The Butcher (11 page)

He had been surprised to look through the window to see she had a guest. Thankfully he hadn't rung the doorbell, because what a guest she was. Time might have wrinkled her skin and expanded her waistline, but Edward never forgot a face. She was the only one who'd ever gotten away, and he'd looked for her for a good two years before finally giving up. No doubt she'd changed her name after she'd left Seattle, maybe even more than once.

But now she was back, and it was Edward's chance to finally tie up a loose end. And, of course, have a little fun in the process. He had no idea what the woman had told Samantha, but he would find out. Edward had always been an expert at making people talk.

Waiting a few seconds, he started the engine on the Seville, then slowly followed Samantha's white Mazda down the street. As he drove, his groin tingled. Looking down, his eyes widened in surprise.

Goddammit if there wasn't a tent in his trousers. Would wonders never cease. He had an erection, his first one in years. In the darkness, Edward Shank grinned.

Perfect timing.

If people would just do what they were fucking told, people wouldn't have to worry about losing their fucking jobs.

Matt knew he was in a bad mood, but for Christ's sake, he had good reason to be. Adobo had never been busier and yet he was understaffed ever since two servers had quit without giving notice. Lauryn Kinney, his day manager, had been late twice in the last week due to some custody battle with her ex over her son (Matt didn't know the details, as he hadn't really been listening). And now his old college friend PJ Wu was asking for a few minutes to chat in private, no doubt to ask for another advance on his pay, probably because he'd gotten in too deep with his bookie. Again.

To top it all off, Matt had the Fresh Network people calling to try to schedule a time to meet with him, and they were pushing for him to fly down to San Francisco for a meeting at their offices. As if he had time for that. There just didn't seem to be enough hours in the day.

He was fucking busy, okay? And if people couldn't keep up, then
maybe he needed to hire new people. Adobo was currently
Seattle
magazine's Best Restaurant in their Reasonably Priced/Casual Fare/Ethnic Foods category, and this was all due to Matt's blood, sweat, and tears. Nobody worked harder than he did because nobody had more to lose than he did, and he certainly did not have time for half-assed employees who thought they deserved to get paid for hours they hadn't even worked yet. Jesus Christ, the balls on some of these motherfuckers.

Matt inhaled and forced himself to listen to PJ's latest woe. Lately, his assistant head chef had been such a little shit, and Matt still hadn't quite forgiven him for the gum incident. But surprisingly, PJ wasn't babbling about how he needed money. Not even close.

“They asked me to talk to you, okay? Because we go way back. And your energy is just frantic, man,” PJ was saying.

It was the in-between time and they were alone in the kitchen; the lunch crowd had died down and it would be another two hours before the dinner patrons started arriving. PJ was chopping onions with lightning speed, and Matt had to admit the guy was a natural. Unlike himself, his friend had never been to culinary school, but he had good instincts, which was the reason Matt had hired him to run his first food truck seven years ago.

“You're freaking out the staff,” PJ continued, reaching for another onion. “You're like, impossible to approach. We don't feel like you're listening to our concerns. You're like a Nazi these days. Everybody is walking on eggshells around here. You explode over little things.”

“
That's
what this is about?” Matt stifled a sigh and stuck a hand into his pocket, feeling around for his cigarette pack. He didn't find it . . . because he'd quit smoking five years ago. Goddammit. “Do any of you think we got to where we are—”

“It's not about that, man. I'm not trying to start an argument.” The
frustration in PJ's voice was palpable, even thicker than the scent of the onion between them. He put his knife down and rested both hands on the wood chopping block. “We all know how good we're doing, okay? And we're really proud of that. We're getting great press, everyone is excited about the Fresh Network thing, it's all fantastic and we're happy to be a part of it. It's just . . . it's you. You're different.”

Matt opened his mouth to respond, but the kitchen door opened and two of his prep cooks walked in. They stopped, saw the expression on Matt's face, and turned to leave.

“No, you guys stay. Get the
sinigang
going and we're low on
lumpia
wrappers, so make three hundred more.” Matt looked at PJ and jerked his head in the direction of the back door. “We'll finish this outside.”

“But the empanadas—”

“You just said I wasn't listening to your concerns, didn't you? Well, I'm listening now.”

Sighing, PJ wiped his hands on his chef's coat and followed Matt outside. The air was damp and cool, and there was a light, steady rain. The odor of the overflowing dumpster a few feet away in the alleyway was pungent. It hadn't been easy securing a location for the restaurant in small, hipsterish Fremont, but the location couldn't be beat.

“So talk.” Matt allowed the door to close behind him.

“I already said what I had to say.”

“PJ, right now we're not friends, okay?” Matt said. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette. “Right now I'm the owner of this restaurant and you work for me, and you have concerns. So talk. What are the staff saying about me?”

PJ dropped his chin slightly and stuck his hands in his pockets. “It's like, nothing really bad, it's just they feel like the environment hasn't been fun lately. Obviously you're stressed, and you seem to be mad
when nobody else is. Nobody can relax around you, man. And it's not healthy. Like last week, with the car accident, you were pretty hard on me. That was out of my control, man. I mean, that's why they call it an accident. I was shook up, I couldn't find my phone right away, and you didn't even . . .”

“Didn't even what?”

PJ rubbed his hair again, and it stood up in short black spikes. “You weren't even concerned. You didn't ask if I was okay. I work for you, I get that, and I know you sign my paychecks. But to yell at me because I got sideswiped by some kid who had his license for maybe two minutes? That was uncool. And then yesterday, with Lauryn? She was crying, man. Did you know her ex beat her? It took forever for her to leave him, and she's living with her mom right now, and she's trying to get her kid back—it's not a good situation, and you were a jackass. You weren't even listening to her; you just chewed her out for being late.

“We're people, okay? We're not robots. When we're here, we give a hundred percent, but we have lives outside of work. There isn't one person who works here who doesn't work their ass off for you. We love this place, and we absolutely feel a sense of ownership over what we do and over the success of the restaurant. But if things don't change . . .”

“If things don't change, what?” Matt's jaw was tight. “Finish it. You've come this far. Don't stop now.”

PJ took a deep breath, then looked directly at Matt. “If things don't change, you'll lose people. Good people. People who helped you get Adobo to where it is. You didn't do this by yourself, okay, man? You didn't get here on your own.”

Matt laughed. He couldn't help it, because it was just so absurd, the things that were coming out of little PJ Wu's mouth. He stepped
forward, moving into PJ's personal space, causing the smaller man to shrink back a little.

“I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. Are you seriously telling me how to run my restaurant? You all don't think I know how to run a business? You think the pressure of this is easy?” The need to laugh subsided, and Matt felt the heat rising in his cheeks, his heart rate accelerating with every word. “You're worried about Lauryn? Do you know what she makes? I pay her extremely well, my friend, and I pay her extremely well that so that she'll do her fucking job extremely well. I pay her to help me manage this restaurant, not hear her excuses. And I definitely don't pay you as well as I do—which is pretty goddamned well for a guy with no formal training—to come in late to work on a Saturday night crying like a little girl over a fender bender. The restaurant is where it is because of
me,
because
I
run a tight ship, and because
I
know what the fuck I'm doing.”

PJ's face was red, and he shook his head, wiping a drop of rain from his brow. “Okay, you know what, forget it. I tried, but this is bullshit.” He made to move past his boss toward the door, but Matt put a hand on his arm.

“I didn't dismiss you. We're not done.”

“Dismiss me?” PJ blinked, his small eyes widening in shock. “Did you really just say that?” He raised both hands. “This conversation is going totally sideways. I'm going back to work.”

“I said, we're not done.”

“Please take your hand off me, Matt.”

“Oh, this bothers you now?” Matt stepped even closer, getting into the other man's face. “This bother you, too?” Before he could think about it, he poked his friend in the chest. Hard.

Mouth opening slightly in surprise, PJ pushed back with his palm,
with surprising force. Matt was propelled a step backward. Instantly, everything around him went hazy and quiet. All he could see were PJ's beady eyes glaring up at him, and the anger that consumed him was so raw he could almost taste it. Matt's fingers clenched into a fist, and before he could think about it, he punched PJ square on the jaw as hard as he could.

The sound of his knuckles connecting with PJ's round face was satisfying, almost ridiculously so. The smaller man went down instantly, his head slamming into the pavement with a dull thud.

The haze cleared. Blinking, Matt looked down.
Shit shit shit
. PJ was out cold, not moving, and now Matt was going to jail, which was the last thing he fucking needed. Part of the agreement he'd made with the assistant district attorney when he'd been assigned community classes over jail time last year was that any further assault charges would result in a minimum one-year jail sentence. He'd gotten into a bar fight then and had beaten the other guy silly; his grandfather had smoothed things over.

But there would be no smoothing things over this time. When PJ came to, he was going to be mad, he was going to sue, and Matt would be going to county.

This was a fucking disaster.

Cursing himself for his lack of control, Matt took a deep breath, trying to remember the relaxation techniques he'd learned. When PJ woke up, he would apologize. He would offer him money. He would do whatever he had to do to make this go away. Like his friend had just said, they went way back. Surely PJ would forgive him and they'd be able to move on.

The rain was coming down a bit faster now, and he crouched down. “PJ. I'm sorry, dude. Wake up.”

The man didn't move.

“PJ. Come on, man.”

Matt put a hand on his friend's shoulder and shook him. PJ's head turned slightly on the pavement, and the next thing Matt knew, blood was seeping out. He recoiled, shocked.

Oh no. No no no.

Forcing himself to move in closer, Matt turned PJ over slightly, and that's when he saw the large jagged rock under his friend's head. PJ must have slammed into it when he'd hit the ground, and whatever injury this was, it was obviously more than just a concussion.

Matt touched the smaller man's shoulder gently. The blood continued to seep out from the side of PJ's head in a steady, warm stream of bright red. “PJ? Wake up. Wake up, buddy. Please try and wake up.”

PJ didn't move, but his mouth finally opened and a small moan escaped his lips. Then his mouth closed and his whole body went slack.

No. No no no. You've got to be kidding me. This cannot be happening.

Heart racing, Matt felt for a pulse on the side of PJ's neck. If there was one, he couldn't find it. He checked PJ's wrist. Nothing there, either. He shook PJ harder, and the man's head lolled to the side.

He was totally fucking dead.

Shit shit shit fuck shit
. How could this be possible? Matt had hit him, yes, but never in a million years had he meant to kill the guy. PJ was his friend. And now his friend was dead, and Matt would lose everything he worked for because of one lousy, out-of-control moment.

Now what?

Matt looked up and down the alleyway. They were completely alone, and nobody had seen what had just happened. Thank God. And although it was the afternoon, there wasn't much daylight due
to the rain that was coming down pretty steadily. The alley was just shadowy enough . . .

He made his decision.

PJ wasn't a big guy, about five foot eight, and he was very lean, maybe around 155 or so. Matt was in pretty good shape thanks to regular weight training and running, but none of that made it any easier when he hefted his friend's limp body up off the ground. There really was such a thing as dead weight—it felt like PJ weighed three hundred pounds.

Placing his wrists under PJ's armpits, he dragged the smaller man over to the dumpster. Heart pounding and scared as hell that somebody would come into the alley, Matt bent his knees and heaved. The adrenaline coursing through his veins helped; PJ was up and into the dumpster in a few seconds, his body landing on the bags of garbage inside with a soft thud.

Panting, Matt's knees buckled, and he fell back against the dirty metal of the dumpster, catching his breath. The rain was coming down harder now, and he lifted his face up to let the downpour cool him off.
Okay. All right. Step one complete
.