ROWAN
It feels like I’ve walked through hell the last two weeks to get to this exact moment—opening night of Butcher & Blackbird.
We’ve had the normal pre-launch growing pains. Issues with the POS system. Problems with suppliers. The usual things, but nothing major—just a lot of shit that adds up. But 3 In Coach has been another beast entirely. Equipment breakages. Electrical problems. Faulty appliances. It’s like an endless pain in my ass, when it should be running smoothly. I’ve tried to brush many of the issues off to stay focused, but the stress is still there, and there’s not even been time to let off any steam like the Butcher of Boston normally would. If I could just pick off an easy target like some shitbag drug dealer, I know I’d feel so much more at ease. There’s just no time.
But thank fuck, the one bright light is Sloane.
If she’s bothered by my long hours or my exhaustion and stress, she doesn’t let on. I know she’s worried about me, but there’s no irritation or demands for more attention and presence than I can give right now. In fact, she seems to be thriving, even though it’s hard for me to believe.
“I feel terrible, you coming all this way, upending your life and I’m barely even here,” I’d said as I stared through the dark toward the ceiling when we laid in bed two nights ago. But what I didn’t say was how worried I constantly feel that this isn’t going the way I envisioned at all. I’ve wanted Sloane for years, and now that she’s finally here, it gnaws at me that I might not be giving her what she needs. What if I’m just coming home every night to fuck enough stress out of my system that I can fall asleep but not providing anything tangible in return? Is that what I’m doing?
“I’m happy,” she’d replied simply, as though it should be obvious. “I like solitude, Rowan. I feel safe when I’m alone. Maybe not always with that furbag over there looking like he wants to shred my face off,” she’d said as she flailed a hand toward the bedroom door, “but Winston aside, this is good for me. I don’t feel lonely. Actually, it’s the first time in a long time that I don’t.”
She had pressed a kiss to my cheek as though punctuating her point and then she fell asleep where she always does, resting on my heart. But I stayed awake long after that, with a single question rolling through my mind:
What if she’s lying?
I blow out a deep breath and refocus on the task at hand, namely not burning the pan-fried foie gras for the appetizers as Ryan, the maître d’, enters the kitchen for a time check for the appetizers. Two minutes. Two minutes and the first guests will be eating at Butcher & Blackbird. Two minutes until the next step in my career becomes reality.
I place the foie gras on the toasted brioche prepped by the sous-chef, Mia. We dress every plate, five in total, and place them on the pass for the server who’s already waiting, and we’re immediately on to plating up the next orders that are already cooking.
Then we hit our stride.
Soups. Appetizers. Salads. Fast and nimble. Plate after plate. I keep watch on the table numbers but there’s no seventeen, and that table is permanently reserved for Sloane.
I glance at the clock mounted on the wall.
Seven forty-two.
A pang of worry hits my ribs and twists my guts. She’s forty-two minutes late.
“Is Sloane here?” I ask when Ryan enters the kitchen with one of the servers.
“Not yet, Chef.”
“Feckin’ Christ,” I hiss.
Mia chuckles next to me on the line. “Put the Irish accent away, chef. She’s just late.”
“She’s never late,” I bark with a glare.
“She’ll be here, don’t worry.”
I want to call her, but I can’t stop, not even to check my phone. I’m in the middle of the first round of main courses with more appetizers coming in as the restaurant fills to capacity.
My heart claws through my chest and chokes up my throat.
This isn’t like her.
She was lying. She’s fucking miserable here.
She’s gone.
Something’s happened. She’s been in an accident. She’s hurt or harmed or fuck, arrested. She’ll wither away in a place like prison. That would be worse than death for a woman like Sloane. Can you fucking imagine? Shy and acerbic Sloane Sutherland, surrounded by people twenty-four hours a day, never able to find a safe space to hide?
“Hey Chef. Sloane’s here,” one of the servers says casually as she picks up two mains from the pass. She darts away with the plates before I can even release my barrage of questions on the breath I’ve been holding.
But it’s enough relief to re-energize my efforts and recharge my spiraling focus.
The team and I plow through the service and I pay special attention to table seventeen, not knowing which of the six orders for that table is hers. And then the onslaught gradually wanes, and as we finally move into desserts, I unwrap the apron from my waist, thank my hard-working kitchen staff, and head into the front of house.
Smiles and applause and half-drunk, sated faces greet me as I enter the dining area, but my eyes immediately find Sloane where she sits surrounded by my brothers, Lark, Rose, and my friend Anna who she seems to be growing closer with. Ryan passes me a champagne flute as other servers float from table to table, handing complimentary glasses to the patrons.
“Thank you so much for coming tonight,” I say as I raise my glass in a toast. My gaze pans across the room, snagging on Dr. Stephan Rostis where he sits at a table with his wife before I force myself to look away. Fuck, that would really make my night to cut that asshole up. My smile brightens at the thought. “Without your support of 3 In Coach, this next venture of Butcher & Blackbird would not have been possible. I also want to thank my hard-working and dedicated staff, who have done an incredible job not only tonight, but in the run-up to opening.”
Applause rises around me as I shift my attention to Sloane’s table. She sits between Rose and Lark, who have both made the trip for opening night, my brothers on either end of the curved bench. “Thank you to my brothers, Lachlan and Fionn, without whom I know I wouldn’t be here. We might give each other shit, but they’ve always had my back. You know I love you boys.”
Rose leans close to Fionn and whispers something in his ear. He grins as he makes a flicking motion with his finger and thumb.
“Well, I kind of love you. Really I just tolerate you most of the time. Especially you, Fionn,” I clarify to the sound of laughter.
Then I turn my attention to Sloane.
She’s so fucking beatiful in that dress she wore the night of the Best of Boston gala, with her dark hair pulled across one shoulder in shining waves. Candlelight from the small votive dances in her hazel eyes as she smiles. Nobody’s ever looked at me the way she does, with an intoxicating mix of pride and secrets that only we share. The rest of the room disappears as I just soak it in for a moment.
When I speak, it’s only to her.
“To my beautiful girlfriend Sloane,” I say as I raise my glass in her direction. “Thank you for putting your trust in me. For putting up with my shit. For putting up with my brothers’ shit.” The crowd laughs and Sloane’s smile broadens as the blush creeps up her neck. “When I was young, I collected every lucky charm I could find. I carried a rabbit’s foot around everywhere. Don’t ask Fionn where I got it, he’ll never shut up,” I say, and laughter surrounds us again. But Sloane doesn’t laugh, she only flashes a melancholy smile as she stays hooked on the past beneath my words. “I couldn’t understand why those talismans never changed my luck, so I stopped believing. But now I know. I was saving it all up to meet you, Blackbird.”
Her eyes shine as she presses a kiss to her fingertips and offers it to the space between us on an upturned palm.
“To Butcher & Blackbird,” I say as I raise my glass. The crowd echoes my toast and we drink, the round of applause that follows easing my pent-up worries about our success.
I spend time checking on guests, most of whom have been regulars at 3 In Coach and were given preference on the limited opening night reservation list. Excitement follows me from table to table. They’re enthusiastic about everything from the interior design to the cocktails to the dinner menu. I know it’s a winner. I can feel it in my bones.
And maybe all this insanity from the last few months is worth it.
The last table I stop at is the booth beneath the center of the raven’s wing.
“I’m proud of you, you little shit,” Lachlan says as he folds a tattooed hand over the back of my neck and presses his forehead to mine, just like we’ve done since we were kids. “You did good.”
“Yeah, you’re not so bad. I guess we’ll keep you,” Fionn pipes up as he slaps me on the shoulder harder than necessary. Rose stays seated with her leg still trapped in a cast, so I lean down to press a kiss on each of her cheeks. Anna gives me a beaming smile and a brief hug before she returns to her conversation with Rose, the little banshee entertaining the table with her never-ending tales of circus life. From Lark, it’s a fierce embrace and a string of effervescent compliments as Lachlan watches her with a look of vexation. When I finally get to Sloane and slide in next to her on the padded booth, a combination of relief and exhaustion punches through the mask I feel I’ve been wearing for far too long. She wraps her arms around me as I lay my chin to her shoulder and run a hand down the soft velvet covering her back.
“You’re not just a pretty face,” Sloane says as I huff a laugh in her arms. “It’s amazing, Butcher. It’s perfect. And I’m sorry we were late.” She turns her lips to my ear, then whispers, “It was Lachlan and Lark’s fault. I think they hooked up but I’m confused, because it seems like they fucking hate each other.”
“Somehow, none of that feels like a surprise seeing as how Lachlan is involved,” I reply before I kiss her neck and pull back enough to see her eyes. She smiles when I trail my fingers through her hair. “I should be saying ‘let’s go out and party once everyone’s gone and we can place bets on whether or not they’ll hook up again’, but really I just want to steal your e-reader and curl up in bed with some pirate porn and then fall asleep for a thousand years.”
Sloane rolls her eyes and looks away as I grin. “You need to catch up. I’m on the hitchhiker smut now.”
“Then let me borrow your e–reader.”
“Get fucked,” she says, and presses her lips to my cheek before tucking herself beneath my arm and threading her fingers between mine. “In a loving way, of course.”
I settle in just long enough to feel the calm of her touch and the company of family and friends before I’m back in the kitchen, helping Mia and the team to prepare dinner for the staff to share. And then the whirlwind of chaos that I crave and thrive on ebbs away, leaving peace in its wake.
It’s well after midnight when Sloane and I get home, and it feels like I’m barely even into the bed before I’m asleep.
The next morning is a Sunday—technically my day off, though I usually end up working in some capacity. Sloane is already awake, coffee brewed, her laptop open, her eyes fixed to the screen as she shovels Froot Loops into her mouth. Winston sits on the opposite end of the table, staring her down as though trying to communicate his simmering judgements telepathically. I pick him up as I walk by and he growls as I plop him on the floor.
“What the fuck are you eating?” I ask as I trace a touch across her pulse as I continue my trek to the blessed coffee machine.
“Individually-dyed Cheerios, clearly. Took me all morning,” she snarks.
I grin, though she doesn’t see it. “That smart mouth is going to get put to good use as soon as I’m caffeinated.”
“Are you threatening me with a good time?”
“More like promising. And speaking of good time,” I say, pouring the rest of the coffee into the largest mug I own before starting a fresh pot, “did you see Dr. Rostis there last night?”
“Ooh, I did, yeah. Didn’t get a chance to talk to him. Maybe we should make him into next year’s game instead of enlisting Lachlan to identify a target.”
A twinge of worry wracks my body with a shiver. I still see Sloane trapped in that cellar at Harvey Mead’s house, his boot print an angry red mark on her face, blood dripping from her nostrils in the rain. The flash of lightning across her misshapen shoulder is still vivid in my mind. I dream of that moment too often. It fucking haunts me. “Or maybe instead of a competitive game this year, we can play together. We could hunt him as a team.”
Sloane snorts a derisive laugh. “Are you afraid of losing again, pretty boy?”
“I’m afraid of losing you.”
Sloane turns to me then, a scrutinous eye flowing over my face. Her gaze softens into something akin to pity. It’s probably due to the dark circles under my eyes and my haphazard hair and longer-than-usual stubble. She catalogs every detail before she sits back in her chair. “Rowan, I’ll be okay. This is what we do. What happened with Harvey was my own careless mistake.”
“Why did you make it?” I press. I already know the answer. She knows I do.
Sloane swallows. “Because I thought he was coming for you.”
I head toward the table and she opens an arm to me, wrapping my waist in her warmth and laying her head against my side when I halt next to her. “I don’t want to stop,” I say. “But there’s a lot more risk involved when we work against one another rather than together.”
“True, but it’s also so fun when I kick your ass.”
A sigh leaves my lungs, a hint of frustration in a puff of air. “Sloane, I can’t handle worrying about you right now. I don’t think I can take that stress on top of everything else. I can barely manage to keep a day-to-day, normal life with you together, let alone that.”
Sloane stiffens against me. I realize that sounded harsh when I didn’t mean it to. I’m just so fucking tired, and the constant worry about messing this new life up is manifesting exactly what I don’t want to happen: messing it the fuck up.
“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
“It’s okay,” she says, but the brightness in her tone comes off forced.
“No, I’m serious. You’re not a burden, if that’s what you think.”
“It’s okay,” she says again as she casts a brief smile up to me before she turns her attention back to her laptop. “I get it. All your hard work has been worth it, though. The initial reviews from opening night are great.”
She pulls the computer closer so I can see the reviews she’s been reading. But it takes me a moment to turn my attention to what she’s trying to show me. I don’t know whether to press her on this obvious deflection, or if doing so will make her retreat even more. In the end, I figure it’s likely I’ll just make things worse if I open my uncaffeinated mouth on the topic, so I squeeze her arm instead and read the reviews over her shoulder. They might be early and a little biased as most are from loyal regular customers, but I can tell by the detail and enthusiasm that we’re off to a good start. And as Sloane points out particular passages and comments, I know she’s proud of it too, even if my words just now delivered a sting I didn’t intend.
“What have you got planned for the morning?” I ask when we’ve read through a few reviews together.
“I think I’ll meet up with the girls for coffee. It would be nice to see them a few more times before they leave town,” Sloane replies, but something about the way she says it makes me think this is an impromptu plan she just came up with to get out of the apartment. “After that, maybe I’ll run some errands, I’m not sure. What about you?”
“I’ve gotta head to 3 In Coach when brunch is over. Jenna texted that they’ve had some problems with one of the exhaust hoods.” I let my fingers drift through Sloane’s hair, the waves still faint from last night. “How about you meet me there at four? Come in the back, through the kitchen. We can go somewhere and grab a drink.”
“Yeah. That sounds good.” Sloane rises and gives me a brief smile when she turns my way, but there’s a tightness in it before she lays a kiss to my cheek and takes her empty bowl to the kitchen. “I’d better get ready.”
With a final flash of a smile, Sloane picks up Winston and disappears down the corridor with the cat growling in her arms.
I contemplate following her into the shower. Maybe I should press her against the cold tiles and bury myself into her tight heat and kiss every drop of water from her face until she knows without doubt that she is not a burden. But I don’t. I worry that when she needs or wants space, she won’t ask for it, and I’ll push too hard. I’ll push her away.
I rest my forehead in my hands and stay like that for a long while, thinking about all the things we should discuss tonight when we can relax with a couple of drinks. We’ll find a private table at a quiet bar and talk it through just like we agreed at Fionn’s. And then we’ll come back to our home and this morning’s conversation will just be another brick in the foundation of a life we’re making together.
When Sloane appears from the corridor with her skin flushed from the heat of the shower and her hair damp, I’m still at the table, a second cup of coffee nearly finished.
“Four o’clock at the restaurant, yeah?” I ask as I rise from my chair.
She nods, her smile bright, but the tightness she can’t hide from me remains. “I’ll be there.”
And though she kisses me goodbye, and tells me she loves me, and casts a smile over her shoulder as she goes, that thin mask still remains to follow her out the door.
“Feckin’ eejit,” I say to myself as I drag a hand through my hair and flop down on the couch.
I made up this fucking game on a whim just to keep her around, and now I give her the impression that I think the whole thing is just a giant pain in my ass. And even worse, I make out like having her in my life is a fucking burden.
It’s not. It’s the farthest thing from it. I just can’t bear the thought of losing her, which is exactly what’s going to happen if I don’t get my shit together and we talk this stuff through.
So that’s what I resolve to do.
I haul my ass up and go to the gym down the street, then come back for a shower. I spend some time looking up some ideas for the New Year’s Eve menu which is still a few months away, but I know will creep up fast. Winston keeps watch as I do some chores and make lunch and give him a slice of bacon that he hasn’t earned, because he’s kind of a dick. Then I’m headed to 3 In Coach, giving myself just enough time to make it there after the staff have all gone so I can see if this fan is something I can fix myself before Sloane arrives.
I enter through the back door and disarm the alarm, then head down the dark, windowless corridor to the kitchen.
Everything is sparkling clean, all the utensils and pots and pans where they should be for Tuesday lunch when the restaurant will be open again. As I scan the prep area, my gaze snags on the framed sketch hanging on the wall, the one that Sloane left for me that first day she came in. A faint smile passes over my lips as I remember the blush in her skin and the panic in her pretty eyes. It was the first time I really let myself believe she might want something more than friendship, but she didn’t know how to make it happen.
A sudden noise from a darkened corner startles me and I whip round to see David sitting in the steel chair we set out for him next to the dishwasher.
“Jesus Feckin’ Christ,” I hiss as I bend at the waist and slap a hand against my heart as its chambers flood with adrenaline. “What the hell are you still doing here?”
David doesn’t answer me, of course. He’s not spoken a single word since we found him in Thorsten’s mansion. His vacant gaze is caught on the floor as he rocks a slow rhythm in his chair, something he seems to do on the rare occasions when he’s agitated.
I walk over to him and lean down enough to scrutinize his expressionless face. He seems to calm a little when I lay a hand on his slumped shoulder. Nothing else appears amiss about him.
“Thank fuck I came, mate. Hate the thought of you spending the night in here.”
I leave him to look at the schedule of shifts on the whiteboard. There’s a note for the line cook Jake to drive David home after brunch. Jake is our newest staff member here, having relocated from Seattle six months ago, and he’s been nothing but reliable so far, so this is level of fuck-up is unusual and definitely something I’ll give him shit for on Tuesday.
When I’ve got David settled with a glass of water, I focus on the task at hand, flipping the switch for the fans. One of them doesn’t turn on. There’s not much I can see with the filter shielding the mechanism from view, so I gather my tools from the office and head to the electrical panel to kill the power for that section of the kitchen. Once I’ve dismantled the casing, it doesn’t take long to find the source of the problem—a disconnected wire. It takes a little fiddling to get everything put back together, but it’s a pretty straightforward job and I get it all finished just a few minutes before four o’clock.
“I’ll be right back, David,” I say, my brow furrowing as his gentle, metronomic rocking resumes. “I’m just going to turn the breaker on, then as soon as Sloane arrives, we’ll get you home, okay?”
I don’t know how much he comprehends. Nothing changes in his demeanor.
Shaking my head, I turn away and gather my tools to store them in the office. With a flip of the kitchen switch in the breaker box, I turn the power to the fans back on.
When I return to the kitchen and round the stove, I stop dead.
The cold muzzle of a gun presses to the center of my forehead.
A deep chuckle and the smooth, unfamiliar voice of the man holding the Glock clash with the panic that floods my veins. “Well, well,” he says. “The Butcher of Boston.”
I raise my hands as the muzzle presses harder to my face in warning.
“And your little Orb Weaver will be here any minute, too. As tempting as that party of three sounds, I’d really like to spend some quality time together, just you and me. So, you’re going to make her leave.”
A key slides into the lock of the back door as the click of the safety releases on the gun pointed at my face.
“If you don’t, I’ll kill her,” he whispers, taking a step backward toward the shadows that envelop the corner of the room. He shifts the weapon, pointing it toward the door for the corridor, the one Sloane will walk through any moment. “And I’ll enjoy every second of making you watch.”
