Packing Heat
An M/M Three Pack
By Sasha Hutz
Copyright © 2012 Sasha Hutz
Smashwords Edition
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Top Chef
As a rule, Chef Brian Vincent does not talk to his dishwasher. But it’s Friday night and the kitchen must be 400 degrees and the bartender has just run out of glasses for the second time, so he stops chopping shallots and screams over his shoulder at the top of his lungs, “Sal, are you running a fever or should I ram you up the ass with a wooden spoon?”
The dishwasher turns around. It’s some skinny kid that Vincent doesn’t recognize.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Uh, Chef—” The Head Sous Chef leans across the counter. “Sal walked out on Tuesday. This is Andy, our new dishwasher.”
“Sal walked out?” Vincent doesn’t remember much about Tuesday. They’d hosted a private affair with an open bar.
“Yeah, Chef. After you called him a—”
“Well so-called Andy can either suck his own dick or he can wash faster.” The Sous rolls his eyes. The kid ducks his head and turns back to the sink, but not before Vincent catches a smirk on his lips. “And don’t fucking smile about it!”
He can already tell he isn’t going to like this new dishwasher. But then, he rarely likes anyone.
*
The next morning Vincent is in by mid-morning. He always spends Saturday morning planning the menu with Olga, the owner. He enjoys Olga, with her slight lisp and nose for business. Like him, she doesn’t fuck around with small talk.
“I’m thinking something colorful, maybe a rainbow chard since it is in season,” she says, sipping from a glass of red wine. It’s barely eleven but they always sample something fancy during the planning meeting.
He’s opening his mouth to argue when he hears the unmistakable ring of a metal spoon falling to the floor.
“Is someone in the kitchen?” He asks.
“Some boy,” says Olga, shrugging. “He’s been here all morning, he told me he was your new Sous? Cute little man.” She seems unconcerned, and continues talking about climate change and grape prices. Vincent can feel a blush rising to his face. Someone will have to teach this kid a lesson.
They work briskly for another half-hour, then Olga flies out of the restaurant for her hair appointment. “Whatever the new man is cooking, it smells divine,” she says, letting the door slam behind her wine-colored shawl.
Vincent locks the door behind her and strides back to the kitchen.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He bursts in, feeling rage bubbling up in his chest like boiling water. Under the rage, something warmer, something that makes his palms clammy. Confrontation always turns him on a little.
“Chef!” Andy jumps, spinning on his feet. “Ms. Vronsky let me in.” He stutters a little, running a hand nervously through his hair.
“Fuck Ms. Vronsky,” says Vincent. “And fuck cooking in my kitchen without permission.”
“I just thought if I made something for you, you’d realize I’m serious.” He pushes a plate towards Vincent across the counter. It’s an elegantly plated platter of seared scallops. From the incredible smell, Vincent guesses they have something light on them, lemon butter maybe. They’re like gems, plump and meaty and with a gorgeous golden crisp on the edges.
Scallops are not easy to cook, but Vincent has a sinking feeling that these will be succulent.
“Look,” says Andy, standing up straighter. “I’ve been hoping to get a job in this kitchen like, since I was born. Since I read your book and realized what a genius—”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
“I’m actually thinking of going to culinary school and I—”
“Well then you are a brainless little shit,” interrupts Vincent gruffly. He expects the kid to wilt under his gaze but instead he grins.
“Okay, you got me. I just thought you might listen if I said that.” He grins, crookedly. “I’m actually already a cook and I want a promotion, actually I thought—”
Vincent surveys him. Relatively clean, a ribbed white tank top that clings to a boyishly concave chest, and dark hair that keeps falling in his eyes.
“You can stay, on a trial basis. Trim your fucking hair and stop talking to me.” He tips the plate of seafood into the garbage and storms out.
*
When he gets home that night it’s already past four, and he snuffles his way into the dark bed still smelling of frying oil. He noses up against his wife’s soft arm, running a hand up under her thin nightgown to rub a finger lightly over her clit. She moans softly, turning to breathe into his mouth, the scent of sleep surrounding him. She spreads her legs and he slides and hand up and into her warmth. She’s already wet, waiting for him.
“Papa Bear,” she whispers against his neck. He hates that dumb nickname but she won’t stop using it, claiming it fits his muscular, hairy body.
He fucks her with his fingers, silently moving steadily in and out until his hand is smeared with her juices. Then he pushes up into the knuckle and she shivers against him. She’s as pliable as soft cheese, opening easily at his familiar touch.
After he gets her going, he lays back and she mounts him. She slides herself down onto his cock and rides him, her hips undulating over his hot, stocky member. In the dark room, her skin is freckled and the color of eggshells. He doesn’t move, only grips her hips as she rotates. They come quickly and together. She collapses onto his chest. He lies awake, thinking of Andy’s smirk hovering over the perfect plate of scallops.
*
Brian Vincent is famous for two things, but the only important one is his food. That is unless you ask his kitchen staff, who seem to think his temper is the more notable feature. One famous New York Times article actually quoted a former Sous Chef as saying, “Chef Vincent doesn’t need a cleaver because he has one in his mouth.”
Secretly, he liked that one.
Of course, a sharp tongue doesn’t always make for a harmonious home. By the time he arrives at the restaurant on Sunday morning he is already starving, having run out of the house shouting insults at his wife. She’d nearly thrown a fucking vase at his head. Thankfully, the place is still empty, and he is crossing to the industrial refrigerator when he sees the plate.
It’s a pair of brilliantly pink shrimp skewers, plated on one of the long ceramic dishes he usually reserves for desert. The skewers are ringed in some kind of sauce, which makes a glistening yellow spiral around the edge of the plate.
“What is this,” he growls to himself, and leans closer. It smells obscenely good.
“It’s for you.” Andy appears from behind the dry goods shelf, and Vincent curses loudly.
“Holy shit, kid! You gave me a heart attack.”
“Try one.”
“What did I fucking tell you?”
“If you don’t like it I’ll walk out right now and you’ll never see me again.” Andy’s eyes are serious, his voice breathy.
“It doesn’t work this way, kid.” Vincent is growing tired of this conversation. His head is still pounding. He just wants to go home and jerk off, probably thinking about the kid’s damp little mouth. And then take a shower and then sleep for a long ass time. Like 24 hours, maybe.
Andy sighs. “This is the only thing I want.”
“Well you can keep wanting it,” he says. “But not in my kitchen.” He is so hungry though, he can’t resist. He leans forward and swipes the sauce with a pinkie.
It’s fucking delicious.