Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

Chapter 9





Ever


It’s a job night and everything has been royally fucked from the word go.

There are several drawbacks to hiring students to walk around and offer hors d’oeuvres to guests. They court drama among themselves, they’re always cranky and they’re flakier than cereal. No matter how effusive they are about their work ethic and punctuality, it takes almost nothing to make them call in sick. A light drizzle, a fight with their significant other, a Netflix binge they didn’t see coming. They never cancel in a timely manner, either. They wait until oven buzzers are going off and the pinchy-featured woman who hired you is checking her watch.

Problem is, Nina and I haven’t established ourselves enough yet to hire a full-time staff. We don’t have enough capital to pay waiters until we get paid. God forbid something goes wrong and people are shortchanged. So on a job night—like tonight—we often squint one eye and wait to take a punch.

This evening, Hot Damn Caterers has been hired by the Women’s Art League of New York—and that is no small potatoes. There was a small write up recently about Nina taking over the family donut shop in Brooklyn and starting her own catering company in the space. Apparently, it had caught the right eye, because the Art League had contacted us directly, interested in using the services of a female-run company.

We’ve been testing recipes and fine-tuning the menu for a month. Fois gras crème br?lée, spiced lamb meatball and tuna tartar appetizers. Sangria-marinated filet mignon, pesto-pistachio gnocchi and pancetta-wrapped pork tenderloin entrées. Yeah, we’ve pulled out all the stops on this one. No way we’re going to let them down, knowing how much business a successful event could lead to. Of course, when we’d stressed the importance of this event to our college crew, it had gone in one ear and out the other.

We are short a waiter, which doesn’t seem like a huge deal. But it is. Catering companies with more financial security always play it safe and book extra help. Hot Damn doesn’t have that kind of bankroll yet. Maybe we should have tapped another waiter despite the cost, though, because now we’re stuck.

“Maybe I can multitask,” I mumble to Nina out of the side of my mouth, conscious of the nervous Art League chairwoman pacing the kitchen, going over notecards. “Stock trays and plate food, then do a pass with it . . . lather, rinse, repeat.” In front of me on the stove, four pans sizzle with different sauces and a huge pot of boiling pasta. We spent most of the afternoon prepping the food off-site in Williamsburg, but the Art League hasn’t paid through the nose for trays of ziti on chafing racks. They expect gourmet, and they expect it hot and fresh, which is why we’ve been busting ass in the Art League basement for four hours without a break. The event begins in half an hour.

“No, we need you down here.” Nina chews on the thumbnail of her free hand, the other holding a cell phone to her ear. “Damn. No one is answering. That’s the fifth voicemail I’ve gotten.”

“College students with plans on a Saturday night.” I sample the sauce and decide more fresh ground pepper is needed. “Never would have guessed.”

When Nina would usually toss back a smart-alec response, she laughs and pats me on the back. “Good one.” Such compliments have been the theme of the week. Maybe her heart isn’t in our ongoing battle of wits right now because she’d ended things with her boyfriend? Whatever the reason, I hope she gets back on the insult horse soon—there’s only so much positivity I can take.

“Crap,” Nina grounds out. “Crap. Six voicemails. That’s it. Wad blown.”

“Damn.” Now I’m nervous. I was able to hold off the anxiety until the final safety was pulled on our parachute, but now the deficit is real. This is a huge opportunity for us, and we’re missing a vital player. “Um . . . do we know anyone—”

“No. Jeremy’s sister could have done in a pinch, but . . .” Nina shrugs off the mention of her ex-boyfriend’s sister, her eyes clouding over.

I turn and plop a kiss on her shoulder. “Look, we’ll just send up more trays with each pass and set them out, instead of walking through. If the food can’t go to the guests, the guests must go to the food.”

Nina throws a look over her shoulder and winces. “That’s going to go down like a wet fart in a church.”

“Nina.” I muffle a laugh with the back of my wrist. “Maybe we should tell our not-so-calm-and-collected client now and limit the fallout.”

“I already know what’s going to happen,” Nina whispers, massaging her forehead. “We’re not going to get paid in full and we’ll lose money, Ever. We really can’t afford that right now. We’re going to be paupers bathing in city fountains.”

My pulse drums hard on either side of my throat. Times like this, I’m tempted to fall into the trap of uncertainty. Was I crazy to think I could just morph into a businesswoman, like my mother? What do I know about running a company? I’m learning as I go, taking it one day at a time. But this is a now problem, so I battle the urge to buckle and breathe through my nose. Thinking . . . thinking . . .

Later tonight, I will look back at this moment and wonder if some sort of voodoo had come into play. Inside the pocket of my apron, my cell phone buzzes and I fumble my spoon into its holder so I can grab it.

Charlie, says the screen.

For a full month, Charlie contacted me for one reason only. Sex. So it’s little wonder that seeing his name on my cell phone screen makes my vaginal muscles clench like I’m trying to crack a coconut. Charlie Burns: a walking, talking reminder to do your Kegels.

Only, we’re friends now. Not hookup buddies. Three days ago, we shook hands over beer and everything. When he walked me to the train, he kept his paws and mouth to himself, which had to mean he was serious, right? When three days passed without so much as a text, I started to doubt. But it’s possible I’ve been too rash. Ninety percent of the afternoons we were together, he wore his uniform. Maybe the academy really does keep him too busy for a relationship, just as I suspected when I first laid eyes on him. When he claims to have no time, maybe it’s the truth, plain and simple.

“Charlie?”

“Ever.” His voice slides into my ear and the bubbling sauces on the stove fade out, but continue to warm my arms. “What are you up to?”

“Working a job.” I notice Nina watching me closely. Motioning for her to keep stirring, I take a few steps away. “You?”