Sizzle Read online

  Sizzle

  Whitley Green

  Copyright © 2018 by Whitley Green

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Cover by Resplendent Media

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  Edited by LY Publishings

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  1

  Elliot

  * * *

  Numbers are the devil. When rubbing my eyes out of my head doesn’t make the spreadsheet on my screen any clearer, I lean back and yank open the door to my office.

  “Jimmy!” I yell. “Get back here when you get a sec!” The door squeaks like a motherfucker as it swings shut, reminding me of yet another thing that needs fixing.

  I’m still rooting around in the desk drawer—I know there was some WD-40 in here somewhere—when the squeaking recommences.

  “You rang?”

  “Yeah, I need your eyes a sec,” I tell the kid. At twenty-four, Jimmy’s not a kid so much, I guess. But he’s worked for me off and on since his sophomore year at the community college, so he’s still a kid to me.

  I mean, thirty-three ain’t exactly over the hill.

  “Why are you glaring at me? I haven’t said anything yet,” Jimmy says, looking over his shoulder at me.

  “I’m not glaring at you, I’m glaring at the numbers. They’re supposed to be the same at the bottom. Why are they not the same?”

  Jimmy sighs, and I know it’s bad. Kid’s almost finished with grad school now—he’ll be an accountant before spring, once he gets his license.

  “Have you given any more thought to hiring that firm I mentioned? I have another one of their cards if you lost yours,” he says, totally ignoring my question.

  I can’t afford the small business accountants he recommended, but more than that, I don’t want to hand over my business to a bunch of suits I’ve never met. Anyway, I can handle it. It’s just arithmetic, right?

  I must have said some of that out loud, because Jimmy sighs again.

  “It’s arithmetic, yeah, but you have to put the right numbers in the right places if you’re going to manage your own spreadsheets.”

  We’ve had this conversation before, so I wave him out of my chair and sit down, saving the program and shutting it down.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I tell him. “So besides opening my wallet for the pros downtown, tell me how to fix it.”

  “That’s part of the problem,” says Jimmy. “From what I can tell, you haven’t done anything wrong, but you’re pretty far in the red. Like… pretty far. All things considered.”

  “Red’s the bad color, right?” Jimmy doesn’t bother sighing this time, just shaking his head before asking if he can get back to work. I wave him out.

  “And Jimmy?” I call out. He catches the door before it slams shut again. “Thanks. I appreciate you not saying anything about this.”

  He nods and pulls the door closed.

  I scrub my hands over my face. The kid won’t breathe a word about my shitty bookkeeping—I know that much. That’s not what worries me. What worries me is that this isn’t the first time the restaurant hasn’t been able to keep up with expenses. We’ve been falling further and further behind for months. Something has to change or else we’re going to be in trouble.

  * * *

  The house phone rings. Since we don’t open for another two hours, there’s no other staff to answer it. And wouldn’t you know it? Caller ID says it’s Mrs. Miller, the owner of the building. She’d cut me a deal on the rent when I originally approached her about a lease, saying she'd preferred to see the space occupied rather than it wasting away, unused.

  Needless to say, I take her calls every time. I pick up the receiver.

  “Mrs. Miller,” I say.

  “Mr. James,” she says. “How are you today?”

  I will never for the life of me understand this woman’s delight in small talk, but she’s been awfully easy on me the last few months, so I make it a point to be nice when she calls.

  Plus, she’s on the far side of seventy. My own mother isn’t winning any parenting awards but even Mom would scalp me if she found out I was rude to the elderly.

  “I’m doing all right, Mrs. Miller. How are you?”

  “Oh, can’t complain, can’t complain. I’m sorry to bother you at work, Mr. James.”

  “Really, it’s no bother,” I say, gritting my teeth. I only have about forty thousand things to do, besides finding a way to save my business.

  “You’re kind to say so,” says Mrs. Miller. “The reason I’m calling is—”

  “Hang on just a sec, Mrs. Miller,” I say as two of my servers start banging on the office door. I point at the phone and glare until they walk off and I can hear the phone again. “Sorry about that. You were saying?”

  “Yes, the reason I’m calling is that I wanted to let you know you’ll be getting the new lease agreement delivered sometime today.”

  “Oh, is it time for that already?” Of course it was. Holiday season, every year. I’d lost track. “Mrs. Miller, you didn’t need to call me for that. I could just sign and drop it off sometime this week.”

  “Well, that’s just it. There’s been a small change —just one tiny thing. I wanted to make sure you saw the new terms before you sign.”

  I sit up straight.

  “What changed?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. James. I know we hadn’t discussed this before now, but with property taxes being what they are now, I’m sure you understand.”

  “What changed?”

  “We’ve raised the rent,” she says apologetically and quotes a number I’ll never be able to meet. Not this month, not in three months.

  “I see,” I say. Although, right this minute, all I see is that fucking cursor on the spreadsheet ticking at me like a time bomb.

  “I’m afraid there’s more to it, Mr. James. I want you to know that I’ve done everything I can to delay this,” she says, and I stop breathing, knowing exactly what’s coming.

  “We’re going to need to you catch up the rent payments you still owe us before we can re-sign your lease.”

  It’s a long moment before I can speak again.

  “Thank you for letting me know,” I say, and my voice doesn’t sound like mine anymore. “How long do I have?”

  “We can give you until the end of the year,” she says softly.

  Six weeks.

  “All right, Mrs. Miller. Thank you for letting me know,” I say. I make a point of saying goodbye before I hang up, because it’d be counterproductive to smash the phone through the fucking desk.

  Much as I want to seethe, to rage, we’re opening soon and there’s no time for it now. Too much work to do. So I tamp down my reaction. I can control it. I handle everything else.
/>
  I mean, it’s my job.

  And despite today’s shitstorm, I love my work. I love the hustle, the chaos. Even the long hours. My best friend Alex thinks I’m nuts, but I’d go crazy if I had to sit in an office all day like he does, and I know it for a fact because I quit that exact life to open Duckbill.

  My savings are long gone. My credit is shot. If I don’t find a way to keep this place running, it’s back to the salt mines. I mean, not an actual mine. It’s tech consulting, which paid damn well and came with health insurance and a retirement plan and never make me sweat like a Texas hog. But it’s boring as fuck. And answering to a boss was… not exactly my thing.

  The word ‘insubordination’ may have come up. A time or four.

  So if I want to keep my sanity, I’ve got to find a way to get some money coming in.

  The shift passes fast today, and thank God for it. Another slow day would have sent me through the roof. Way too many of those lately, which is part of the problem. Today’s fast pace gives me a well-timed distraction before I have to focus on saving my job.

  And the jobs of thirty-six other people, when you count the part-timers.

  That’s what kills me. If I can’t make this work, what happens to them? That’s on me.

  Alex thinks I take too much on myself, but what does he know? I mean, besides the fact that he’s been my best friend for most of our adult lives. The thought’s barely crossed my mind and I’m already pulling out my phone to shoot him a text. If he’s around later, maybe he’ll brainstorm with me. Alex’s always good for brainstorming, even with his funk lately.

  * * *

  I’ve just hit send on the text when my brother’s face pops up on the screen. I answer the call while heading out the back door, weaving my way past the cigarette smokers on break into the alley behind the building where they’re not likely to hear me.

  “Hey Steve,” I say.

  “Hey loser. You done for the day yet?”

  “Not even close, man. What’s up?”

  “Aw, fuck. My dick neighbors are throwing together a game and I could use a point guard. These jackasses can’t shoot for shit.”

  My brother is a thirty-nine-year-old insurance salesman with a pretty wife and two young kids. He’s no longer allowed to use swear words at home, thereby forcing him to use them all on me.

  It’s hilarious and sad and, naturally, I make fun of him for it every chance I get.

  “What day is it?” I ask. Sue me, I run a restaurant.

  “Friday, asshole,” he says.

  “Yeah, sorry bro,” I tell him. “I’m here for at least another couple hours and I open in the morning.”

  “You ever think about hiring more managers? Because I hear there are people you can pay to do work for you,” he says.

  “You’re hilarious.”

  Steve must hear something in my tone, because he gets serious.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  I tell him about the call with my landlady, and Steve immediately cuts loose, cussing a blue streak. By the time he stops, I’m laughing for what might be the first time in days.

  “I’ve never heard the anatomy of cats dissected in quite that way,” I say, catching my breath. “Where the hell do you get this stuff?”

  “Have you seen what passes for Saturday morning cartoons these days, man? Shit’s absolute garbage compared to what we used to watch.”

  “So you use the time productively,” I say. “Inventing cuss words like a twelve-year-old.”

  “Bet your ass,” says Steve. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Hell if I know,” I tell him, checking over my shoulder to make sure nobody followed me out. I don’t want to give them any reason to worry before it’s necessary. “I’ll think of something. Obviously I need to shake things up. At least it’s the holiday season. It’s always our best time of year. If I take advantage of it, we stand a chance of keeping the doors open a while longer.”

  “That’s not a plan, bro.”

  Don’t I know it? But Steve’s not done.

  “When was the last time you changed your menu?” he asks.

  “You mean, aside from when I wrote it?”

  “Well there you go,” he says. “Time to try something new.”

  “You want me to rewrite the menu,” I say.

  “Why not? You got nothing to lose at this point. Maybe it’s time to try something different. And I’m not talking about selling tacos or something, so don’t even start that shit. What is it that Duckbill sells?”

  “American comfort food,” I say, giving him the sales copy from that advertising intern I’d hired when I started. “Staples. Homestyle cooking just like grandma used to make.”

  “There you go,” he says again. “That’s part of your problem right there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “People are getting health conscious these days, going vegan, gluten-free, all that millennial crap.”

  I don’t point out to him that people who eat that way aren’t exactly the type to come eat at Duckbill. I just let him keep going.

  “I mean, the point is getting more people in the door, right?”

  Shit. He’s not wrong.

  “You might have a point,” I say.

  “Fucking right I have a point,” says Steve. “Shit, I gotta go, Cheryl’s back with the kids. Good luck, fucker.”

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, I’m about to head out for the night. Despite my brother’s opinion, I do actually delegate.

  Sometimes. A little bit.

  My lone assistant manager, Anna, is competent and cool-headed. As much as I stress, she takes it all in stride. She’s another one who started with me in the early days of Duckbill, waiting tables to help pay her way through school. She graduated last year and I had the good luck to make her manager beforehand, so at least when she leaves she’ll have to give me thirty days' notice.

  I mean, assuming I don’t have to close the restaurant before then.

  It’s that particular boot on my neck that’s got me seriously considering what Steve said. We need to try something new, obviously. Maybe adding one or two new things to the menu is the way to go.

  My phone chirps as I slide into my car, still wired from the day but glad for a chance to finally sit down a minute.

  It’s Alex. Freaking finally.

  Just got in is all it says. I roll my eyes and start the car, heading for the townhouse we share.

  I moved into the second floor of Alex’s townhouse last year after his Ice Bitch fiancée dumped him a month before their wedding. He doesn’t know it, but at the time I was about two weeks away from having to ask my parents if I could have my old room back when Alex offered to let me rent from him. Not that I couldn’t tell him, but I don’t want him to feel like he’s stuck with me. Whenever he gets serious about dating again, I’ll start looking for a place of my own.

  As it is, we’ve got a pretty sweet setup. We both work too much for having a social life. I don’t think he’s been on a date since the breakup and I’m too damn busy trying to keep Duckbill above water to find a woman.

  Maybe that explains some things. It’s been… Christ, how long has it been? I can’t actually remember the last time I got laid.

  Yeah, that explains a lot. I told Alex the other day it’s been so long since I’ve been out with a woman that even he was starting to look attractive to me.

  Alex didn’t laugh. But then, he doesn’t laugh all that much these days. Ice Bitch did a real number on him. He won’t talk about it but I know it’s her fault.

  In the meantime, it’s my job to make him get some sun once in a while. I mean, somebody’s gotta look out for him. And he’s smart, smarter than me at least, though I’d never tell him that. I’m curious to hear what he has to say about Steve’s idea.

  I pull into the driveway, and wouldn’t you know it? Alex is already drinking a beer out on the porch, his feet propped on the cooler I never remember to res
tock. He looks exhausted.

  I slam the car door shut just to see if he noticed I’m here. He doesn’t even blink, just lifts his feet off the cooler as I reach down and grab a beer for myself.

  “So, I’m probably getting evicted,” I say as I take the chair across from his.

  2

  Alex

  It’s already dark when I pull up to the house and kill the motor. Guess that means it’s actually fall now, though you wouldn’t know it as warm as it is. I probably should have stopped for takeout on the way here. God knows there’s nothing in the fridge, at least nothing edible. Pretty sure there’s still half a case of beer though, so whatever. I’m set.

  The house is screaming silent when I push the door open so I drop my bag on the couch and head to the kitchen, grabbing Elliot’s busted up cooler from the kitchen cabinet to stock it with ice and beer. At least out on the porch there are occasionally people driving by.

  Elliot will be home soon. I grab my phone off the couch where I’d dropped it and take it and the beer out to the porch.

  * * *

  Just got in, I type.

  The porch swing needs some paint, but the chains still look good. For a minute, I try to picture me and Diana sitting there, just enjoying the evening air.

  I love this porch. It’s part of the reason I bought this house in this particular neighborhood. It was the only neighborhood I looked at that had front porches much at all, let alone porch swings. Not all that common in the city, I guess.