—————Andrew Pov—————
"Die, you camper-ass bitch! I saw you behind that wall!"
"Language, Carl," I call out, dropping my keys in the bowl by the penthouse elevator.
"Blow me, Andrew," my little brother replies cheerfully without taking his eyes off the massive television where animated soldiers are murdering each other in alarmingly realistic high definition.
"I'm sixteen, not six. Besides, Chase's been cursing like a sailor all afternoon. I don't see you lecturing him."
I round the corner to find Carl sprawled across the leather sectional in his
wheelchair, controller in hand, dark hair falling into eyes that are the same blue as mine but somehow warmer, more forgiving.
Across from him, Chase Hunter—my best friend since culinary school and current head chef at Nova, one of Simon Hospitality's crown jewel locations. lounges in the armchair with his own controller, a bottle of beer balanced precariously on the arm.
"Don't drag me into your disciplinary issues," Chase says without looking up. His Filipino accent carries just the faintest trace of his grandmother's Tagalog. "I'm a guest here."
"You're here four nights a week. You're more of a barnacle than a guest."
"A barnacle who brings you the good beer, though." Chase finally glances up and frowns when he sees me. "Speaking of which, you look like you need about six of them. Rough day at the office, honey?"
Carl pauses the game and swivels to face me. I can see him taking inventory, too. They both have this annoying ability to read my moods, and an even more annoying inclination to harass me until I give up at least some emotional breadcrumb to satisfy them.
Fucking jackals.
"Let me guess," Carl says with a wicked grin. "Another employee quit and told you to shove a meat cleaver up your ass on the way out the door?"
"No one quit." Technically, that's true. I didn't accept her resignation.
"Ah." Chase's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "So someone tried to quit. Interesting plot twist. Anyone we know?"
I move to the kitchen, which is not the safe haven I wish it was. Really, it's just an extension of the living room, mostly untouched marble and steel. It's designed less for actual cooking than it is for aesthetics, and it's used more for drinking than it is for actual cooking, too.
Especially when my little brother and best friend conspire to give me shit on what's already been a weird-ass day. I pour myself three fingers of Macallan 25 and seriously consider making it four. "Probably not. Erica Jones. Project manager."
Carl thumbs at his controller, squinting intently toward the screen. "She hot?"
"She's not sixteen, so it's irrelevant to you."
"That's a yes," mumbles Chase.
"Definitely a yes," Carl agrees.
"Smoking, I bet."
"Scorching."
"Radiant."
"Electric."
"Are you two done jerking each other off yet?" I interrupt. I go ahead and add the fourth finger of whiskey, because the first one and a half are already gone and my mood is nowhere near improved.
Carl and Chase look at each other, then at me. "So what'd you do to her?" Chase asks.
I scowl. "What makes you say I did anything?"
"She tried to quit, dumbass. No one tries to quit for no reason. Also, I know you, and I know when you did something. And that little fire in your eye says you definitely did something."
"Amen," chimes in Carl. "He looks guilty as hell."
I roll my eyes, but they're both full steam ahead, and they aren't going to let me off the hook that easily. "She was being disruptive and I reminded her of company protocol."
"Define 'disruptive.'"
"She…" I hesitate. "She brought pastries to the test kitchen."
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the ice maker cycling in the refrigerator.
"She… brought… pastries…" Chase repeats slowly.
"During prep hours," I add. "When my staff should have been focused on developing the Olympus menus."
"Uh-huh." Carl exchanges a look with Chase that I like even less than the half-dozen meaningful glances that have preceded it.
"And your response to this heinous act of donut distribution was… what, exactly?"
I take a sip of whiskey instead of answering.
"Oh, this is good," Chase says, amber eyes lighting up. "He's gone quiet. That means he knows he fucked up."
I clear my throat. "I addressed the situation professionally."
"Translation: you ripped her apart in front of everyone," Carl says. "How many people witnessed this 'professional addressing'?"
"That's not—"
"How many, Andrew?"
"The entire test kitchen staff was present, but again, that's irrelevant. The point is—"
"Jesus H." Chase shakes his head. "So let me get this straight: You dressed down an employee for bringing food to your overworked, underpaid, and way under-fuckin'-appreciated kitchen staff. In front of thirty people."
"It's my job to maintain boundaries. If I don't push these people, they aren't going to push themselves."
"What did you say to her?" Carl's voice has gone very quiet, which is always dangerous. He gets this tone when he's about to say something that cuts too close to the bone—and just because he's two decades younger than me doesn't mean he doesn't know how to aim where it hurts.
I grit my teeth. "I explained that she's not exempt from the rules just because she thinks she's being nice. And I reminded her that she's an employee. One of many."
"Ouch." Chase winces. "That's cold, even for you."
Carl frowns. "She stood there and took it? Didn't fight back?"
I bite out a bitter laugh. "Not quite. She expressed her disagreement with my management approach."
"I bet she did. What did she call you?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to you, or you wouldn't be standing here looking like someone pissed in your cornflakes." Carl rolls forward a few inches. "What did she say, drew?"
I down half the remaining whiskey in one swallow. "She said I ruin people's lives. That I've built a machine that chews people up and spits them out."
By now, Sage has completely abandoned the video game to peer at me.
"You're really bothered by this," he observes.
"Like, more than usual."