On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [5]
“Now, Dev,” Simon said in the soothing tones reserved for lunatics and hysterical children. “You’re making too much of this. It’s not like this story is going to get picked up by the news media or anything. Restaurant USA is a trade pub; no one even reads it. Do you read it? I never read it.”
Devon gritted his teeth against the urge to reach across the bar for a bottle to bean Simon with.
Just then the bar door opened, distracting Devon from his homicidal thoughts and admitting a swirl of laughing, shouting people. Giving them a quick glance, Devon stiffened. He knew them. Christ, he’d employed half of them at one point or another. The New York culinary world was not unlike major league baseball—there was a finite number of talented players, and the biggest managers traded them back and forth.
“Hey, Sparks,” one of them called out. “Congratulations on the chain, man. Should we start calling you Ronald?” And the crowd erupted in laughter.
“You know who reads trade publications, Simon? People in the fucking trade. That’s who. My peers. My friends. My goddamn employees.” Devon gestured at the crowd and lowered his voice. “This so-called ‘honor’ will be proof to them that I’ve sold out, lost myself, ransomed my soul to the capitalist gods.”
That I’m not a real chef, and never will be again.
The worst part? Devon was starting to think they might be right.
“Whoa, enough with the drama,” Simon protested, nerves pitching his voice high and grating. “That Restaurant USA piece isn’t worth all this, Dev, come on.”
Devon stared at his PR manager. “Shit. You pitched the magazine, didn’t you? The whole thing was your idea.”
As soon as he said it, Devon knew he was right. It was exactly Simon’s style, aggressive and bold, heedless of the cost.
“Who, me?” Something in Devon’s face must have registered how much he wasn’t buying what Simon was selling, because the guy held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! Maybe I did pitch them the chain thing. I thought it would be cool, show how successful you are! Success breeds success, Dev, you know that. I definitely never thought you’d get this bent out of shape about it.”
“You never think,” Devon said, his throat so full of hot anger he could hardly force the words out. “You just push and push, and you don’t fucking think about what kind of shit you’re pushing me into. Because I’m the one that has to swim in it, not you. Well, no more. I’m done eating what you shovel, Simon. You’re fired.”
Horror flashed in Simon’s eyes, and the denials and cajoling started at once, but Devon had zero trouble tuning them out. All he felt was a bone-deep sense of relief.
It wouldn’t fix everything, but it was a start.
“You can’t do that,” Simon protested, aghast.
Devon bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Haven’t you heard the hype? I can do anything.”
“I wrote that hype!” Now Simon was shouting, too, his purple cheeks clashing with the deep brown of his Zegna suit and the artful highlights in his dirty-blond hair.
“What are you going to do,” Devon asked, grinning, “sue me for copyright infringement? Give it up, Si, it’s over.”
“We’ll see about that,” Simon said, clambering down from the barstool. “I’ve worked hard for you, Dev, you know I have. And now that things are finally coming together, now that you’re finally living the life you said you wanted, you’re going to throw it all away? And for what? No, I refuse to accept it. I’m leaving now. I’m going to give you some time to think about this before one of us says something he’ll regret.”
“Don’t hold your breath expecting me to change my mind.”
Spittle flew from Simon’s mouth. “I’m Simon Woolf. I don’t sit around hoping for things to happen, I make them happen. I made you!”
Simon threw his arms wide, forgetting about the cocktail still sitting on the bar. The drama of his exit was heightened considerably by