Hot Under Pressure (14 page)

Making a sucking noise with his front teeth, Winslow gave Beck a disgusted look. “Man, you’ve got no grasp of innuendo. Let me ask you this. Who, here—” Win spread his arms wide to encompass the larger group of chefs, “might know where the good late-night hangout is in this ’hood? Hmm.”

As if Winslow had put a hand on Beck’s chin and pushed, Beck turned to glance at Skye talking to the big Latino guy from her team on the outer fringe of the crowd.

Setting his jaw, Beck gave Winslow the most impassive look he could come up with.

“Aw, come on, homes. Go talk to your girl. One itty question isn’t going to kill either of you.”

In other words, nut up.

He cuffed the side of Winslow’s head on general principles before dropping out of the herd to hang back and wait for Skye.

Chapter 13

“Come on, Oscar, you know Fi is the right choice. She works fast and clean—”

“And she’s the best at keeping you from spinning out and overthinking shit. I know.”

The big guy still didn’t look all that happy. Skye bit her lip. She abhorred this kind of drama. The back-and-forthing and he-said-she-said and one-upmanship of jockeying for kitchen positions was her A-number-one least favorite part of running her own small business.

Because every dispute, every argument, every ridiculous bet had to be settled by just one person: the boss.

In this case, Skye. Who hadn’t understood when she opened Queenie Pie that she was letting herself in for a long, distinguished career as a mediator/therapist.

Except right now, Oscar didn’t seem to actually be arguing with her decision to make Fiona the sous-chef for the finals.

“So you agree she should compete with me?”

Oscar shrugged, his barrel chest barely flexing with the movement. “I guess. Just … I don’t know.”

Skye resisted the urge to scream. “You
do
know.”

“It feels like a stunt,” he blurted, black brows beetling over his unhappy brown eyes. “What that Jansen guy said…”

Oh, Skye remembered. Pushing aside the irritation she always felt, every single time some reporter singled her out as one of the best
female
chefs in the city, or part of the new crop of talented
female
chefs opening their own eateries, Skye said, “Ignore him. We’re going to win this thing because we’re solid, we rock the kitchen, and we cook great food. Not because we’ve got ovaries and breasts.”

The dark, velvety voice from behind her sent chills to tighten the sweaty hair at the nape of Skye’s neck.

“There are so many places I could go with that.”

She told herself it was ludicrous to blush at the fact that her soon-to-be-ex-husband had heard her say the word
breasts
when he’d not only seen but touched hers. Multiple times. Not that remembering those occasions helped her cool down at all.

“This guy gonna be a problem, boss?”

Nobody, Skye reflected, loomed like Oscar. He even managed it when the man he was looming over was his equal in size and strength.

Beck didn’t exactly look intimidated, however. His calm, questioning gaze turned to Skye. “Am I a problem for you, Skye?”

“Of course not,” she snapped, which played right into his hands, but what else could she say? Other than “We’re fine, Oscar, go catch up with everyone else. I’ll find you later.”

Casting a deeply suspicious glare in Beck’s direction, Oscar did as she asked. As the kitchen door closed behind him, Skye arched a brow at Beck, determined to be as aloof and uncaring about all this as he was.

“You got what you wanted. We’re alone. So what happens next?”

Silent laughter glittered in the depths of Beck’s dark eyes, although his mouth never even twitched. God, how she used to live for those brief moments of secret amusement.

“I was hoping for a quick word, just to ask a question. But if you’ve got something else in mind, I’m all ears.”

Skye’s pulse raced uncomfortably, but she managed a credible yawn. “You know what? I’m too hot and sweaty to play word games with you all night. Just tell me what you want.”

Beck shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the way she kept setting him up, but instead of going the obvious route and teasing her about how hot and sweaty he’d like to get with her, all he said was “My team’s looking to blow off some steam. You got a recommendation for a good after-hours spot, chill enough to not care if things get rowdy?”

Somehow, that wasn’t at all the question she’d anticipated. Blinking swiftly, she said, “Yeah, sure. In fact, if they just follow Fiona and the rest of my crew, they’ll be headed in the right direction. I’m pretty sure they were on their way to the Grape Ape.”

His expression didn’t change, but somehow he conveyed the sense that he was rolling his eyes on the inside. “Yes, the Grape Ape,” she confirmed testily. “It’s a jazz club with a hookah bar on the side, and a list of small-batch indie liquors a mile long.”

Actually, now that she thought about it … she grinned maliciously. “You’re going to hate it.”

Beck had never liked her taste in music; he used to complain that jazz sax sounded like someone blowing into the wrong end of a cat.

And the whole hookah scene? She almost wanted to go along with everyone to the bar, just to see the look on his face.

Although, knowing Beck—who’d somehow become even more stone-faced in the ten years they’d been apart—there wouldn’t be much to see.

“Sounds awesome,” he said, dry as cornmeal flour. “Can’t wait.”

There was a short pause while Skye tried not to think about the fact that her clothes were stuck to her in some unfortunate places, stained with who-knew-what.

Finally, Beck said, “So. Will I see you at this Grape Ape place?”

“Later, probably,” she said vaguely, plucking at the green tank top she’d worn under her chef’s jacket. “I’ve got some things to take care of first.”

Maybe she was turning into an old fuddy-duddy—Fiona certainly thought so, and told Skye so, on a regular basis—but Skye just wasn’t as into the late-night, after-service bar scene as she used to be.

Okay, she’d never been
that
into it. But it was what you did when you ran a restaurant, when you were a hard-working, plate-slinging chef who put in the hours and wanted to fit in with the guys on the line, so she’d done her time with the rabble-rousers.

Tonight, though, all she wanted was a little peace and solitude, and the chance to finally cool down.

Being anywhere near Beck? Not conducive to getting what she wanted.

*   *   *

The Grape Ape was exactly as Skye had described it—right down to the fact that Beck hated the place from the minute he first pushed his way through floor-length strands of beaded fringe to get from the entryway into the bar itself.

A miasma of odd-smelling smoke hung in the air, fruitier and sweeter than tobacco but without the herbal grassiness of marijuana. He realized it came from the hookahs, set up on low, round tables throughout the bar.

In addition to cocktails made with artisanal alcohol, the menu featured tobacco flavored with unlikely combinations, such as mint and grape—the Great Grape Ape Special—and tropical fruits like guava and mango.

It smelled like hippies in there.

And the music … Beck took another sip of his Balcones True Blue corn whiskey and hoped the satisfying warmth that spread through his belly would offset the discordant screeching in his ears.

He shuddered, noticeably enough that Winslow turned to him with a smirk and a gesture at Beck’s nearly full glass of amber liquid. “Rougher stuff than you’re used to, tough guy?”

“It’s not the drink,” Beck told him, wincing as the skinny red-haired saxophone player on the stage in the corner hit a note high enough to shatter diamonds.

“Ah. Not a fan of the most creative, improvisational music ever invented?”

“Not you, too,” Beck groaned.

“Me too? Who else—oh, I see.” Winslow got that oddly wise look on his boyish face. “It didn’t click for me before, but now I get it. Queenie Pie Café, that’s cute. I like it.”

Beck couldn’t help it. He tensed all over, curling his fingers around his glass until the tips of them went numb from cold. “What do you mean?”

“Queenie Pie—that’s Duke Ellington’s great unfinished musical. Your lady must be a big fan, to name her restaurant after it.”

“Ellington. Yeah, that rings a bell. Christ!” He whipped his head around and scowled at the musician onstage. “Why does there always have to be a saxophone player?”

“Duke Ellington was a pianist. God, I love that word. Say it with me three times, fast. Pianist, pianist, pianist!”

It wasn’t the kind of place where people turned and glared, which was a good thing, because Winslow nearly toppled off his floor pillow while cackling.

“How old are you?” Beck asked, honestly curious. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that young.

“Old enough to know better,” Win shot back, “but not so old I’ve completely lost my sense of humor and fun. God. Anyway, I was saying. What was I saying?”

Nudging Win’s third glass of unidentified sugary, vividly green cocktail away from the edge of the table, Beck shrugged.

“Oh! Right. Duke Ellington. One of the greats. Pretty quotable, too. Know what he said about jazz?”

“There always has to be a loud, screechy, annoying sax solo?” Beck guessed.

“No!” Winslow struggled to sit up straight before finally giving in to gravity and collapsing back against the mound of cushions piled at their corner table. “He said jazz was like the kind of guy you didn’t want your daughter to associate with.”

That caught Beck by surprise, and he snorted before he could stop himself. Winslow, of course, jumped on it. “What?”

“Nothing.” Beck swirled the amber liquid in his glass, clinking the dwindling ice cubes together gently. “Just … it suddenly makes sense to me why Skye likes it so much.”

“Oh, I see.” Winslow’s Wise, Learned Sage look was back. “Mumsie and Daddums didn’t approve of their cherished darling dating a boy from the wrong side of the tracks?”

Beck clenched his jaw, pressing his lips together tightly. Why the hell was he even talking about this? “Christ, it was so long ago,” he finally exhaled on an explosive breath.

“Time-wise, maybe, but you can’t act like it’s not still affecting you, so don’t even.” Winslow spoke with the slow, deliberate logic of the very drunk—but he was right. Maybe it was time to let some of this garbage go. Or at least figure a way around it so he could move forward.

Besides, Win was wasted. That made it a little easier, somehow.

Surrendering to the inevitable, Beck set his glass down on the table. “You’re way off base. I mean, I was from the wrong side of the tracks, I guess. Or the wrong side of the Bay, anyway. But her parents loved me. I was the perfect cause—a troubled youth to cart around to all their intellectual gatherings and show off, to prove how liberal and inclusive they were.”

Feeling the corner of his mouth twist up in a humorless smile, Beck regarded Winslow over the edge of his glass. “They would’ve been all over you.”

Win barked a laugh, green eyes sparkling. “Shit, I’ll bet. Black
and
gay! I mean, who doesn’t love a two-for-one deal?” His smile faded quickly, though, and his gaze went thoughtful. “So when did they stop loving you?”

Beck stared down at his rye, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “About the time I proposed … and she accepted.”

“Huh. That seems a little bass ackwards, to me.”

Shrugging, Beck stared out into the dark, smoky bar. “You have to know Skye’s parents, I guess. Arty, hippie types—to the extreme. They weren’t married, didn’t believe in it. I don’t think they meant to have a kid, either—always seemed a lot more wrapped up in their causes and their pretentious art gallery showings and lame-ass pothead friends than in taking care of Skye. But they sure as hell had plenty to say when she wasn’t acting the way they thought she should.”

Win propped his chin on one unsteady hand and waved the other in the air. “Keep it coming,” he slurred. “This is good stuff.”

Of course, that made Beck want to clamp down. “Nah, it’s ancient history, man. We got married anyway, they cut her off, whatever.”

The wrench of pain in his gut was as familiar as an old friend when he lifted his glass for another sip and said, “It’s not like they had it all wrong, anyway. Skye and me, we didn’t last. They were right about that.”

“What were they wrong about?” Rye burned down Beck’s throat as he blinked at Win through the haze.

“What?” Blinking owlishly, Win said, “You said her parents didn’t have it
all
wrong. So some of it was wrong. Which part?”

Beck shot a suspicious glance at the neon green cocktail with—what was that? Cucumber slices floating around in it.

“That drink is non-alcoholic. It has to be. No way you’re this perceptive after a slew of real cocktails.”

Win’s eyes shifted guiltily, then he sighed and gave it up. “Okay, yeah. It’s just a cucumber water and mint spritzer. But there’s a buttload of sugar in it! Enough to make me loopy, I swear. Besides, I knew you’d be more likely to open up if you thought there was a possibility I wouldn’t even remember this conversation tomorrow.”

“You little shit,” Beck said, but he couldn’t help the wry smile that tugged at his mouth.

“I was kinda right, though, wasn’t I?” Sensing that he was forgiven, Win rolled up to his knees and put his hands up in front of his chest, begging like a puppy. “So come on, finish the story! Skye’s parents were right that you crazy kids didn’t stay together—sorry about that—but what were they wrong on?”

Okay, that was about enough sharing for one night.

Beck deflected by tossing back the rest of his drink and slapping Winslow on the back. “They said we’d get divorced, obviously—but we never got around to it.”

Although, if Skye had her way … Beck’s mood darkened.

Visibly, if the way Win’s eyes narrowed was any clue. “Yeah. I wonder why. Seems like most people who spend ten years apart do finally manage to break up all the way.”

Slamming his empty glass down hard enough to make the remaining slivers of ice jump, Beck growled, “Well, we didn’t. But it doesn’t matter now. It’s over, whether we have the official paper saying so or not.”