The Butcher (7 page)

The bartender gave her a look. “As if.”

She slipped him a five-dollar bill, anyway. “At least let me tip you. Matt around?”

Another look, but this time it was an expression Sam couldn't read. “Yeah, he's out back. I'd wait a few minutes, though. I heard he was cussing someone out.”

“Really? Who?”

He shrugged, throwing a dish towel over one shoulder as he wiped down the bar with a washcloth. “Wait'll you see. If
he's
getting in trouble, we're all in trouble. What I will tell you is that the dude got into a fender bender on the way here, which made him almost an hour late, and I'm sure you know how Matt is about punctuality. He's not being very understanding about it.”

“I do know, but . . . you're kidding. It was a car accident.”

The bartender leaned in. “You didn't hear this from me, but the boss has been in one helluva shit mood the last few days. Screaming at everyone, difficult to talk to. Everyone's been tiptoeing around him and nobody wants to set him off. Any idea what's going on with him?”

Sam hesitated, not sure what she could say. She didn't know anything, and it made her feel stupid. “I'm sure it's just stress.”

“What does he have to be stressed about? This place is kicking ass, the food trucks are making mad money, and he's going to be on a reality show. The guy's about to blow up.” The bartender stopped, his face reddening. “Oh shit. I shouldn't talk about it. You're his girlfriend.”

Sam downed her mojito and patted his arm. “We'll keep it between us. Thanks for the drink.”

She maneuvered her way through the busy restaurant with its cappuccino walls, distressed wood tables, and cream leather chairs. Matt
had done a great job of creating a warm and cozy, yet slightly upscale, ambience. Adobo had been open for less than two years, and thanks to the popularity of the food trucks strategically placed at all the big farmers' markets and food fairs around the greater Seattle area, the restaurant had become quite successful. Pretty impressive considering how competitive the Seattle food business was.

Adobo was a tribute to Matt's Filipino grandmother's cuisine, and had long been her boyfriend's dream.

She ordinarily wouldn't drop in this close to the dinner rush, but Sam hadn't heard from Matt in almost two days. He hadn't returned her calls or texts, and while Sam was trying not to take it personally, she was irritated. The whole world didn't revolve around Matt Shank, despite what he liked to think, and his arrogance was the one thing about him she truly disliked.

But he got like this sometimes, especially when under pressure. He was the most ambitious person she'd ever known, and she couldn't deny that his drive was one of the things she was most attracted to. She never doubted that he would be extremely successful at anything he wanted to do, and so far, she was right.

Their relationship was going on three years now, certainly not the longest in the history of relationships, but long enough that discussions of the future and “Where is this going?” were happening a little more frequently. She knew Matt loved her. Of course he did. She loved him, too. But unlike Matt, Sam knew what she wanted. Marriage. House. Kids. Preferably in that order, but she was learning to be flexible.

You had to be, if you were Matthew Shank's girlfriend. Nothing was ever linear with him, and his career always came first. But it wasn't sitting well with Sam anymore. She was twenty-nine years old. She was ready. Matt was thirty-two, and he still wasn't.

She entered the kitchen. Heads looked up and several of the kitchen staff smiled at her. Raoul, Matt's head chef, caught her eye.

“Out back, mama,” he said, flicking his head toward the back door. “I'd wait a few minutes, though. He's having a . . . discussion.” He said the last word distastefully.

“I heard,” Sam said, squeezing Raoul's arm as she passed. Crossing the kitchen, she pushed open the door and was met with a cool breeze and loud voices.

“I run a restaurant. A
busy
fucking restaurant.” Matt was barking and Sam didn't have to see his face to know her boyfriend was enraged. “If you're going to be late, you
call
me. You're my assistant head chef. You don't leave me short for a half hour on a Friday night when we've got a lineup waiting for tables.”

“I already told you, dude, I got held up because this kid rear-ended me—”

“Did he rear-end your phone, too?”

“No, but dude, he—”

“And stop calling me dude. When we're at work, I'm your boss, not your friend.”

Sam peeked through the door and was shocked when she saw who it was Matt was yelling at. It was PJ, his old college friend, someone they'd both known for years. The same PJ who'd just been through a terrible divorce, and who'd been working with Matt since day one when Matt only had a food truck and a dream.

“You know,
dude,
I don't need this shit, okay?” PJ said, sounding scarily close to tears. “Sharon cleaned me out, my apartment is shit, and now my car is fucked. You could have a little sympathy. We've been friends for a long time, man. I always have your back.”

“And I haven't had yours? I brought you in from the beginning, didn't I?” Matt's face was red.
“I made you an assistant head chef. I give you advances on your pay when you blow all your dough on poker and sports betting, which is every other month. I've let a lot of things slide over the years,
dude,
and you still can't get your shit together.”

Under the dim lights of the alley, PJ's face went dark. “Wow. Thanks for making me feel even worse, bro.”

“You don't need this job, you say the word.” Matt's tone was icy. “I mean it.”

PJ opened his mouth to respond, but then seemed to think the better of it and snapped it shut.

Matt jerked his head toward the door. “Get back inside. You're closing tonight. You're the last one to leave.”

Sam moved aside as PJ pushed past her. Giving her a look that was half despair, half anger, he said, “Talk to your boy, Sam. He's losing it.”

Before Sam could think of what to say, Matt was in her face. “What are you doing here? Can't you see I'm busy? I've had a shit day.”

“I was worried about you. You haven't returned my texts and I called you this morning.”

“You don't have to check up on me. I do actually work, you know.”

He made as if to move to past her, and she grabbed his arm. “Hey. You don't speak to me like that. Ever. I don't work for you. Got that,
dude
?”

Matt sighed and ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking very tired. “Fuck. I'm sorry, babe. I've had a busy few days, and I haven't been sleeping, and I'm not feeling well. There's just . . . there's been a lot going on.”

Sam softened and touched her palm to his forehead. “You feel okay. Want me to stay over tonight? I'll wait up, have a little food ready for you when you get in, and I can make you breakfast tomorrow.”

Matt checked his watch. “That won't be until at least one a.m. Mario has to leave early so I have to—”

“Doesn't matter. I'll wait up.”

He smiled. Leaning down, he kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Okay. I'll try and get out as fast as I can.”

“I'll need your key.”

He stopped. “Oh. Right.” He cleared his throat. “Um, you know what, I'll just come over to your place. My house is a disaster, and I didn't go shopping so there's nothing in the fridge . . .”

“You don't want me at your place?”

“It's just really messy.” An uncomfortable pause followed, and then he said, “What are you up to tomorrow?”

“Meeting Jase for coffee.” Sam hesitated, unsure how much she wanted to tell Matt. Another look at his face told her that in this case, less was more. “I'm bouncing some ideas off him for the book.”

It was Matt's turn to stiffen. “Feeding your obsession, I see.”

“Stop.” Sam punched his arm. “It's my job, okay? I write about true crime. You knew that when we met.”

“I guess I'll just never understand it.”

“You don't have to understand it. You just have to support me.”

“Like Jase does?”

She backed up a step and looked up at him. “What's going on with you? He and I have been friends for a long time.”

“I'm well aware of that, thanks.”

Sam waited a few beats, not sure how to respond. Matt had always been a little bit jealous of her relationship with Jason, not that he had any reason to be—after all, Jason was the one who'd introduced them to each other three years ago. She'd known Jason since grade school, and he was like family to her.

Finally she said, “I'll tell him you said hello.”

“You do that.”

“Don't be jealous.” Sam kept her tone light. “He's practically my brother.”

Matt smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. “So you always say.”

“He's your friend, too.”

“He's your friend more.”

There was no point in arguing, because they both knew he was right.

Sam loved Pike Place market.

It hadn't changed much since she was a little girl, other than that it was much busier than she remembered. Tourists from all over the world flocked in to watch the fishermen throw salmon at each other, which was happening right now. Sam stood, captivated, as a hunky twenty-something fisherman dressed in fish-blood-spattered coveralls expertly wrapped brown paper around a huge piece of fresh salmon in record time. He then threw it football-style to his coworker at the cash register, who was a good twenty feet away. The waiting customer, along with the rest of the crowd, laughed and clapped, and pictures on smartphones were snapped.

Inhaling deeply, she could appreciate the weird smell of raw fish and fresh-cut flowers mingling. And though the inner area of the market was noisy, she could still hear sounds from the street outside where a four-man doo-wop a capella group was performing outside the world's very first Starbucks. They were singing an oldie but goodie called “In the Still of the Night.”

She so loved the ambience of the market. It never lost its appeal.

Someone bumped her and she stiffened. Annoyed, she turned around, relieved to see it was only Jason. His usual wise-ass grin was present, and he held out a Starbucks cup. Before she could take it, he withdrew it, and offered his cheek for a kiss. She obliged. It wasn't exactly hard to kiss Jason Sullivan, one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors. He looked particularly handsome today dressed in a fitted button-down and a pair of dark jeans. His dark blond hair, always perfectly wavy, glistened in the late afternoon sun. Two young women walked by him, staring, though it was hard to tell whether it was because they recognized him from his time with the Seahawks, or if he was just
that
good-looking. If Jason noticed, he didn't act like it.

“I didn't see you coming,” she said.

“That's because I have the stealthy moves of a jungle cat.” He finally handed her the coffee cup, which she accepted gratefully. “As requested, madam, a soy chai latte with a shot of vanilla. You owe me four bucks.”

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously.” Jason sniffed the air. “Yuck, it smells like fish in here. Let's go before it permeates my clothes.”

“That's because we're in a fish market, in case you didn't notice. You're such a girl. But kudos on using
permeate
in a sentence. Fancy.”

“Thought you'd appreciate that.”

Sam took a long sip of her coffee, then grimaced slightly. “It's hot. I should have changed my order to an iced latte. I'm going to overheat.” She eyed his drink, which was so cold it was sweating. “Is that a green tea lemonade?”

“Yeah.” He took a sip and then offered it to her. “Switch?”

“Yes, please.”

They exchanged beverages, sipping in silence for a moment, people-watching.

“You know this is nuts, right?” Jason finally said. “Meeting this woman?”

“Yes, I know.”

“You don't even know her name.”

“She doesn't know mine, either.”

“What if she stabs you with an ice pick?”

Sam rolled her eyes. “In broad daylight? In Pike Place?”

“Hey, killers are crazy. You of all people should know that. You can't assume they operate under the same logic you do.” Jason raised an eyebrow, taking a long sip of the chai latte. He made a face. “Gross. How can you drink this? It's way too sweet.”

“Fine, switch back.”

They exchanged drinks again.

“So what does she look like?” Jason asked. “And how will she know who you are?”

Sam shrugged. “The only picture I saw was when she was a teenager, and she had red hair. Her username on the site is ‘KillerRed,' though, so I'm assuming she's still a ginger.” She pulled out her phone and showed him the picture she'd uploaded the other day. “She could look totally different now. Oh, and I told her I had dark hair and would be wearing a green jacket.”

Jason leaned in, taking a closer look at the picture. “Oh wow. That is definitely your mom. No mistaking that.”

Sam smiled.

“I only ever saw that one picture of you two,” he said. “The one in your living room, that was taken here. Is that a coincidence, or did you plan it that way?”

“She picked the place.”

“You look a lot like your mom, you know,” Jason said with a smile. “Same dark eyes, same cute smile, same dark hair. That picture could have been you at sixteen. Except you were dorky. Whatever happened to those purple glasses you used to wear?”

“I still have them.” She poked him in the ribs. “And you think I have a cute smile?”

He rolled his eyes and they shared a laugh. It was always so easy with Jason. His personality was the exact opposite of Matt's—light instead of dark, approachable rather than intimidating. He might not be the hardest worker right now, but Sam didn't hold it against him. He'd made good money during his years with the Seahawks, and had invested his money wisely, and still picked up endorsement deals. He enjoyed life, something she wished Matt knew how to do.