Page 28 of Wayward
“Whatever, and Z wanted the chef to make it your way with the homemade shit.”
“Let me guess. He told you to go to hell?”
“Yes.” The guy swallows hard. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“So I’m making pasta at dawn?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He lifts his gun. And I glare at him. We stare at each other for a good two minutes.
“Make the pasta.”
His story doesn’t add up. If the chef refused Z, then he’s not going to let me use his galley. Maybe this guy is the one who wants the pasta, and neither Z nor the chef know I’m in the galley. “You don’t think this is going to make the chef testy?”
“No, I don’t think he’s going to be anything anymore.” The guard raises his eyebrow. And now I’m wondering who the true crazy is. Did Z order the chef killed, or did this guy overstep?
I scan the mess I have to work with. I suppose it doesn’t matter. If my cooking can help us get out of here . . . or if I can slip a knife back into the cabin... Either way.
“What’s my timetable?” I search around the space for an apron but settle for a clean kitchen towel tucked into my pocket.
“What?”
“When do you need it? Forget that. I need two and half hours.”
“What? Z wants it as soon as possible.”
I’m a little shocked he said Z. I was starting to really believe that he’d come up with this plot himself. “Two hours. Fresh pasta has to rest.” I’ll make it in an hour and a half, but I have to give myself some sort of buffer, as I don’t know where anything is in this cyclone of a space. Is the pantry stocked with the thingsI’ll need? I glance at the cupboard that seems most logical to house the dry goods.
“I’ll tell him two hours.”
“Does he not sleep? Pasta at dawn?”
“No.” He picks up his radio and calls another guard.
Collins, the one who shot at Zane, of course, is the one who shows up. He scowls at me. “What the hell, Dakota? What’s up with this asshole up here?”
“He’s making pesto alla Genovesa for Z.”
“Where’s Chef?”
“Not here.”
“I can see that.”
“Just watch him while he cooks. I need to go tell Z when it will be ready.”
“Copy that.”
Dakota leaves me alone with the psychopath. I glare for a second, then get down to work. I wash the dishes in the sink as fast as I can and clean a section of counter big enough to work on, relocating a hundred bottles of hot sauce and hot sauce packets. “Your chef has a thing for hot sauce.”
“The hotter the better,” Collins grunts.
I nod. Heat is good, but it needs to be layered, not blasted. Whatever. Inside the chaotic fridge, I find good enough cheese and fresh basil. I take a moment to smell it, huff it even. But I’ve got pasta to make. I search through drawers and things. But someone’s prepared for my arrival. There’s only one small paring knife on the magnetic knife board.
“Chef keeps the food processor over there.” Collins points to a set of double doors.
