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Jamie and Oliver are already sitting at the table, and both of them look like somebody started breakfast with their fists.
Jamie’s left cheek is swollen. His lower lip is split near the corner, and the makeup around one eye is barely covering a bruise beneath it. A small key hangs from the silver ring on his choker.
Oliver looks worse in a quieter way. His mouth is cut, his jaw is darkening along one side, and he keeps his face turned slightly away from Jamie.
I stop beside my chair and look at their hands.
Jamie has two split knuckles on his right hand. Oliver has one torn open and another swollen badly enough that he’s keeping his fingers loose around his coffee cup.
Heather didn’t do that. They did it to each other. I’ve watched line cooks swing at each other over a stolen station. Never like that.
I look at Jamie again. “What the fuck happened while I was asleep?”
His fingers go to the key at his throat. “It was nothing.”
Oliver’s eyes stay on his coffee.
Heather’s hand stays at the back of my neck when she passes my chair.
“Where the fuck are we going?”
“You’re making breakfast.” She keeps walking toward the kitchen.
Jamie looks up from the table. Guess he’s not happy with the demotion.
Every slot in the knife block is empty, and when I open the drawer beside it, I find utensils, measuring spoons and enough silicone spatulas to survive without an edge.
Heather stripped the kitchen more thoroughly than she stripped my room.
When I turn around, she’s holding my chef’s knife. I hold out my hand.
Heather looks at it. “What do you need?”
I lower my hand. If I take it, she’ll have me offer it back from my knees. “May I have the knife?”
“No.”
Jamie makes a sound into his coffee.
Heather puts an onion on the cutting board. “Tell me what to do.”
She cuts it before I can answer. The first piece is thick enough to survive a house fire. The second is half the size, and the third comes off at an angle that makes something behind my left eye start hurting.
“Smaller.”
Heather stops with the blade against the board and looks at me.
“Please cut them smaller.”
“That’s better.” She does, although not much better.
I move close enough to point without touching her. “Same width. If half of them burn while the rest are raw, I’m feeding them to Jamie.”
Jamie lifts his head. “Why the fuck am I involved?”
“Because you’re irritating me.”
Heather cuts another piece and nudges it toward me with the flat of the blade.
