Mike’s on his way. At the rate I’m going, I should get there about ten minutes before he does.

I just hope he relents and does some of the talking. Sauced or not, I’m not looking forward to kicking the guy out.

When I get to my building, I don’t bother waiting out front for Mike like I told him I would; I just go straight up there.

Maybe if I do this quick, Mike can arrive just in time to throw Dane out on his ear.

That’s the dream.

I spend a few solid minutes going through my pockets before I remember having left the keys inside.

I knock on the door and wait.

While I’m waiting, something triggers a memory within me. Something about my father, but I can’t put a finger on it.

I knock again, but there’s no answer.

He must be out.

I don’t have Dane’s number in my phone since my call history automatically deletes itself, so all I can do is wait for Mike to get here and then track down the super.

As I’m walking away from my door, I realize what’s triggering the memory: someone's cooking confit de canard. My dad used to make it in his restaurant.

This is just perfect. I’m drunk, irritated and now starving.

As I walk down the stairs, I pull out my phone.

“Hey,” Mike answers. “Where are you?”

“He’s not there,” I tell him. “Are you out front?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Are you drunk?”

“I wouldn’t say that I’m drunk,” I tell him.

“You know, if we don’t get that guy out of there, I’m going to have to start taking you to meetings.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, stumbling down the final two steps to the ground floor.

“You okay?” Mike asks.

“I’m fine,” I answer. “Why?”

The knock on the glass door of the building answers the question for me.

“Are you going to let me in or what?”

I hang up and open the door.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “It looked like you rolled your ankle or something.”

“I’m fine, but we need to find the super. I forgot my keys.”

The quest takes a while as we chase Mr. Traven from floor to floor, the people in each apartment we stop at saying that he just left. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear that he’s avoiding me for some reason.

We finally catch up to him on the fourth floor and little droplets of spit fly out as he chastises me for making such a ridiculous mistake.

Grudgingly, he walks with Mike and I back into that hallway, still filled with the fragrance of confit de canard.

“I’ll let you in,” Mr. Traven says at the door, “but you’re going to have to figure something else out next time. I’ve got two broken radiators, a refrigerator that stopped working around three o’clock yesterday afternoon, and six or seven toilets to unclog. I really don’t have time to save you every time you—”

“I really appreciate it, Mr. Traven,” I interrupt. “You’re an absolute lifesaver.”

The gambit works and he opens the door without showering me or my companion with any more spittle.

As soon as the door is open, I’m struck by the smell wafting from inside.

“Smells like your roommate is quite the chef,” Mike says, stopping to sniff the air. “What is that, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” I lie.

My mind is elsewhere.

Sitting on the kitchen table is a plate of confit de canard with a note off to one side.

I walk toward it and breathe deep the succulent aroma while Mike makes his way to my side and picks up the note.

“I wanted to serve this hot, but didn’t know when you were going to get back,” Mike reads. “Thank you for renting me the room. I look forward to living here—Dane.” He looks up at me. “Well, that was nice of him.”

In my mind, I’m back in my father’s restaurant, taking no small amount of joy in the fact that I’m the only one in the whole place who doesn’t have to dress up to get a seat. Without knowing it, Dane has given me the perfect gift.

“This sucks,” I say, finally opening my eyes again.

“What sucks?” Mike asks.

“I can’t kick him out now,” I whine.

Mike shrugs, but doesn’t say anything.

I don’t know what to say either, so I settle on the obvious question: “Are you hungry?”

Chapter Four

Tension

Dane

As fun as last night was in the beginning, the feud between Breann (apparently, she’s the one I was calling Buzzed Girl) and Yoga Chick only intensified after our exploits. Once the enmity stopped translating itself into physical contact for me, I lost my tolerance for it.

Getting out was no small feat, though, as both Breann and Yoga Chick were constantly looking to me to resolve individual, and increasingly odd, disputes.

“I think the ficus looks better by the sofa, but Breann thinks it looks better by the window. She’s crazy, right?”

I wouldn’t have gotten out of there at all if I hadn’t directed them toward the bathroom, saying some bullshit about how I thought the bra hanging over the shower rod was sexy. It was about the stupidest idea I’ve ever had, but it worked well enough. They both went in there to argue over whose it originally was.

Today’s been great, though.

Not only did I move into my new place, but I nailed my friend’s secretary while my roommate was passed out with a hangover.

This is why I love my job.

Okay, so I lied to Roommate Chick about what I do. Yeah, I play guitar and I sing, but I’ve never played a show.

“What the fuck happened to this foie gras?” I ask my sous chef.

Yeah, I lied about my job, but I’m sick of people asking me to get them reservations or teach them my favorite recipes. It’s a nightmare.

Telling a woman that you’re an executive chef at one of the better French restaurants in the city is great if you’re looking for a quick lay, but living with someone who knows you’re a chef—it’s just not worth the hassle.

That is one of the better things about this job, though; it has been years since I’ve had to use a pickup line to get a date. Women love chefs. Tell them about something sizzling in a pan and you can almost feel the change in humidity.

It worked wonders on Secretary Chick.

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t feel like taking it off the stove before you burnt it to shit?” I interrupt.

Yeah, Ramsay’s got nothing on me. Well, nothing but the TV shows, cookbooks, multiple restaurants of his own, fame and fortune.

Still, I’m pretty sure I get more play than he does.

I’m calling that a victory.

“What are you waiting for?” I ask. “Do it again!”

“You’d think with tattoos like that, the health department would be more worried about hepatitis,” someone behind me says.

I turn around.

“Jim, you old fuck, get the hell out of the kitchen before my restaurant loses a star,” I jab back.

“You are an ungrateful little shit, aren’t you?” he asks.

“What’s up?”

“I need to borrow you for a minute. Is there someone that can take over for you?”

“Nobody worth a damn, but hey, it’s your restaurant. Why should I care that your customers are about to eat burnt shit?”

Jim and I have a strange relationship. As the owner of l’Iris, he’s my boss. On the other hand, he’s about the only person I’ve ever met with a filthier mouth than mine. That’s just his way of connecting with me, though, and I can appreciate the effort.

I think it’s hilarious.

“All right, sit down, fuck face,” he tells me. “We’ve got a bit of a problem.”

“Did Wilks jerk off in someone’s French onion soup again?”

“No,” Jim says. “Wait, what?”

“I’m just fucking with you,” I tell him. “Calm down.”

“It’s our covers,” he says. “Business is down—”

“It was Cannon,” I interrupt.

“What?”

“The French onion soup thing—I’m sorry, you were trying to tell me something.”

“Dane, I’ve got to level with you. We’re pretty fucked right now, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to keep you on. Short of adding pussy to the menu, I’ve been trying everything to keep people coming in, but with this fucking economy—”