Page 3 of Unexpected Pickle

HEX IS A MAN WITH A PLAN

I hope to catch Jeannie after the shoot is over, but I get hung up with conversations. Aphid , his minions, the makeup artists.

Jeannie and Vera strike the food from the set and disappear into the kitchen. I’m antsy to follow.

But the director’s assistant takes my arm. “Hex, we have some additional work to do next month. Would you be interested?”

More commercials? With this crew? Not on your life.

“I have a match before then,” I tell her. “I might be pretty bashed up.”

Aerosol visibly flinches, like I said I ate mayonnaise out of a jar. “Such brutality.”

I crack my knuckles to make my point. “Not gonna argue with that.”

His assistant puts on a pouty expression that I know well. Her voice gets high, almost a squeak. “Could you show us some of your moves?” Her eyes are dancing. “I love watching MMA fighters do their thing.”

Great. Once someone has made a request like that, it will ripple. I hate when it happens. It’s like asking Macaulay Culkin to slap his face to reprise his moment in Home Alone , or getting Jenny Ortega to perform her Wednesday dance.

Both of the makeup artists squeal. “Yes! Yes, please!”

And other crew. “Please show us!”

There’s murmured agreement, even among the men.

I’m about to get pressured into this. I’ve been here before.

I can push and force my way out, but usually it’s best to just get it over with.

I drop my right leg back and bounce, lifting my arms into a defensive position.

Then my fists shoot out in a rapid series of jabs. I twist, shifting my weight, and my foot arcs through the air in a roundhouse kick, knocking a makeup brush right out of one of the women’s hands.

She lets out an excited shriek, then everyone cheers.

Okay, enough of that.

I make an exaggerated bow and excuse myself before anyone can ask me to teach them how to do it, which is usually phase two of a situation like this.

Max is near the kitchen door. “Dog-and-pony show. I know it well.”

“I made it out alive. Is Jeannie still in there?”

“Yeah, but it’s not an opportune time to talk to her. She gets a little, well, abrupt when she’s finishing a task.”

“I’ll risk it.” I try to push past him.

His arm blocks my path. Even though Max’s biceps could crush an average human, I’m bigger.

I could force the issue, but he’s a friend.

“What gives?”

He blows out a breath. “I should put it another way. It will not further your cause of wooing my kitchen manager if you go in there now. And you might lose an ear.”

“She’d throw a knife at me?”

“No, she’d cut your ear off.” He curls an arm around my shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere and spend your pitiful modeling fee on overpriced beer.”

“I’m on pre-fight this week,” I tell him.

“Of course you are. So we’ll head to the Hearty Bean.”

I stare at the kitchen door. I’d rather see Jeannie than hang out at a health-food cafe, even with Max.

But I need to see the big picture. “All right. But I’m coming back here tomorrow.”

“Good man.” He cuffs me on the jaw as we sneak out the side door.

It’s warm for January, and SoCal doesn’t get all that cold, anyway. The Hearty Bean is only a few blocks down, so we walk.

“Will you open the deli when they’re gone?” I ask.

Max shakes his head. “Nah. Too close to closing.”

People literally stop in their tracks as we walk by. I’m used to attention, but not like this.

“You should have changed shirts,” Max says with a laugh. “You’re subjecting the world to your man titties.”

I glance down. He’s right. Damn. “Hold on.” I jog back to my car in the deli lot. Some of the crew is dispersing. I see the makeup ladies and duck down to avoid being spotted.

My workout bag is in the back seat. I snatch a normal T-shirt and drag it on as I bump the door closed. Inside of a minute, I’m back with Max.

“Better?”

Max laughs. “We can mark the citizens of LA safe from your nipples.”

I shake my head. “Are all the gigs like this?”

“No. Normally there are no humans involved in the work I get for Jeannie. But this one is aimed at alpha wannabes.”

“Is the company even legit?”

“Pickle Media vets them pretty well.”

“Was this one of your cousin’s gigs?”

“Yeah, Rhett sent it over from the Miami office.”

We arrive at the Hearty Bean and sit in the back corner. I pull the menus from under the napkin holder. It’s a casual place. I realize I’m ravenous.

“I’m serious about you not going back there today,” Max says. “I’ve done a lot of work with Jeannie, and I know her moods. She got called out today, and it’s going to take a night’s sleep before it stops festering.”

“But the director was the asshole.”

“Doesn’t matter. Jeannie is a perfectionist of the highest order. She’s going to stew on this for a while.”

“And I can’t help?” I want to, imagining drawing her against me, her head on my shoulder.

Max shakes his head. “What happens when you put water on a grease fire?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Don’t find out. Do not go up there until tomorrow.”

I study the menu. “Fine.”

“Did you make any headway?”

This is a better tack. “We talked. I got her to smile. Did you know she has dimples?”

He sits back. “No.”

“So I really did something.”

“You did.”

“Should I ask her out tomorrow? What do you think I should try? Dinner? Theater? Dancing?” I’m eager to move forward. I’ve been taking it slow for months.

Before he can answer, the server arrives.

We both order piles of salad, no dressing, topped with grilled hormone-free chicken, no sauce.

It’s nice to not have my meal scorned by people who think salads belong to women or some such rubbish.

Eating with non-fighters can be a lesson in restraint at their deprecating comments.

When he’s gone, Max shoves our menus back in their place. “I don’t think you should ask her out at all.”

Wait. What? “Why not?”

“She’ll say no. She shoots down everybody.”

“But the dimples!”

He runs the back of his hand along his jaw. “I don’t think that’s enough, and if she says no, it’s game over. All she’ll ever say after that is, ‘I already told you no. Respect my boundaries.’”

“Does she not date at all?”

“She used to. Not lately, though. She might be going through something.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs. “She only talks about food these days. She’s worked for me since high school. She used to have guys stop by, but it stopped a couple of years ago.”

This is new information he’s never shared. “Did she throw these guys out the door like she does me?” I almost don’t want to know the answer.

“Yep. She likes her space to be a certain way.”

I feel better. “So what do you suggest?”

The man brings us water and Max turns his glass around between his meaty palms. “Let me think.”

He’s really tan, even for LA, his skin bronzed in the window light. He must have had a competition recently. I’m glad fighters don’t have to turn themselves the color of tree bark.

He pulls out his phone. “I can’t put you close to her until maybe the spring Pickle festival. We’re doing a booth.”

“When’s that?”

“Two months.”

“I volunteer. Nothing sooner?”

He shakes his head. “But you know what? She has a cooking class she teaches at the community college. You could sign up for that.”

“Is it a whole semester?” I never did well with books and tests. My grades might not even get me into a trade school.

“No, no, it’s a one-night thing for the public. Crepes, I think. She teaches the classes now and then to do something other than deli work.”

“Why does she still work for you?” I ask. “Not that it’s a bad thing, but she’s a real chef.”

Max shrugs. “I keep promoting her, and she keeps staying. I get her high-profile gigs like this commercial. Maybe that’s it.”

“Isn’t her dad some big deal?”

“In the chef world, sure. But she won’t accept any jobs from his cronies, I do know that. They call her. She won’t talk to them.”

“Huh.” A little more of the mystery that is Jeannie unravels. “I’ll look up the cooking class.”

“Don’t wait too long. I think it’s next week. She took off the day to prep for it.”

“Understood.”

Our food arrives, but my mind stays on Jeannie. I have the next phase of my plan in place.

Crepe cooking.

How hard can it be?