Page 18 of Slay Ride

I give the men a wave, and they wave back, but I don’t head over to join their discussion. If I want to make sure I’m seated beside Cat, I need to hurry to the dining room and check the name cards. While forcing her to sit beside her crush while she looks like a bedraggled sea monster is tempting, I’ve decided it will be more enjoyable to witness her misery from a closer vantage point.

Unlike the dining room on the island, this place lacks the single massive table that runs the length of the room. Instead, it’s set up more like an event space, with several round tables dotted about.

I travel through the tables and search for my name. My designated place waits between Ice Pick and Grim. That won’t do. I pluck my card from the snowflake table setting and hurry to find Maverick’s card. That’s who Kindra has put beside Cat. I’d bet my bike on it.

Sure enough, I find the two cards side by side. I feel a little guilty for moving Maverick to a different table, since he’s likefamily to Ezra and me, but his conversation with Ice Pick seemed amicable enough, so I don’t feel too terrible about what I’m doing. By the time I swap the cards and take my seat, the guilt has already subsided.

Minutes later, the guests begin filing in. Maudlin Rose and Grim enter together, followed by a handful of people I don’t recognize. Maverick and Ice Pick aren’t far behind, closely followed by Jim, Ezra, and Kindra. Those three are at my table.

Well, the table I’ve commandeered.

“Bennett, how have you been?” Jim approaches and brings me into an awkward hug. “Your brother has worked wonders with this retreat, has he not?”

“Kindra gets most of the credit,” Ezra says as he takes his seat. “For someone who thinks home decorating is an elitist hobby, she certainly took to it like a duck to water.”

“More like a chicken in water,” Kindra says. “You sort of shoved me in, so I had to sink or swim.”

“Where’s our little blonde friend this evening?” Jim looks around the dining room. “I so enjoy seeing her ensembles. Such a fine figure, too.”

Poor Jim. He’s overcompensating again.

Not quite ready to come out of the closet, he tries to pile on covers so we won’t see who he truly is. I am not a compassionate man, but evenmysteel-lined heart breaks for him. None of us gives a flying shit about his sexuality, and we’ve all known his preferences for years. But we also understand that he has to make the choice to reveal this to us in his own time, so we just play along.

“Too bad she doesn’t have the brain to match,” I say with a laugh, but no one joins in. I clear my throat. “Kindra, you were with her earlier. Will she be joining us for dinner?”

“Actually, no. She was feeling a bit tired, so she’s going to stay in her room for the evening. I’ll have Chef send something up for her.”

Another plan ruined. I sink in my seat and try to find a reason to exist that doesn’t involve torturing Cat.

But then, an idea strikes me.

When Cat ate the fruit salad at the summer retreat, she thought I’d dished up the same pineapple I’d dicked down. I never corrected her because I was too ashamed that I hadn’t thought of it first. Now I have a chance to make her eat something I’ve shoved my dick into.

I excuse myself from the table to a round of suspicious looks. They know I’m up to something, but they can’t prove it. Thanks to Cat’s brief tour earlier today, I know exactly where I’m going, so I don’t even need to ask for directions. As far as they’re concerned, I’m just making a trip to the bathroom.

When I’m certain no one is looking, I slip through the door to the kitchen. Pure chaos echoes off the walls of stainless steel—that’s the only way to describe it.

“No, no,no!” Chef Maurice shouts as he tosses a pot of scalding soup at one of the kitchen staff.

Boiling liquid melts the man’s skin, and the worker collapses in a writhing, screaming heap. I consider myself a pretty hardened killer, but I think I just found my hard limit. Having your skin seared off is a pretty shit way to go.

“Don’t just stand there!” Chef shouts at another worker. “Take him to the freezer! I have no use for a man who over-seasons my food. I said asprinkleof salt, not a pinch!”

A woman in a white apron grabs the man’s feet and begins dragging him toward the walk-in freezer. Thankfully, the hot liquid didn’t reach that part of his body, so his skin doesn’t slide off. Unfortunately, it did land on his face, which is now scraping the floor and leaving a pretty gruesome trail.

“You just can’t find good help these days,” I say with a shake of my head.

Chef Maurice agrees with a curt nod.

Now that I have him on my side, it’s time to lay it on a little thicker. Nothing gets through to this man quicker than a compliment, even if it’s a lie.

“Say, Chef, you wouldn’t happen to have something I can take to a guest’s room, would you? She’s not feeling well, but we want to make sure she gets to enjoy your incredible food.”

“Oh, of course! I can prepare a quick-service plate. No soup and salad, but she can have the entrée, which is roasted pheasant with a lemon-dill sauce, mashed potatoes, asparagus spears, and scones.”

“She’s going to love it,” I say with a devilish smirk.

Chef totters off to prepare the plate, and within minutes, I’m weaving through the backstage corridors with a cloche-covered dish in my hands and a bounce in every step.

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