“Okay, it’s something. But I’ll deal with it like I always deal with my problems. By listening to a murder podcast and crafting miniature cemeteries out of thrifted teapots. Let’s move on from that. What brings you by? I know you didn’t come here to catch me talking to my overbearing mother and aunts. Are you here for dinner, finally? Or do you need my help?”
The hint of irritation in her voice when she says “finally” doesn’t escape my notice. I catch myself before I grin when I remember why I’m here. She might not like me grinning at her annoyance, and I can’t risk making her angry right now. Not that I want her to be angry with me at all, but I don’t want to risk making her so mad she refuses to help me.
“That’s an understatement,” I say, doing my best to sound apologetic. “Tina, I fucked up.”
It’s her turn to ask a question with her eyebrow, and I have to say, I can see the appeal. Watching her thick dark brow creep up over the frame of her glasses does something to me. Blood begins to creep its way south, much to my surprise. Who knew I was an eyebrow guy?
Who knew being an eyebrow guy was even a thing?
I force my attention to the matter at hand. “It’s bad. I’m here throwing myself on your mercy, hoping you’ll take pity on me.”
“Oh my God, Nick. What did you do?” She rubs her hands together, her eyes taking on a sinister gleam. “I have freakishly strong arms from all my years working in restaurants so I can help with pretty much anything, but I draw the line at digging graves. It takes too long to get the dirt out from under my fingernails,” she says, holding her hand up to show me her neatlytrimmed nails. “A chef’s cooking is only as good as her hands are clean.”
I open my mouth, but words fail me. Digging graves? What? Whoisthis woman? Before I can gather my thoughts to give her a coherent answer, she continues.
“Anyway, you’re in luck because I have excellent knife skills. Plus, I can butcher a full-grown hog solo in under an hour, and blood is easy to clean if you know what you’re doing.” She grins, and her face lighting up with a combination of glee and something a little more sinister.
The blood that was creeping south earlier picks up the pace. I’m well on my way to having a full-blown erection while standing in the middle of Tina’s kitchen. After the turn our conversation has taken, I’m not entirely sure that’s normal.
“So,” she says, clapping her hands together. “How can I help?”
I clear my head with a shake, making a note to investigate Tina’s blood-thirst another day. “Take it down a notch, Aileen. This has nothing to do with truck drivers.”
She barks a laugh. “I listened to an amazing podcast series all about Aileen Wuornos just the other day. It’s such a sad story. There are a lot of nuances there that deserve further exploration, the difference in how the public views violent acts performed by women and men being only one.”
“I’d be interested in listening to that podcast sometime.” That throwaway comment about Aileen Wuornos was the extent of my knowledge of that case, but Tina seems to be bursting with information about it, which I find fascinating. “But for today, my problem involves less murder, and more cooking.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so? You’ve come to the right place,” she says with a sage nod and a sweep of her arm. “Welcome to Wings and Pizza, where we cook wings. And pizza.”
The sarcasm in her voice would bother me if it came from anyone else, but coming from Tina, it’s tolerable. Enjoyable, even. Okay, you caught me. I like her snarky attitude. A lot.
“Ha ha. Hilarious. Can I tell you my issue? Or do you want to tease me some more first?” Truthfully, I’m torn about what I’d prefer. I need her help, but the thought of her teasing me, then touching me, and kissing me, is pretty damn distracting. I sigh, drawing another of her epic eyebrow raises, which does little to improve my focus. My brain is suffering from a serious lack of blood flow right now, and it’s making me stupid.Come on, Odd Duck. Do what you came here to do.
She gestures for me to go on.
“I have a gym full of trainers and athletes I promised to feed, but nothing to feed them,” I blurt.
Two eyebrows go up, and somehow it’s even hotter than when she raises just one. My dick presses painfully against the zipper of my jeans.
“That’s it? No bodies to dispose of? No crimes to cover up?”
I nod distractedly, willing her not to look down. If she sees the situation in my pants right now, I can pretty much guarantee she’ll never go out with me, let alone help me with the problem at hand. What kind of man gets hard talking about serial killers and ordering dinner? A weird one, that’s who. “Yeah. I need to feed ten athletic men and women with enormous appetites, and I dropped the ball.”
“So, what? You want to order a bunch of pizzas?”
“Well,” I say, raising my shoulders in some sort of mega shrug, “I was looking online, and I saw that you sometimes do catering. Is there any way I could order some dishes from the catering menu?”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “You know, most people order catering in advance.”
“I know, I know.” I cringe. “I’m sorry to bother you with it, but my home kitchen is mostly out of commission, and the dorms above the gym don’t have any of the equipment needed to make the quantity of food we’d need to feed all these people.” The dorms have double burner induction cooktops, mini fridges, and microwaves. My house has the same equipment in triplicate, plus the ancient green fridge that came with the house.
“That sucks. What’s wrong with your kitchen?”
When I moved here six months ago, I assumed I would live above the gym. I originally planned on making it into a loft style apartment. Imagine how short my commute would have been? But before long, I realized it made more sense to make that space into dorms for visiting athletes, which necessitated buying a house for myself instead. The problem arose when the house the realtor found for me was decorated exactly like it had been when it was built. In the seventies.
“It’s been under renovation for months, and will be for the foreseeable future. The appliances I ordered have been delayed so many times I’m beginning to doubt they’ll ever get here. And since I got rid of the avocado-colored stove when the company first issued a delivery date, I’ve been without a proper space to cook. When I put together this week-long retreat, I did so under the assumption that I would have a proper kitchen to work with. Sadly, that didn’t pan out. I bought extra induction cooktops and microwaves for my house, where some of the out of towners are staying, but it’s still not enough to cook a meal for more than a few people at once.” And truthfully, I completely forgot about all of it until this morning when trainers and athletes began arriving at the gym. Who invites a bunch of people to a retreat then promptly forgets all about it? Someone who spent the last couple of months focusing on becoming certified as a foster guardian so an especially talentedteenage fighter could come stay for an extended training camp, that’s who. Or, if you listen to Rhett’s opinion, someone who has some issues with organization.
“Uh huh, okay.” Her head swivels before her gaze settles on the walk-in fridge at the back of the room. “Got it. Come with me,” she says, turning away without waiting for me to follow.
