Enemies With Benefits (Loveless Brothers 1)

Just for good measure, I check the women’s bathroom. There’s a middle-aged woman applying lipstick in the mirror. No Todd.

I keep going down the short hallway, round a corner, and there it is: a giant green EXIT sign. Just like that, I know.

I push the door open. The cool night air feels good against my overheated, sweaty skin. The stars above twinkle merrily as I scan for Todd’s truck: unnecessarily huge, the kind of truck that belies its owner’s insecurities about his dick.

It’s not there. I double-check. Still nothing.

I start laughing, the sound of sheer nerves making their way out of my body via my mouth. I shove my hand against my mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but I can’t stop giggling.

Oh, my God, I’m losing my mind, I think.

Another giggle escapes.

I’m the one who was having a bad time. I was a perfectly good date. I should have been the one to walk out. Todd was a dick, why does he get to do this, too?

I snort. It’s not a good sound.

The door opens behind me, and the sudden sound is finally sobering. I take my hand off my mouth and stand up straight, the giggles finally gone.

The waitress clears her throat quietly.

“So the check…” she says, her voice trailing off.

I gather all the nerve I can muster, even though I feel like there’s a hand around my windpipe, and smile at her.

“Could I talk to the manager and maybe work something out?” I ask.Chapter TwoEli“You got that thing ready?”

“Yup. Smoke detector’s off?”

“Yeah.”

I pause for moment, crouching in front of the glass-doored commercial oven, wearing an oven mitt and holding tongs.

“You are sure that thing’s a jury-rigged kitchen blowtorch and not a pipe bomb, right?” Travis asks. He’s standing slightly to one side, holding a fire extinguisher at the ready.

“I’m about ninety-five percent on that,” I tell him. “It looks a lot more like a kitchen torch than a pipe bomb, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve seen a lot of pipe bombs?”

“No, but I’ve seen a lot of kitchen blowtorches,” I say, adjusting the oven mitt over my hand.

I discovered this gem a few minutes ago, since I’m the last person in the kitchen tonight. I’m usually the last person in the kitchen, the one who makes sure that all the food is put away according to protocol, the one who makes sure every surface was wiped down, ready for the next day, even though none of that has been my job for years now.

Tonight, that seems to include getting a jury-rigged kitchen torch out of the oven. Travis is Le Faisan Rouge’s bartender, and he was unlucky enough to still be here when I discovered this gem.

“You’re here as a last resort,” I remind Travis, who looks like he wishes he’d left ten minutes ago. “Oven’s been off for an hour. I’m pretty sure nothing’s going to happen.”

“All right,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

“On three,” I say, putting my free hand around the oven door handle. “One. Two. Three.”

I jerk the door open. Travis holds out the fire extinguisher like he’s using it to ward off a vampire.

Nothing happens.

“Definitely a kitchen torch,” I say, reaching in with the tongs and grabbing it. “Or at least a former kitchen torch.”

He just whistles, lowering the extinguisher.

“The hell?” he asks.

I stand and walk it to the sink, placing it carefully inside.

“I believe,” I say slowly as I examine the thing, “someone’s duct-taped a propane canister for a camp stove to the blowtorch we used for crème brûlée.”

We both stare down at the thing in the sink, arms crossed. It’s not pretty: the propane canister is about twice the size of the kitchen torch, the nozzle stuck into the bottom. The entire package is mummified with duct tape.

“And why was it in the oven?” he asks.

“If I had to guess, I’d say whoever came up with this idea also figured that ovens get very hot, and therefore, if something went wrong with the torch, the oven would be the best place for it,” I say. “But that’s just a guess.”

There’s a brief silence as we both try to wrap our heads around this particular conundrum.

“Blow torches don’t even use propane, do they?”

“Nope.”

“So…” Travis says, then trails off. “Why…?”

“Why did someone in a busy kitchen take the time to cobble together a solution that clearly didn’t work from camping supplies and duct tape instead of asking someone where the butane refills were?” I supply for Travis. “Beats me. I didn’t even know we had duct tape.”

Now Travis laughs.

“Course we have duct tape,” he says. “You need anything else?”

“Nah, I’m good,” I tell him. “I’m gonna dismantle this thing and then head home.”

“Have a good one,” he says, already walking for the swinging kitchen doors. “I’ll see you around, right?”

“Right,” I call after him, and then he’s gone and I’m alone in the kitchen again.