Page 12 of Wayward (Wrecked #4)

Chow Boss

Dante

I t’s been at least three hours since Sam left.

Calvin’s taken over watch, and I’m fighting with Penny for a few inches of bed.

And when she kicks me in the groin in her sleep, dreaming of chasing a rodent, I'm sure, I roll off the bed and pull on some clothes. I don’t give a fuck about the cameras.

Never have. I make my way over to the porthole.

Calvin’s leaning next to the door, his ear almost pressed against the wall.

There’s a sliver of pink across the horizon.

But there’s more than that ― there are lights.

They’re far away, but it’s too soon to know if I’m looking at a swath of tankers, an island, or a main body of land.

“What?” Green’s at my side before I can say anything. “Fuck.” I can see the wheels turning in his head. “Everybody up. We’ve got lights outside.”

Zane jumps out of bed. Easton’s slower, but Sassy? Sassy bolts past me like a cheetah, her oversized Rosewood pajamas slipping down her waist as she does. “Land, land? That’s fantastic.”

I curl my fingers around her shoulder. I don’t want to squash her excitement, but this isn’t going to be good.

“Wait, where’s Sam?” Sassy pivots from the lights out the porthole, her hands landing on my chest.

“Holloway came and got him. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” I give her shoulders a squeeze.

She nods because, really, what else can she do?

“It’s early, Sassy. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m not tired, but I can try. Have you slept?”

“Some.” I eye our four-legged bed hog, who’s now sitting pretty like she didn’t do anything, leaning against Haley’s hip. “Come here, Sassy, let’s snuggle.” I take her hand and lead her back to the bed. There is a pounding on the door, and it swings open.

“Chef?” one of the unnamed guards says. There’s another guard in the hall.

“Yeah?” I straighten my shoulders, but Haley’s clamped onto my hand.

“Come with me.”

I kiss the top of Sassy’s head. “Love you.”

Green’s blocking the door. “What do you want with him?”

“Move.” The guard puts his hand on his gun.

Green steps to the side, and I head out. It dawns on me that he’s the same guard I tempted with my pesto alla Genovesa. “So, where are we going?” I ask, though I have a pretty good idea. We’re up one flight and halfway down the main body of the ship.

“Here.” He nods.

The galley. My home, normally. But this one’s been set up by a blind mongoose. What the hell? There’s shit all over the counters. Bins of lentils next to flour, a tray of twenty-five different hot sauces, and mounds of dirty pots in the sink. “Great, why am I here?”

“I told Z about your pesto all genie ― ”

“Genovesa.”

“Whatever, and Z wanted the chef to make it your way with the homemade shit.”

“Let me guess. He told you to go to hell?”

“Yes.” The guy swallows hard. His Adam’s apple bobs.

“So I’m making pasta at dawn?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

He lifts his gun. And I glare at him. We stare at each other for a good two minutes.

“Make the pasta.”

His story doesn’t add up. If the chef refused Z, then he’s not going to let me use his galley. Maybe this guy is the one who wants the pasta, and neither Z nor the chef know I’m in the galley. “You don’t think this is going to make the chef testy?”

“No, I don’t think he’s going to be anything anymore.” The guard raises his eyebrow. And now I’m wondering who the true crazy is. Did Z order the chef killed, or did this guy overstep?

I scan the mess I have to work with. I suppose it doesn’t matter. If my cooking can help us get out of here . . . or if I can slip a knife back into the cabin... Either way.

“What’s my timetable?” I search around the space for an apron but settle for a clean kitchen towel tucked into my pocket.

“What?”

“When do you need it? Forget that. I need two and half hours.”

“What? Z wants it as soon as possible.”

I’m a little shocked he said Z. I was starting to really believe that he’d come up with this plot himself.

“Two hours. Fresh pasta has to rest.” I’ll make it in an hour and a half, but I have to give myself some sort of buffer, as I don’t know where anything is in this cyclone of a space.

Is the pantry stocked with the things I’ll need?

I glance at the cupboard that seems most logical to house the dry goods.

“I’ll tell him two hours.”

“Does he not sleep? Pasta at dawn?”

“No.” He picks up his radio and calls another guard.

Collins, the one who shot at Zane, of course, is the one who shows up. He scowls at me. “What the hell, Dakota? What’s up with this asshole up here?”

“He’s making pesto alla Genovesa for Z.”

“Where’s Chef?”

“Not here.”

“I can see that.”

“Just watch him while he cooks. I need to go tell Z when it will be ready.”

“Copy that.”

Dakota leaves me alone with the psychopath. I glare for a second, then get down to work. I wash the dishes in the sink as fast as I can and clean a section of counter big enough to work on, relocating a hundred bottles of hot sauce and hot sauce packets. “Your chef has a thing for hot sauce.”

“The hotter the better,” Collins grunts.

I nod. Heat is good, but it needs to be layered, not blasted.

Whatever. Inside the chaotic fridge, I find good enough cheese and fresh basil.

I take a moment to smell it, huff it even.

But I’ve got pasta to make. I search through drawers and things.

But someone’s prepared for my arrival. There’s only one small paring knife on the magnetic knife board.

“Chef keeps the food processor over there.” Collins points to a set of double doors.

I nod, because I don’t need a food processor when making pasta for six.

But I slide the knife off the board and move over to the doors.

With my left hand, I rummage about with the food processor while I slide the knife into my pocket.

I bring the processor out and set it on the counter.

“Fuck, this is filthy. I’ll just make it by hand. ”

“Cool. Put the knife back on the counter,” Collins says, his hand on the grip of his gun.

I take it out and put it in the sink.

“Get busy, clock’s ticking.”

I’m forty-five minutes in. The pasta is resting, and the sauce is done. It’s coming out fantastic. And more than once, I almost smile. I whip up a second batch. Because I have a feeling I’m going to need to feed more than just Z.

The second batch of pasta is resting and I’m cleaning underneath where the forty-seven hot sauce bottles had been when Z saunters in.

The water’s boiling, and I’ve got plates ready to go ― plates that I rewashed.

“It smells good in here.” He stops next to Collins. “You can go.” Z cocks his head to the door. Holloway’s standing in the stew’s pantry.

“Yes, sir,” Collins says.

I glance at the clock. It’s five. If I was the chef of this yacht, I’d be up now, making muffins and fresh croissants.

It’s occurred to me more than once that I might be making my last meal. There’s a quick flash that I should have taken more time doing it. But fuck, I always take the right amount of time doing what needs to be done.

“I’ll have a plate for you in two minutes.” I drop the pasta into the water.

He leans over the stove, watching the pasta swirl around. “Just a small taste.”

“Is this breakfast?” I ask.

“Is there ever a wrong time for good Italian food?”

“No, there’s not.” I plate him up a heaping portion and slide it over the counter. I haven’t seen a stew since I’ve been in the kitchen, and I haven’t found the eating utensils either.

Z ducks into the stew pantry and comes back with two sets. I plate up three more plates.

“Expecting friends?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“Habit,” I say.

“Holloway, you want one?”

“I’m good.” The guard crosses his arms over his chest.

Z twirls his pasta around in his spoon and takes a bite. “Mmm, that’s fucking fantastic. Holloway, take this.” Z picks up an extra plate and shoves it at Holloway.

“Yes, sir.” Holloway frowns at the plate, and then his eyes flick to me. He’s not won over, not yet. But he hasn’t tasted it yet. He takes a bite.

“Good, right?”

“Yes. It’s good.” He puts the plate down on the counter in the stew pantry.

“This is fantastic. I can see why the Russian raved about you so much.” Z takes another bite. “Why did you leave him, anyway?”

“Stylistic differences.” I’m not going to say anything else. I’m still not sure if he’s close or just in the same line of business as the old bastard.

Z nods. And I’m fucking grateful he doesn’t push harder. “You know why I had you make this?”

“You were hungry?”

“No, I needed your genius bosun to have more motivation to translate the rest of Rockwell’s notebook.

I ordered Dakota to take you to the swim deck and shoot you.

He agreed, but there was a twitch in his eye.

Something I hadn’t seen before. I inquired.

And he said he’d never get to taste your pasta la genie. I was hungry, and now here we are.”

“I see.” I fucking wish I had that knife now.

Z cocks his head from side to side. “But the chef heard about your detour and burst into my office, making demands. Saying I couldn’t do what I wanted to do on my own yacht.

He got steamed up. Made more demands and ran at me.

It was a tragic accident he had. Crew breakfast is at six, lunch at twelve, and dinner at six.

Don’t disappoint me, or I’ll find someone else to give you some motivation. ”

“You want me to work for you?”

“Sure, let’s call it that. Only until I hire a replacement.”

“And you’re threatening my friends, my family?”

“It’s not a threat. I’m telling you to do what you’re told to do or others will pay for your insubordination.”

“Where’s Sam?” My heart slaps around my ribs. If he was going to kill me, he might have already killed Sam.

“The captain of the Rosewood is questioning him about the currents the Rock Candy drifted in.”

I study Z’s posture. I’m not a human lie detector, but I like to think I can read people. He’s telling the truth. I turn away from him and grab an empty box from the pantry.

“What are you doing?”

I take the side of my arm and sweep the hot sauces into the box. “I don’t need to burn people’s taste buds off to give them a quality meal.”

Z laughs. “Take him back to his cabin.”

“No, if breakfast is at six, I have a lot to do.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” Z stands but then doubles back and takes a second plate of pasta.

Between the galley and the stew pantry, I find a clean bucket. I quickly scrub the counters, floor, and everything else dirty. Then I get down to business throwing away expired food. My head’s in the freezer, taking stock of what’s there, when someone taps me on the shoulder.