Chapter 8 - Hope You Choke With It

Lacey's POV:

In the kitchen, which is like Gordon Ramsey’s kitchen, that wide it is and well-equipped, he takes a seat at the middle counter, places his suit jacket and tie on the other chair next to him, and starts unbuttoning his shirt, not escaping my sight with his hungry eyes, exhibiting a mischievous smile, as he’s taking pleasure in my torture like the sadist he appears to be.

If only…. Oh yeah…. I studied three universities and became one of the best in Marketing to cook for a kid at fucking four in the morning….

I ‘Hmph!’ at him and he chuckles like the brat he is.

“Where’s the apron, sir?” He’s smirking, twisting his head at me.

“Miss Holtrey, though I’m a complete man with uncountable skills, cooking, unfortunately, isn’t one of them. So, I don’t know where the apron is, or anything related to the kitchen section.”

Fine! Son of a bitch…. Oh! Breathe and start searching for the damned apron and everything else!

I undress my jacket in anger and put it on an empty chair, more like throwing it on it. I place my phone on the counter and I’m now on ignore mode with him, like he doesn’t even exist in the fucking universe. I open drawers to find what I need.

Apron. Good. One is found. Let’s see what’s in the fridge and think what to cook for the bastard. Something fast to cook. I can’t stand him any longer. And tomorrow I need to tolerate him the entire day. Maybe he’s got meetings where he won’t take me, though from what I was given as a schedule, I’m the entire day with him. SHIT!

I grab vegetables, eggs, ham and some sweet and sour sauce. I’m on automatic, without thinking on the recipe. I’m experienced on this and I don’t need to pay attention. I do make delicious food, but I would have never cooked for a guy. Only for dad and Brent. I have long nails with a blood red color. You wouldn’t think I know how to cook or do house stuff. But there’s nothing I can’t do. After one look over the instructions, I master it without a problem.

I put everything on the counter and dress the apron, cursing under my lips as in my opinion I’m alone in the kitchen. Hey! When you get older and stay with a sick person in the house for four years, you start speaking out loud without realizing. I never do it in front of dad as he keeps me anchored to reality, but with everyone else, except for Brent of course, I do it as I’m on ignore and I literally don’t perceive anyone around me. It’s not a play, it’s a reality.

“Can’t believe I’m on a low position such as an assistant for business purposes and I have to cook at four in the morning like I’m some cook.” I’m grabbing other stuff from the drawers like a wok, oil, and everything else, in fast moves.

“I fucking studied my ass off to reach to the point of cooking for a kid because he’s hungry and he doesn’t want to call for other people who are hired on the position of cooking and serving. Oh yes. I hate his guts!” I’m slicing the vegetables with speed, one by one, like I’m a ninja.

“He asks me if I’m drunk. Oh, I’m so fucking drunk, kid! To fucking sign that insane contract!” No, I don’t look at him and I don’t realize I’m thinking out loud. There’s silence around me and I see nothing, just what I’m doing.

“To learn how to cook in five minutes, huh? Do you think it’s like fucking hocus-pocus?!” I put the wok on the stove and spray olive oil in it.

“He’s hungry. At four in the morning! Oh, I fucking hate him!” I roll in the kitchen with everything, like I said, on automatic, like through magic indeed as I’m skilled, and continue my venting.

“Only if Brent didn’t keep me that late! I wouldn’t cross paths with the brat, and I would be in bed, sleeping now! Yeah…. My fucked life! I shouldn’t have signed it. No. Oh! I’m so fucking angry right now! Damn money…. Me, someone who was making half a million dollars in a month! So low I’ve reached! TO WORK FOR A FUCKING KID! Jesus….” I’m making a salad, chewing in fury from my inner cheek.

“Can’t believe this…. If someone told me four years ago, I’ll do this, I would have shot the fucker in the fucking head on the spot! But here we are…. Making salad, cooking food, considered drunk, and all the stuff. Sweet life indeed…. And Brent considers me a saint. Well, flash news. I’m such a Devil right now, Brent. I would kill him in pains to gather all the satisfaction for it. FUCK YES! And I wouldn’t charge a penny for it. No, sir. Free of charge in intense orgasms for me. Oh yeah…. Fucking kid….” I take out a plate and start assembling the food on it to make the dish. Like slamming the plate on the counter.

No, though my stomach is on a fucking rave symphony, the hell I’m hungry. I just want to finish this and get the fuck out of here.

“Three months’ notice, huh? You’ll have it tomorrow, brat. We’ll take care of that too. You’ll see. Oh yeah…. We’ll totally solve that as well. Watch me.” I’m seasoning the dish with the sauce and some herbs.

“There. Michelin Chef. Take that. And I hope you choke with it. But it’s heavenly, don’t worry. You’ll choke in pleasures. Muhahaha! Hope you’ve got your legacy assured, kid. You may die now.” And I just now have the veil taken off my eyes and we have a lock of stares.

I’m fuming and he’s fucked with a smirk crowning his face, shirt completely opened in front revealing his naked chest and abs, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and he’s penetrating me with a deep hungry stare. I “Hmph!” at him and undergo my fake smile, like nothing happened and I’ve said anything the type.

“Here you go, sir. Enjoy. I’m off to my place now.” And I serve him with the plate, the salad, a fork and a knife and napkins like a fucking lady.

I take off the apron, fold it and place it in the drawer I found it, walk to the chair I have my jacket on, fetch it, and with hurried and irritated steps, I aim the exit.

He’s like hit by a lightning something, with a Taurus breathing, contracted and whatever else. I’m out of the kitchen. Son of a bitch….

“Miss Holtrey!” NO MISS HOLTREY!