Pony Up Page 2

  Time for major damage control, and I only hope I’m in time. “I have to go deal with him. Just keep an eye on the kitchen. There’s only one dish left to go out, you can handle that. You’re my favorite right-hand man.”

  Basil salutes and clicks his heels together. “Aye, aye. Can do.”

  Taking a deep breath, I stride into the dining room and spot the Michelin critics at once. They’re clustered around a table in the back, making notes on yellow pads of paper. The sight of their swirling handwriting fills me with hope, but it’s not the time to approach them. I have to get my bow-legged brother under some semblance of control.

  Scanning the diners, I can’t miss him. He’s dressed in a checkered shirt with pearl buttons and dirty Wranglers. To make matters even more dire, a Stetson is perched at a rakish angle on his head – I remember it as the hat that Pa gave him on his twenty-first birthday – and he’s chowing down on a big plate of fried scallops.

  “Hi, Cody,” I say, my lips pulled into a tight smile that I imagine more closely resembles a sneer. “You’re early.”

  Cody chuckles and leans back in his chair. The only thing missing is a stalk of wheat clamped between his teeth. He’s like a caricature from a Remington painting. “Heck yeah, I’m here since I couldn’t wait to see my big sis on her big night.” His loud voice booms through the restaurant, and I glance nervously over my shoulder to make sure the Michelin critics haven’t been disturbed. Thankfully, they’re all still making notes and finishing the last dish – a sorbet in the shape of a fish, with homemade “caviar” dots of sugar serving as a garnish.

  “How are you enjoying your scallops?” I ask, pointing down at Cody’s plate.

  Cody rubs his belly. “Aw, it’s good,” he says, but then wrinkles his nose. “But damn, sis, I could really use a nice ribeye after my ride today. Drew that damn bastard bull, Big Easy. Nothin’ like his name says he’s gonna be. Gives a man a powerful appetite for some beefy vittles.”

  “You know I only serve fish and seafood.” My nostrils flare in irritation. “You could’ve always gone to Ruth’s Chris, and just stopped in here for a cocktail after.”

  Cody gives me a playful smile as he taps his steel toe into the floor. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you all growed up,” he says, exaggerating his accent and shaking his head. “And look – I got some friends with me.” He points to a large group of similarly-dressed people, snapping photos of Cody. One even takes a selfie, using us as a backdrop of impromptu photo-bombers.

  “That’s nice,” I say, tension tightening my facial muscles. “You think you could take this little party to the casino bar?”

  “Naw, what’s the fun in that?” Cody shovels another fried scallop in his mouth. “This is real good, Raelynn!”

  So much for him remembering to use my stage name. Only after I cringe, do I notice the two empty bottles of beer beside his plate.

  “It’s Pepper, now,” I remind him with a tight smile. My heart gallops in my chest. “Remember? Raelynn stayed in Kansas. Raelynn has no business in a place like this.” And neither do you.

  Cody shakes his head and snickers. “Aw, yer actin’ mean as catmeat. Yer always gonna be Raelynn to me, my sweet sister who happens to be a ‘lil too big for her britches. Say, ya feel like sendin’ out my friends some free vittles?”

  I groan. Please, god, let him behave. I’ve spent so long working on this, but all I can see is my dreams imploding and being swept away on a tornado of cow pies and snuff.

  “Aw, don’t worry,” Cody says as if reading my mind. “This ain’t gonna do nothin’ to yer ‘lil award show. We’re all friends here.”

  Before I can reply, Cody’s groupies appear at the table all heaving, exposed breasts and Daisy Dukes. One has her entire ass hanging out, and her nipples are barely covered. My eyes dart around the restaurant. If Dante saw this, he’d blow a gasket.

  “Hey, y’all, this here’s my sister.” Cody introduces me with a flourish of his weathered hand. “Pepper, I met these goofs at the rodeo today. Can ya believe it, they came all this way, just to see me ride.”

  “Pleased to meet all of you,” I say through gritted teeth. “Welcome to Sakana, and I hope your entrees were exceptional. Now, Cody, if you don’t mind…”

  “Hey, Cody, can you sign this?” One of the fans, a girl who looks barely older than sixteen steps forward and unbuttons her shirt, pointing to the swell of her juvenile breast.

  “Sure thing,” Cody booms across the space, eyeing her rack. “There’s nothin’ a man loves more than makin’ the ‘lil woman happy.”

  I hiss in a breath as I rack my brain for a way to get this train wreck to pull into the station before it derails. “I’d be more than happy to provide my private office for your little meet and greet.”

  “Aw, Pepper, don’t be so high-falutin’.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, if yer so gosh darn nervous about those fancy pants guys over there, why not let me rope ‘em in for ya?”

  “What?” I blink. “What are you talking about?”

  To my horror, Cody whips out a length of rope and whistles.

  “Aw, Cody!” The jailbait screams, jumping up and down. “You can rope anything! You’re my hero!”

  I bury my face in my hands. No. This can’t be happening. Please, God. Send a bolt of lightning down to kill me where I stand.

  It’s worse than any nightmare I’ve ever had.

  “Yeah, sis,” Cody says, grinning. He flings his lasso high in the air just like he used to do in our corral from the time he could walk upright. “I’m gonna rope them suckers in. They’ll love it!” Before I can stop the shit show unfolding before my very eyes, he whips the rope through the air. It narrowly misses the ceiling décor – a large skeleton of a shark painted in tropical colors – and whirls a perfect lasso.

  “Cody, no,” I say, but my voice is thready and weak. I’ve already given up as I imagine myself standing in line for the soup kitchen. “Please don’t do this.”

  Cody doesn’t hear me. He jumps to his feet and whirls the lasso through the air. I freeze in my tracks, panicking. Should I jump on him and tackle him? No, I should call Basil. Basil’s a little stronger But, oh–!

  Cody hurls the lasso through the air. To my absolute horror, the loop lands around the body of a stout Michelin critic. Cody tightens the rope and pulls the man – and his chair – back from the table, guffawing the entire time and slapping his left leg while he lassos with his right.

  “That was a damn sight easier than a bull calf!” Cody yelps, giving a fist pump in triumph. To my shocked surprise, the entire restaurant gets to their feet and gives Cody a standing ovation. The catcalls and whistles ring through the air like a redneck symphony. I feel like I’ve stepped outside the world of fine dining and into an alternate Universe. “Lookee, sis! I wrassled him for ya!”

  “Oh my god,” I say, burying my face in my hands, then pull my shit together and spring across the restaurant.

  I’m over. Finished. Done. Stick a fucking fork in me.

  “I am so sorry.” I’m breathless when I reach the table of the Michelin executives. “I had no idea my brother was going to be in town, and–”

  To my utter astonishment, the lassoed man laughs. Great heaving belly chuckles that set his eyes to crinkling and his stomach wiggling. He removes the rope from his thick midsection, then stands up and shakes my hand.

  “I had no idea your brother was Cody Higginbottom,” the critic says, still chuckling. “What an entertaining show. Tell me, Ms. St. Claire, did you plan all of this?”

  I feel like melting into my Wakos and disappearing into a vat of fish sauce.

  Of course I didn’t tell you that little nugget of information. Why the hell do you think I changed my name? Raelynn Higginbottom is about as far away from Vegas as Kansas itself, and there’s no way I’m letting her ghost flicker back to life.

  “Um, yes.” I force a smile while also forcing my shoulders to relax back down into their natural posit
ion. “He’s in town for the–”

  “Nationals Final Rodeo,” the critic says, waving his hands through the air. “You don’t have to tell me. I was fortunate enough to snag tickets for the performance last night. What an exercise in athleticism by both man and beast.”

  “Oh.” I feel lightheaded as I shake the man’s hand. “That’s lovely. I’m so pleased to hear you’re enjoying yourself here in Las Vegas.”

  Cody joins me at the table. He winks at the critic and offers his hand to the older man. They shake and half-embrace in a little man-hug.

  “Son, that’s the best trick I’ve seen in ages,” the critic says. He picks up his yellow critic’s notebook and hands it over. “Would you mind giving me an autograph? You can make it out to Richard.”

  “Why, sure,” Cody drawls. He takes the critic’s Mont Blanc fountain pen and messily scrawls his name, leaving blotches of ink all over his hands and the notebook.

  The critic turns to me and chuckles. “Ms. St. Claire,” he says with a wide smile. Some of the ice around my shattered heart starts to melt. “That meal was astonishing. I can’t say for sure, but let me just tell you this now – this was a real triumph, and I think you’re going to be very pleased with the results.”

  I reach out and grip the edge of the table, feeling like I’m going to faint. If I get out of this one alive and with my pride and career intact, I’ll consider it the eighth wonder of the culinary world.

  “Thank you.” I take my first deep breath in hours and my face curls into a genuine smile. “That’s wonderful to hear. It was my honor to have you dine here at Sakana. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “Yes,” Richard says. “Thank you very much for an excellent meal.”

  My smile grows wider. “You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can get for you? Perhaps an after-dinner liqueur or some espresso?”

  Richard chuckles and closes his notebook. “Not a thing.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Cody. He’s signing the jailbait girl’s breast with a Sharpie, and I can feel my smile fading.

  It’s not that I don’t love my brother – or the rest of my family. But sometimes I feel like there’s not enough distance between Kansas and my life today. Instead of closing the gap, I want to widen it until it’s the dimensions of the Grand Canyon.

  Chapter Two

  Carter

  “I don’t know why there’s a dead rat back there.”

  The rage slithers up my spine. It’s all I can do to tamp it down, so it doesn’t explode out the top of my head. Losing my temper with a health inspector isn’t going to get my restaurant back on track. “All I can tell you is that it wasn’t there this morning, and I’ve never even seen a rodent in this restaurant. As you know, I’ve been the head chef here ever since my brother purchased this casino.”

  The health inspector clucks her tongue and shakes her head as her superior gaze takes inventory of everything she sees. “Mr. Caldwell, I don’t appreciate your tone,” she says in a snotty voice that makes me want to growl at her. “But I will have to report this to the Nevada Board of Health.”

  “Great.” I stifle a groan, raking a hand through my already-messy hair. “This is just perfect.”

  Her nostrils flare at my sarcasm. The health inspector closes her notebook and peers at me over her wireless glasses. “Do you mind if I use your restroom on the way out?”

  “Whatever,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Excuse me?” The health inspector blinks, her facial expression sour and wrinkly like she sucked down a piece of lemon meringue pie with the sugar left out.

  “Not a problem,” I manage to spit out. All I want is this hoity-toity woman out of my sight, so I can try to strategize my next move. Damn women and their constant demands. I don’t need them and their drama.

  If I want some pussy, I can easily get it out on the casino floor. One date with a loose cocktail waitress and I’m golden. But once I’m done with the female persuasion, I’m done. And I am so fucking done with this one right now. “The customer bathroom is right through those doors.”

  I point through the open kitchen doors into the lush interior of Steakhouse, my restaurant that’s located inside the Armónico, my brother Nixon’s Las Vegas boutique casino. The health inspector mutters something under her breath and slips her notebook back in the pocket of her hideous polyester outfit. As I watch the land whale waddle out of my kitchen, I feel a rush of hot anger. Balling my hand into a fist, I slam it down on the prep counter.

  “Um, Monsieur Carter?” My pastry chef blinks at me. Red blotches break out on Claude’s neck. Whenever he’s nervous, his heavy French accent becomes even more pronounced, as does his butchering of the English language. “I feel the distressed.”

  “I don’t really have time for this right now, Claude.” I suck a deep breath in through my nose. “Is the boeuf en croute all ready to go?”

  Claude sighs and throws his hands up in the air. Whipped cream dangles from his hat, and in about ten seconds, it’s going to end up as a sugary casualty on the tile floor. “Sir, I am no zee sure,” he says, putting a hand to his forehead. He looks like an actor in a soap opera, except fat and balding instead of handsome and charming. “It was tres most of zee trouble for me.”

  “Well, get it ready,” I snap. “That’s the first thing we’re serving the Michelin critics, and it better fucking knock their socks off.”

  Claude gives me a hesitant look. “Sir, please to listen…”

  “Go ahead.” I wave my hand through the air. In my years of working with Claude, his artistic temperament has taught me that even if I’m not ready, he’ll say whatever’s on his mind. I just may or may not understand it.

  “Would it not be better to have the un course zee fluffier? Perhaps, um, une bouillabaisse?” He reverts to his native French, stretching the word with his mouth.

  “I hate fish.” I cringe, shaking my head. In my world, nothing outside of red classifies as meat. I detest fish and anyone who eats it. “Absolutely no fucking way are we serving fish!”

  “But, sir, zee monsieurs!”

  “I don’t give a shit!” I snarl, pounding my hand on the prep counter until it burns my unfounded anger straight up to my elbow. Deep down, I know Claude only wants the best for me and the restaurant. He’s not just a colleague, he’s a friend. But between the stress of the random health inspection and the Michelin critics, I’m at the end of my rope. “They’re coming from Sakana, they’ve just had fish! And scallops, and shrimp, and god knows what other horrid concoctions come out of that kitchen. This restaurant is called Steakhouse, Claude. Heavy on the steak.”

  Claude whimpers. His blue eyes begin to tear, and he rushes away, redness flagging his face a rosy hue. For a moment, I almost feel guilty. But it passes sooner than it should, and then I remember who I am. I’m Carter fucking Caldwell, and Steakhouse is my pride and joy.

  Ever since I was a kid serving chocolate soufflé to my mom, I’ve always wanted to open a restaurant. When I graduated from French culinary school, my brother Nixon offered me a great deal – I could open a restaurant in his Vegas casino, the Armónico, as long as I could keep turning a profit. And the best part…full creative control. Nixon stays the hell out of my business and my hair.

  Most of the time.

  I turned so much profit in the first six months that I surprised my elder brother with my business acumen. Since then, Steakhouse has been my pride and joy. I just have one rule.

  No. Fucking. Fish.

  All my entrees are well balanced. Lamb, beef, pork, chicken – it doesn’t matter, as long as there’s real meat. And personally, I only eat red meat. I don’t understand people who don’t. Animals were put on this planet for our consumption, why shouldn’t we eat as many of them as possible? Besides, they’re tasty.

  Unless there’s meat in an entrée, it’s not a fucking entrée. It’s a side dish, or at best, an appetizer.

  I sigh and wonder if I should apologize to C
laude. He’s as bad as a fucking woman with his stormy moods. Thank God I pay him enough to put up with a lot of my shit. I know I shouldn’t be so angry about the health inspector, but I can’t believe she picked today of all days to show up. This is the first time the Michelin critics have visited Steakhouse, and if all goes well, I’ll be getting a brand-new rating…and hopefully, a whole new level of visibility that will end up with me on TV someday.

  The kitchen is bumbling and busy. Claude leans over in the corner, weeping about my choice of dessert. He wanted to do a traditional plate of French macaroons, but I know those Michelin critics have likely had all the fancy cookies they could ever eat. Instead, I’m going with an old classic – flaming Bananas Foster. I put a twist on mine, though. A glace of caramelized rum on top, with sparkling candles, that really kicks the dish up from “high school kid’s birthday party” to “high dollar Vegas gluttony.” For years, it’s been my secret weapon, and I can’t wait for the critics to try it. Multiple diners have told me it’s heaven on a plate.

  “Claude,” I call. “How’s it going over there?”

  Claude looks up at me, clearly distressed. “Sir…” The way he pronounces the word sounds like ‘tsar’ – and he better fucking believe it. I’m the tsar of everything I survey. “It is not going well.”

  “Well, make it better,” I say, giving him a thumbs up in support. After the day I’ve had, that’s about all the empathy I can muster. “We’ve got to put on one hell of a show tonight.”

  I lean against the wall and take a deep breath. So far, I’ve sent out a lamb ragu, a rare hangar steak with hollandaise crème, and chicken “lollipops” with a maple bourbon glaze, and it’s almost time for the big finale.

  Claude may be emotional and whiny, but he’s a superb pastry chef, the best in the business. In no more than ten minutes, he has a beautiful Bananas Foster ready to go.

  “You did a great job,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder.

  Claude looks offended. “I should hope so,” he says, tilting his chin high in the air. “After all, I work tres hard, Monsieur Carter!”