’s five o’clock shadow is more like a full on eclipse. I’m always surprised by how some guys, like James, can make beards look like sex personified, while beards make other guys look like they have a basement full of china dolls.

The mug shot is burning a hole where it’s tucked in my back pocket. My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on cotton. I need a mint and some water. “You didn’t come to work.”

He breathes evenly, but his face is just as red as his brother’s. His bruises from the Fenway fight are darker, and it makes all of this more surreal. If I had found the apartment sooner, what would I have walked into? I’m not a stranger to fucked-up families, but at least my mom and I never yell at each other. Instead we express our disagreement silently, passive aggressively, and with cocktails. I don’t know which one is worse.

James leans against his open front door. I get lost in the curves of his pecs. Then he takes the t-shirt in his hand and puts it on. He’s wearing black on black, like me. “I got Nunzio to cover for me.”

I shake my head. I point my finger at him, an angry spark igniting in my belly. I want to tell him about Clarissa’s visit, but at the same time, I want
him
to tell me about his past through his own free will. Not because he’s scared to lose his job and needs to come clean. Hell, maybe it’s not a big deal and Clarissa is the giant apple of discord. Whatever it is, I want it to come from James and James alone.