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“Some influencer went viral last night talking about the cake,” Marcus said.
Dei pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fucking great.”
“Yesterday, we were sold out by one o’clock, and we’ve already had three dozen calls asking if we’re still serving it.”
Dei did a few mental calculations in his head. “Put Anthony and RJ on it. Tell them to put the first sheets in the blast chiller for forty-five seconds, then do a couple of test pieces to make sure it’s not too dried out. If it works, try to get at least fifty portions done. I’m not gonna pretend like we can feed all of Southern Florida and their fuckin’ brothers who decided cake was worth a two-hour drive, but if we can keep from eight-sixing it until dinner rush, I’ll call it a win.”
“Heard, Chef.”
Dei pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just so’s you know, I was not in the mood to come in to hear about some fuckin’ dessert problem today.”
Marcus gave him a crooked, unrepentant grin. “Then you’re not gonna be thrilled to hear about your hot, sweaty balls.”
Be careful what the fuck you wish for, Dei thought to himself. He’d wanted to be distracted, and he supposed this was one way for the universe to answer his prayer.
* * *
The night ended about as well as it could have with a nonstop wait from open to close. Jeremiah took to the restaurant’s Instagram and Facebook pages to thank everyone for showing and apologized for running out of half the menu before seven while Dei helped him field a bunch of pissed-off, entitled asshole complaints threatening to have them shut down.
Jeremiah was entirely unbothered by the threats, and Dei had run himself so ragged by ten he would have welcomed some lawyer forcing them to shut the doors. By closing hours, the last server on shift bullied the final table out without dessert, which meant Dei could sink onto a barstool and pretend like it didn’t feel as though his prosthetic had worn a hole into the bottom of his stump.
And that was not him being paranoid. He felt a small pulse of anxiety about going home and undressing to see the damage the long shift had done to him.
For now, though, he could ignore the throbbing ache as Jeremiah shoved a massive sandwich at him. It was stuffed to the brim with salami and mozzarella, and he took down half before he even looked over at his friend.
“Promise me you’re not composing your two weeks’ notice.” Jeremiah had his glasses off, and he was rubbing at his eyes.
Dei laughed. “You couldn’t pay me to leave, boss. I’m here ’til the bitter end.”
“Then I feel less worried about sending your ass home to get some rest.”
Dei shook his head. “Naw. I have a fuckload of prep to finish for tomorrow.”
Jeremiah blinked, his eyes unfocused and slightly crossed, which just spoke to his own exhaustion. “Actually, you don’t. Marcus and I are gonna stay late and prep for the rush. I need you in top form. Did he take a tally about what we sold out of and what time?”
Dei grabbed a cocktail napkin to wipe sauce off his face. “You know it. I got my boys trained well.”
Jeremiah chuckled, and he felt around the counter until he found his glass of what Dei assumed was ginger ale. And he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was spiked with something strong. After a long sip, Jeremiah took a fortifying breath, and Dei had a feeling he knew what was coming.
“So, I know we got our asses kicked tonight, but I need to ask you a few questions about Sofia and that guy.” Jeremiah had met Sofia a handful of times, but only ever in passing, which was what Dei preferred. Now, there was no hiding her chaos.
“Yeah. And I’m real fuckin’ sorry, boss. I didn’t think she’d show up here like that. She knows better than to fuck with the place where I work.”
“Truthfully, I’m not convinced she knew where she was. She was wasted, and I think she might have just wandered into the first place on the street that was open.”
He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. “If you want me to pay for that gin she got her hands all over…”
“Oh my god, no,” Jeremiah said, sounding exasperated. “Dude, I don’t give a shit about a bottle of gin. I’m just worried about her. And you. Max helped me go through the security footage, and that guy…”
“Clark,” Dei said. “His name is Clark Dawson. He’s a piece of shit, and she’s been back and forth with him for years.”
Jeremiah’s face went stormy. “Felix said she was banged up.”
“Yeah.” Dei felt that familiar sick feeling in the pit of his stomach again, and he tried to push it away. “She’s, uh…” He glanced around, but all the servers were off doing their side work, or they’d managed to escape and go home. “She’s been off her meds for a while, and she ain’t listening to me about…hell, anything, really. She took off the other morning before I was up, and now I can’t find her.”
“Jesus,” Jeremiah breathed. “Can I help?”
Dei shook his head. “Nah. Not a thing any of us can do until she wants help. I got a lotta shit on my plate right now as it is.”
