Sizzle Read online

  During our three years together, I don’t think my ex-fiancée and I ever sat here together at all, not once. Just another one of the signs I’d missed. I shake off the thought and sit down, propping my feet on the cooler. Elliot and I sat out here a lot this past year, at least whenever we had time. He works crazy hours keeping the restaurant afloat. My job keeps me busy enough that some weeks, he’s the only person I see outside of the office.

  It’s hard to care that much. Diana made it clear I’m better off this way.

  I tip back the beer, downing half the bottle. I’m not completely alone. It’s not like I’m a hermit. Mom and Dad call or text every couple of days and I see them when I can. I have friends… Well, a friend. Elliot still counts as my friend.

  Technically he’s been my roommate for the last year. Or tenant. Whatever he is, he lives with me. And he seems to think it’s his job to check up on me, which is nice. I can’t think too much about why it’s nice or I’ll start to think about other things, and me and Elliot and Other Things don’t mix so I shut down that train of thought before it gets any further out of hand.

  It takes a minute to drag myself back from the Other Things and when I do, Elliot’s standing in front of me.

  * * *

  “So I’m probably getting evicted,” he says.

  “You are not,” I say, lifting my feet off the cooler as he goes for a beer. “I told you already, I don’t care if you’re late on the rent.”

  “I don’t mean you, dummy,” he says, popping the top and taking the chair across from my swing like he always does. I feel better now—a little less dark, now that he’s home. Elliot stretches his legs out and takes a drink.

  He’s tall enough our feet almost touch, though he’s not quite as tall as me. Shoulders for miles. He could carry the world on those shoulders, and often he tries to. I can’t remember what it’s like to have that much drive.

  I think maybe I used to, before.

  Elliot, though, he’s always been Mr. Conquer the World by Dawn. The day I met him freshman year of college, he practically ran me over trying to get through the same door to class. At eighteen, I’d been ready to yank him back and knock him out for getting in my face, but we were both already late and as fate would have it, we were randomly paired as lab partners that semester. We barely spoke to each other at first, but after a couple of weeks he apologized and we’ve been tight ever since.

  “Mrs. Miller?”

  Elliot rubs the back of his neck and takes a long drink before he answers.

  “Yeah. I’ve been a little behind on my lease payments.”

  “How far behind?” This is new. Elliot doesn’t keep things like this from me, not about Duckbill.

  “Three months.” He won’t meet my eyes when he says it.

  “For Christ’s sake, Elliot. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m working on it, okay? I thought things would get better, especially with the holidays coming up. But she called today. They’re raising the rent.”

  Making rent before had already been a stretch for him. If they’re raising it on him now, it means they want him out.

  Goddamn it.

  “I wish you’d told me sooner. I could have helped.”

  “Well, now, I’m glad to hear you say that, because as it happens, I could use your eyes on something.” He sets his beer down and grabs his laptop from the case propped up at his feet.

  “Have you told your family?” I ask as he powers up the computer.

  “Shit, they don’t care. They’ve been waiting for me to go bust since I left the firm. I talked to Steve though. He’s the one who gave me this idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “Have you eaten yet?” he says, eyeing me as I grab another beer.

  “Not hungry,” I say because it’s mostly true. I’m never hungry anymore, which is a shame because I really enjoy cooking.

  Elliot snorts but lets it go, focusing on the machine in his lap.

  A lock of dark blonde hair falls across his forehead as he squints at the screen and I suck in a breath, bracing myself against the urge to touch him. The urge is stronger than usual, which means I need to get the hell out of here.

  But he needs me first. At least, he needs my help. And if that’s all Elliot will let me give him, then so be it. It’ll be enough. It has to be.

  “Steve thinks changing the menu will bring more people in,” Elliot is saying. His brother is the only member of that family who actually seems to give a damn about Elliot. I don’t get the family dynamic at all—my own parents are about as all-American wholesome as any kid could have asked for, married forty years, happy for all of it, at least as far as I know. Elliot’s brother has his own family now, and they all seem happy and well-adjusted, but Elliot’s parents checked out on their kids a long time ago. He doesn’t talk about it much, but I’m glad Steve sticks close by.

  “Interesting. What kind of change?”

  “That’s why I’m here, buddy,” says Elliot, beaming up at me and that smile goes straight to my dick. I stare down at the decking between my feet, but Elliot doesn’t notice. “You speak foodie. Steve thinks I need to broaden my horizons, get me an in with some of the health-conscious crowd. Which is basically the opposite of everything Duckbill is about, but I’m not exactly in a position to be choosy right now.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You already said that.” He frowns.

  “Because it is. It’s definitely worth considering,” I tell him. “Let me think about it.”

  Elliot gives me a play-by-play of his conversation with Steve as I mull it over. The idea’s got merit, because what he needs more than anything is more customers. This city is famous for its butter-on-everything attitude, but the health-conscious angle could definitely bring in some new faces.

  “Steve is right,” I say the next time Elliot pauses for breath.

  “Well for fuck’s sake, don’t tell him that,” he says. “And now what? I do deep fried American comfort. So we add… What? Salads, probably.” Elliot taps at his keyboard.

  “You’re going to have to get a little more creative than that. Hand me the computer,” I tell him. He does so immediately, his compliance stirring me the way it always does.

  Does he even realize he obeys me instantly? Every single time, no matter how small or subtle the request or even suggestion. He’s so full-tilt, so controlled, so tightly wound every minute of the day. Under every other circumstance, Elliot hates being told what to do. I don’t know why he tolerates it from me, but it makes me want things from him I shouldn’t even think about in the vicinity of a friend.

  He can’t know it affects me. I don’t even think he realizes he does it, which makes it that much harder to bear. If only—

  If only nothing. If I want to settle down someday, have a wife and some kids and a marriage and a life together like my parents, this “if only” side of me has no business making any noise. Even if I could have a wife and kids—or a husband and kids—Diana made it perfectly clear no decent person wants a man with my history.

  I open tabs for four of my favorite food blogs and pass the computer back to him. Elliot flips it around and squints.

  “What’s this?”

  “Food bloggers. People who write about food? Given that you own a restaurant, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of this before.”

  “Fuck off,” he says, not looking up. He clicks around. “What exactly am I looking at here, Alex? ‘Cause none of this looks like a solution.”

  “It’s not a solution, it’s inspiration,” I tell him and polish off the rest of my beer. “Poke around and see if there’s anything you like. Every one of those blogs has recently written at least one post on making comfort food healthy. Maybe they’ll have something you can integrate at Duckbill.”

  “Ho-lee shit,” says Elliot a couple minutes later. “Have you seen this woman?” He flips the screen around for me to see. It’s a typical blogger photo of a woman standing outside near a tree.
>
  “Oh, yeah. That’s Joelle Munroe. She writes some great stuff.”

  “Dude.” Elliot widens his eyes at me. “Did you look at her?”

  I hadn’t actually, but since he’s obviously seen something he likes, I take another look, clicking to expand the photo.

  “Wow,” I say after a minute because he’s got a point.

  “No shit.”

  She’s lovely. It’s an old-fashioned word, but it’s the best one I can think of staring at the photo on the screen. Her pinned-up hair looks as though it might tumble down over her shoulders if the wind so much as shifts. Her eyes are bright and laughing. Her mouth—her mouth is a gift from God, full and sweet and curved in a smile.

  “Perv,” says Elliot, taking the computer back. “I saw her first.”

  I grab another beer before settling back on the swing. It’s finally starting to cool off out here, but I’m enjoying the air too much to go in yet.

  When was the last time I enjoyed anything? It’s a strange thought, but once it’s there, I can’t make it go away. So things have been maybe a little dark for me lately—it can’t have been that long since I enjoyed something. Can it?

  When was the last time I took a ball down to the court? Or even just worked out? When was the last time I just went for a walk because the weather was nice?

  I can’t remember. I honest to God cannot remember.

  Maybe it’s time to shake things up. If my hardheaded friend can change for his beloved Duckbill, I can too.

  Not a total overhaul. No need to get carried away. But something small.

  “You still have that punching bag out in the garage?” I ask. Elliot’s gaze jerks up to meet mine.

  “You serious?” he says. “I mean, yeah, of course I do. It’s still out there. Got the power rack set up a while back, too.”

  “Mind if I use them tomorrow?”

  The hopeful grin that blooms on his face snags my heart and twists cruelly. It was worse than I thought if Elliot’s this excited about me doing something as small as working out again.

  “Fuck yeah, man. Use them anytime, I don’t care. Now tell me what exactly it is I’m supposed to be looking at here.”

  Me. Look at me.

  I gulp down my beer, shoving the damning thought back into the closet in the back of my mind where it belongs.

  “If you scroll down, you should see tags at the bottom. Look for something like ‘healthy comfort food,’” I say.

  “Jeez. There’s a ton of posts here,” he says.

  “She’s pretty good,” I say. “I think she’s local, too.”

  “No shit?” More tapping. “No shit. You’re right. She’s here in the city.”

  “There’s a thought,” I say. “You could email her and ask to talk to her in person. Maybe you can convince her to come on as a consultant.”

  “Meaning she’d be working for me,” says Elliot, his look of triumph fading somewhat. I remember his rules, not the least of which was ‘no dating employees,’ or as he liked to put it—

  “No fucking the help,” he says, looking so forlorn I have to laugh.

  “I mean, it was a helluva stretch to begin with, El. Thinking she’d want you in the first place,” I say, laughing at him. He flicks a bottle cap at me.

  “Give me a break, dude. I’m in mourning.”

  “Look on the bright side,” I say, standing up to stretch. “She’s going to save your business. That is, if you can convince her to take you on.”

  “Right,” he says. “If.”

  3

  Joelle

  “Joelle! Phone!”

  Dad’s bellowing has no doubt deafened whatever poor soul had the misfortune to call my house instead of my cell phone. I don’t remember putting the house number down on any of the applications I’d sent out lately. But then, there’d been a lot of applications the last few months.

  “Be right there,” I shout. I take a deep breath and click ‘Save’ before powering down my battered old laptop. One of these days, I’ll finish a blog post in one sitting. One of these days.

  Right.

  Dad is posted up in his favorite easy chair in the living room, holding the cordless receiver. We’re the only people I know who still have a landline, but considering Dad’s injury I figure it’s necessary.

  “Somebody named Elliot,” he says, handing over the phone. “You got a boyfriend now?”

  My face heats as I shake my head furiously. I walk into the kitchen for at least the illusion of privacy before I speak.

  “This is Joelle Munroe speaking.”

  “Hello, Ms. Munroe,” says a male voice. A deep, smooth male voice. “My name is Elliot James. I own a restaurant called Duckbill downtown. Maybe you’ve seen it?”

  He keeps talking and I’ve already lost the thread wondering if he does voice acting, or maybe even phone sex work. If he doesn’t, he should.

  And there’s a clue I don’t get out enough. Jesus.

  “Anyway, if you’re interested, I could really use your input. I understand your time is valuable. We’re happy to offer you compensation,” he’s saying and names a figure that sends my eyebrows climbing. “Will that work for you?”

  I rack my recent memory for what the hell he must be talking about. Something about needing ideas for a new, healthier menu.

  Hell yes.

  Totally my wheelhouse. Not to brag, but it’s kind of what I do.

  “That’s fine,” I say, too excited by the prospect of an imminent paycheck to dicker on the price. “When do you want me?” I swallow hard. “There, I mean. When do you want me there?”

  Mr. Sex Voice sounds like he’s smiling. “I’m free any time before 4pm the next couple of days.”

  “Tomorrow morning works for me,” I say. This might be a bad idea. There’s no way any man could live up to promise of Sex Voice. But I need a job—fast. “10am?”

  “Perfect,” says the Sex Voice. “I look forward to meeting you.”

  I say something, no idea what, and hang up the phone. I stare at it for a long minute.

  “You off the phone, Jo? Who was it?”

  I head back to the living room, handing the phone back to my father. I check the time and make sure he’s got his evening pills lined up right. He rarely misses one, but I always double-check.

  I mean, that’s my job.

  “That was Elliot James, the owner of Duckbill, a restaurant downtown.”

  “Never heard of it,” says Dad.

  “It’s only been open a little while,” I say, downplaying so he doesn’t feel bad. Dad hasn’t left the house much the last few years, except for doctors’ appointments. Even therapy sessions happen here at the house. He hates looking weak in front of anybody and that goes double for being in public, so he avoids the public altogether.

  That leaves me as his primary companion. These days, I’m not his favorite either.

  “They got your application, did they? That’s good, gives you somewhere to start.”

  I applied for a waitstaff position at Duckbill two months ago. Safe to say this interview or meeting or whatever it is, it’s definitely not about hiring me to wait tables.

  “I think it’s actually for a different position,” I say vaguely. “I’ll find out more at the interview.”

  “Well hot damn,” says Dad. His smile is so bright, so free of the resentment and bitterness I tell myself I’m used to, it brings tears to my eyes. “Good for you, Jo.”

  I flash a smile without meeting his eyes and start tidying up the coffee table so he can’t see my face.

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll likely only be gone a couple of hours tomorrow,” I say. When he coughs, I look up.

  “Wait, tomorrow? But those rat bastards will be here all morning,” he says, looking cross.

  “I’m supposed to be there at ten,” I say, summoning patience. “And I’m getting paid for it. You can handle Jim and Jessica without me for a couple of hours.”

  I can tell he wants to bar me from leaving him her
e alone with his physical therapy team tomorrow but Dad knows we need the money.

  “I guess,” he says.

  “We’ve talked about this, Dad,” I say, organizing the bookshelf. Better to stay busy. “Restaurant work means longer shifts.”

  “Yeah, but you ain’t started yet,” he said. “Plus, you said you were going to work nights.”

  “I’m going to work when they need me to work,” I tell him gently. “We’re a bit past the point of being choosy.”

  He doesn’t like the reminder that his payout from the lawsuit is running out but we’re beyond that point, too, and he knows it. Money’s getting tighter by the minute and he’s going to need his physical therapy for at least another year, maybe longer. Physical therapists don’t work for free.

  That means I need every extra penny I can get. The blog gets enough traffic to keep food on the table but if I want to get into a real kitchen, I need culinary school. And if I want to get into the only culinary school within two hundred miles, I need to show I have work experience in a kitchen that isn’t my own.

  “What if I need something while you’re gone?”

  “Then you can text me, or call and leave a voicemail,” I say, straightening the coverlet on the back of our old sofa. I make a mental note to dig out the last of the leather cleaner. “Or Jim or Jessica can help you if there’s something you need done around the house.”

  “Those two,” he huffs but he doesn’t object again. We’ve had this argument so many times. Just when I think he must be bored by it and ready to talk about something else, it comes right back around.

  I don’t begrudge my dad. He needs my help, and I’m happy to give it. Of course I am—he’s my dad. I love him. It’s certainly the least I can do since he raised me alone after Mom ditched us. I try my best to show him that not everybody is chickenshit like she was, that he raised me better than that.

  I guess I still blame her for leaving us. And why shouldn’t I? It wasn’t even a year after his accident when she took off, and after twenty years of marriage the best she could do was a note that said, “I can’t handle it. I’m sorry.”