Page 20 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

For some reason, Bash can’t seem to grasp that. “You weren’t in control because when you were out there on the ice, you were always worrying about what Dad was going to think. About how you were going to impress Dad with what you could do. It was always about trying to please him and wanting him to be proud of you so he wouldn’t lash out and beat the shit out of one of us.”

Saying the words out loud brings bile up my throat. It's a harsh truth I knew even at a young age, but this is the first time I’ve ever voiced it—the first time I’ve ever dared to mention it to either Bash or Rachel. We’ve always danced around outright discussing what happened to us as children, but the older we get, and the more time that passes since that man left the world, things have started to change.

Though I’m not sure if it’s for the better or worse.

What I’ve been doing is certainly somewhere in the gray zone from that perspective. I’m so fucked up in the head because of what he did that I can’t even talk to my own brother and sister about it without having to justify my actions. One of the reasons I haven’t told anyone where I spend my Wednesday nights…

There are too many conflicting feelings about everything. About how we grew up. Mom loved the shit out of us and did what she could, but the only way any of us got any sort of positive reinforcement from Dad—typically no more than a kind word or a pat on the shoulder—was if we did something he could connect with, and the only way to connect with Dad was on the ice.

It's why the old man always hated me and the reason I never give a shit what happened to him once I left home. He knew I had no interest in playing hockey despite showing promise as soon as I was big enough to put on skates and hold a stick. Unlike Bash, I wasn't about to bend over backward to impress a father who treated me like shit and beat us whenever he felt like it.

I might've been the youngest—the baby of the family—but I know what everyone did to try to shield me from what was happening. Bash and Mom took the brunt of his rage, and Rach stepped in when she had to. But there was only so much they could do when the evidence of what took place was written all over their bodies and I could hear it happening. Their screams and his raving echo in my ears even today, almost a decade after I left that house.

Fuck. This is not how I saw this conversation going tonight.

My free hand shakes, and I press the palm flat against the bar top to try to stop it.

Bash clears his throat like he’s trying to rid it of the same heavy emotion choking me right now. “You should've talked to him before he died.”

I tighten my hand around the phone so hard that it almost hurts. “Why the hell would I do that? Dad never gave a shit about me when I was alive, so why would I care when he was dying? I don't think he said five words to me in the years between when Mom died and he did.”

“Because he knew you didn't want to talk to him. Because he didn't want to force you into something when you already hated him so much.”

Tension builds in my shoulders and up the back of my neck, tightening every muscle and threatening to bring on a migraine I can't afford right now. “Is this why you called? To harass me about choosing not to have a relationship with that man, even now that he's dead?”

He sighs again—a soul-deep sound that makes me cringe. “No. I was actually calling to let you know we got enough tickets for everyone to come to the game when the Scorpions play the Rangers. Rach and Flynn are coming, and we were hoping we could get a little preview of your place, if it’s not open yet.”

I turn around and scan the space, rolling through the lengthy list of everything that still needs to happen. “Still have a lot to do.”

“It's been a long time since you cooked for everyone.”

It has been. And despite the tension that still exists between Bash and me, it'll be good to see him and Rachel—plus, I really do need her help to finalize all the little details.

“Text me all the information about when you’ll be here, and I'll see what I can do to whip up something for everyone.”

“Sounds good.”

“And Bash?”

“What?”

The truth of what I've been doing sits on the tip of my tongue—a confession I haven't made to anyone yet and one I don't know that I'm ready to make now. Not when it means examining things I've long buried and held so deeply that I had hoped they would never surface.

And they won’t. Not right now.

Instead of confessing what will only continue to tear open old wounds, I scrub my hand over my face and lean back against the bar. “It will be good to see you.”

Way to chicken out, Jamo.

I just can't tell him. Maybe when they’re here. Maybe I'll finally be at the point where I can explain it to him, too. Because right now, I don’t even understand it enough to know why I do it.

“It'll be good to see you, too. You think you’ll be open by then?”

It’s my turn to release a heavy sigh. “As much as I wish I could say yes, I don’t think so. But we should be close. I'm trying to open as fast as I can because another restaurant is going in right next door.”

“Really? Who would be dumb enough to open a restaurant next door to you after all the recent publicity you’ve gotten?”

I chuckle and rub at the back of my neck. “A totally hot chick named Isabella, actually.”

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