Page 3 of R for Rough

Jesus, what the fuck. I’d never been an asshole to him. Just…maybe grumpy.

Maybe.

“You can put me on salad prep for all I care,” I said. “I’m here to enjoy myself.”

Adam snorted and clapped me on the back. “Only a chef who already has a star will say that. And you completely dodged my demand. Get along with Tracy, all right?”

I showed my palms in surrender. “Whatever you say, Chef.” But his comment made me curious. “Areyoushooting for the stars?”

His expression was funny and gave the answer away. “Fuck no! I left all that nonsense behind me in Atlanta and New York.”

That was a relief. Adam may not have received a star, but he’d retained two. We’d both burned out at some point in our careers as well. It wasn’t fucking worth it. I did know Coho was on Michelin’s watch list, though.

I spent the next few days learning the new menu, which was made easier by Tracy’s absence. He was visiting family in Georgia, though he was due to get back to work after this weekend when we launched Coho’s fall menu.

I’d thought it would be tough for him to jump into things without preparations, but apparently he’d assisted Adam a great deal in setting the menu in the first place, so I guessed the golden child would be okay.

Whatever. I could deal with one coworker I didn’t like. I had zero issues with the rest of the staff.

I’d even made plans to meet up with some kink buddies this weekend, following through on my promise not to live and breathe work anymore. I needed hobbies. Charlie had never been interested in BDSM, despite his lies on how he’d wanted to “explore.” So this would be my comeback. I’d no longer stop by just to shoot the shit with friends; I was going to participate and be a more active member again.

Wednesday and Thursday flew by in a rush. When I wasn’t working, I was making plans for my new home. I bought some basic furniture—a comfortable bed, a couch, new TV, shit like that. I’d fallen for this cabin because the previous owner had clearly loved to cook, so it had a great kitchen. One gas stove, one woodstove. State-of-the-art appliances were installed, and I replaced the countertop of the island with marble. The others were left as is. Old, polished wood. The kitchen was by no means large, but two people could cook together comfortably there, and my niece, Novi, had already asked if she could come up from Seattle and visit.

I’d cook, and she would bake. She would complain about high school boys, and I would nod along in all the right places. It was our thing.

By Saturday, I was ready for a night off. I spent the day doing yardwork around the cabin, preparing planting beds for the spring, testing the soil for apple trees, and transplanting rhubarb. Slowly but surely, I built up more excitement about seeing old friends. And some new too. A buddy had added me to a group chat with Tops, mostly those who liked to plan events and munches, so I knew who I could expect. Madigan and I went back at least a decade, and I’d befriended Ryan a few years ago.

After a hot shower, I stepped into a pair of jeans and shrugged on a black button-down. Socks, boots, keys, phone,wallet—let’s see… Why not? I grabbed two rubbers and two packets of lube. You never knew. If I didn’t need any of it, someone else might.

CHAPTER 2

Griffin Lawson

The bar where we usually met up wasn’t too far from the steakhouse, so I parked in my reserved spot and walked to the bar a few blocks away.

Our kink community was tiny but still pretty active, and the members were passionate. Far as I knew, there was a munch twice a month and at least one event, whether it was a play party at someone’s house or we rented a space.

The cobblestone streets were lined with old-fashioned lights and small trees that were shifting in color. Green was morphing into orange and brown.

“Griffin!”

I looked over my shoulder, only to spot Madigan and his boy crossing the street.

I smiled. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. It’s been a minute, man.” Madigan reached me, and I shook his hand firmly. He gave my arm a squeeze too. “Good to have you home, rock star. I read an interview about you the other day.”

I chuckled. “The shit we do for good press.”

He smirked and grabbed his boy’s hand again. Both of them were familiar with that kind of promo. Madigan was a tattoo artist, semi-known for working with celebrities, and Abel, his husband and Little, was a hockey player for the Canucks.

“You lookin’ forward to tonight, pet?” I asked.

Abel smiled widely. “Yes, Sir. We’re gonna plan a Primal Pursuit event.”

Shit, really? Looked like I’d returned home just in time.

“Do we have a date set?” I wondered.

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