Page 87 of Slay Ride

But I’m out of luck. No matter where I stand, no matter which surface I press my ear against, I can’t hear them.

Like some gossip-driven demon, I fly around the room, ramming my ear against every adjoining wall. The low hum offeminine voices penetrates the wood, but I can’t make out a single word. In my desperation, I even try the old drinking-glass trick, but it only muffles their voices even more.

Just as I reach for the doorknob with the intent of lying on the floor outside her door and pressing my ear to the tiny crack beneath it, I realize the depths of my insanity. I have reached the bottom and grabbed a fucking shovel.

“Get a grip, man,” I say as I shake my head and try to clear the fog Cat’s cast over me.

I need a distraction.

Looking around the room, my gaze lands on the ceramic pineapple that slid under my dresser. Shorty must have swatted it around and knocked it to the center of the room. I pick it up and grin.

The kitchen is almost empty when I make my way downstairs. A lone worker stands over the sink, scrubbing a stack of bowls and champagne flutes in a sea of soapy water. On a long silver prep table, a row of metal pans holds the contents of tomorrow’s meals. And maybe the day after, judging by the sheer amount of food.

“Are we planning to take in refugees or something?” I ask as I lift a lid and reveal an entire population of button quail. “Jesus, why not pick a bigger bird? I shit things larger than this.”

“Americans don’t understand portion sizes,” Chef Maurice grumbles as he hurries into the room. He always looks like he’s running late for something.

“What do you mean,Americans? Your real name is Andrew, and you were born and raised in fucking Ohio,” I say with a scoff. “These little baby birds won’t fill anyone up.”

Chef tosses a hand towel onto the counter, then turns to face me. “If it were up to me, we’d have finger sandwiches made with real fingers, roast kneecap soup, braised backstrap, and a sundae with skin-flake sprinkles, but our benefactor has denied my use of human meat, so enjoy your game hens and shut the fuck up.”

“Fair enough.”

It wasn’t Jim who abolished cannibalism at the winter retreat, though. That was all Kindra’s doing, and frankly, I’m okay with it. Humans are too high in cholesterol.

Chef’s lackey finishes up the dishes, then retreats into the back area that leads to the staff quarters. They don’t have their own rooms—aside from Chef, of course—but none of them can really complain. Compared to some of the prisons they’ve come from, those packed bunks are luxury accommodations.

As Chef busies himself with one of the covered pans, I stroll around the kitchen and poke through the cabinets. I’ll likely find what I want in the walk-in fridge, but I’d rather wait until Maurice finishes molesting the largest turkey I’ve ever seen.

“That’s more like it,” I say as he manipulates the massive bird.

Chef shakes a greasy finger at me. “No, she is not for tonight. Or tomorrow, for that matter. This is for the masquerade feast on the final night. I’m just injecting it with some flavor so that it can marinate.”

His hands move over the carcass, massaging a blend of spices into the skin. Each time he applies pressure, a buttery mixture oozes from the meat.

Fuck, why am I getting hard?

Once he’s certain he’s massaged the bird for the correct amount of time, he pops the lid onto the pan and carries everything to the walk-in fridge. I’ve already exited the kitchen by the time he returns.

I can’t exactly steal the turkey while he’s in there, after all.

And I plan to steal that turkey.

All the shit that’s been happening with Cat has distracted me from my real-world problems, but now I need a distraction from the distraction. I need something less complicated, and food is never complicated.

Back in the dining room, I tuck myself into a corner table and wait. When Chef leaves the kitchen, he won’t see me unless he turns around, and I’ve known him long enough to be certain of his complete lack of situational awareness. He won’t turn around.

Minutes later, as if I scripted the moment myself, Chef Maurice toddles out of the kitchen and makes his way through the dining room. My pulse picks up as he stops in the center of the room to dig in his ass crack, but then he sniffs his fingers and keeps moving. It’s late enough in the evening that he won’t come back down to the kitchen, not even if Jim demands it, so the coast is clear.

I rise from my seat and hurry back to the kitchen on silent feet. The prep table stands empty; the pans have been tucked away in a fridge or freezer. Most of the lights are off, and the only sounds are the occasional drip from the tap and the hum of the walk-ins.

It’s so quiet in here that I worry the entire mansion will hear me when I open the massive metal door that leads into the fridge. But that’s part of the fun. The fear of getting caught.

Well, except when your brother, his love interest, and your future love interest catch you fucking a pineapple and then they never let you live it down.

Gritting my teeth, I throw caution to the wind and wrench open the door. Icy air rushes toward me, but it’s laughable. This fridge has nothing on Alaska.

The turkey sits on the back shelf. I know it’s the turkey because a bit of the marinade sloshed over the side, and its scent calls to me like an alluring perfume. I step closer and pull the pan down from the shelf, then set it on the floor.

---