Me.

one

John stepped back after placing the last calla lily in the Tiffany vase. He slipped the clippers into his pocket and pulled a towel from his waist. He dried his hands as a grin spread over his face. However, the vibration at his wrist stopped the grin from reaching maturity. His eyebrows shot up as the time registered. He let out a short “Oh!” and retreated down the wide hallway.

Halfway down the hall, the grin reappeared as he caught a hint of the sweet aroma wafting from the kitchen. He resisted the primal urge to lick his lips as he drank in a deep sniff of the fragrant air. His own hands would prepare tonight’s feast. When was the last occasion he’d cooked at one of his dinner parties? He chortled as he slid open the door, releasing the cacophony of scent.

Ella Fitzgerald crooned in the background. He gave his home the command to turn up the kitchen lights and music. He tapped his foot and snapped in time as the overhead glow intensified, along with Ella's voice and the big band behind her. His head bobbed and his shoulders shimmied as he tied a crisp, white apron around his waist. He removed the clippers from his pants pocket, tossing them on the counter next to the industrial chrome sink. John hummed along as Ella belted out the words of devotion to her man. He danced to the stove in jiving steps and lifted the lid off a saucepot. Steam and the aroma of wild mushroom, onion, garlic, and tomatoes greeted him. He opened a drawer, pulled a clean tasting spoon, and dipped into the bubbling sauce.

“Damn, that’s good,” he said to the empty room.

John tossed the spoon into the sink and replaced the lid. He danced his course to the island and examined the seasonings laid out earlier. He nodded to himself and moved to the fridge. John reached for the handles on the chrome door and hesitated. He dropped his hand, chuckling. Quit being ridiculous, he thought. Did he have a lot on the line tonight? Perhaps. Was this going to make or break his entire career? Not likely. What if I—

“No,” he said aloud, rousing himself from the pointless anxiety. “Get on with it, open the door.”

He rubbed his hands on his upper thighs. The apron’s starched cotton was stiff and rough but absorbed the dampness. He swallowed hard. John pressed his palm to the door. His lower lip trembled as he forced himself to pull. It released under his grasp, and despite the crooning of the lovely Fitzgerald, he heard the seal break as much as he felt it. John refused the urge to slam the door shut again and pulled it open. The bright fluorescent light greeted him. He ignored all shelves and cast his gaze to the bottom meat drawer.

He jumped and a cry escaped as he released his grasp on the door, which swung wide, bouncing on its hinge for a moment. John caught his breathing and cursed. He glanced at his watch and scowled. He reached into his rear pocket to retrieve his vibrating cell phone.

“What?” He turned his back on the open fridge and took a couple of steps. “Hello?” he asked when he received no answer. John removed the device from his ear, scowling. A black screen greeted him. John placed a thumb on the biometrics circle and the display lit up. He tapped the phone icon and waited. He hadn’t imagined the vibration in his pocket—there had been a call. Only there was no evidence of this in his call history. Strange. He killed the display and stuffed the device in his pocket. John surrendered a slow breath and wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead.

John returned his sights to the open fridge. The stress of the event was getting to him. Perhaps a glass of wine will settle this old biddy, he thought as he advanced on the frigid air. He shut the door and headed to the rear of the kitchen.

He opened the door to the basement and shivered at the gust of cool air. John took the initial step into the darkness below. An overhead light came to life, along with lights under each stair. John descended the steps, whistling with the fading music upstairs. He crossed the length of the space until he reached the temperature-controlled wine chamber.

John punched in the series of numbers required to unlock the sealed door. Inside, he traveled the shelves, tapping a finger to his lips. Lines formed on his forehead as he considered his choices. In the end, he settled on a recent addition to his vast collection. He removed the bottle of pinot grigio from its slot and made his retreat.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of the expensive wine, performed the customary moves, and drew a long sip. John smiled as the flavors danced on his tongue. He took another swig and swallowed hard. He checked the time on his oven display, knowing he would need to get a move on if there was any hope of being ready for his visitors. The next swig turned into a lengthy swallow, which finished the glass. He poured again. This one disappeared even faster. He approached the fridge, braver in this moment.

The fear of failure dissipated, and he found himself excited again. Tonight was his night to shine and shine he would. He bent over and slid open the transparent plastic drawer on the floor of the icebox. Collecting the contents, he pushed the drawer shut again. Almost trembling, he set down the most important part of his meal on the island. His tongue poked out and rolled across his bottom lip. The corners of his mouth tugged up as he reached for the first bag. Without taking his gaze from the packaging, he opened a drawer to his right and grabbed a pair of scissors. He sliced through the plastic packaging. He replaced the scissors and shut the drawer in a swift motion.

John opened the first parcel, releasing his breath in a fast puff. He paused, caught his breathing, and brought the packet to his nose. Inhaling, he closed his eyes. John sighed as he put down the first and repeated the motions with the subsequent packages. They’d traveled well. The site of the fresh blood excited him, and he hummed as he gave each portion the lightest dusting of salt and pepper.

two

The doorbell chimed. John raised his eyebrows and took another lengthy swig of his wine. He considered the glass, then downed it before checking himself in the entryway mirror one last time before opening the door.

“John, darling,” Valerie Swank called as she kissed him on each cheek.

“Valerie,” He accepted her bag and coat. “You get more lovely every occasion I see you.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, playing demure. Despite her advanced age, she played the part well. She batted her long lashes at him and tossed a well-manicured hand as she said, “Oh stop that, you old fool.”

“I mean it,” he called as he retreated down the hall and placed her things in the mud room’s open-faced closet. “You’re as gorgeous as the day I first met you.”

She spun to meet his gaze when he returned to the entryway—her blonde hair so light it appeared white under the soft glow of the overhead lights. She wagged a thin finger at him, the red tip tracing lines in the air.

“Now John Castiblanco, I did not come here to be charmed by you.” She chuckled.

Her laughter sounded like glass shards in a blender. She winked at him—her eye staying closed a moment too long. Inside, he shuddered, but still he moved toward her, then held out a hand to show the course to the living room. Her smile broadened, and she led the way, heels clicking on the wood floor.

Ella continued to croon through the home stereo system and followed them through the main part of the house and into the living room.

“Sit, please.” He motioned to no seat in particular, and she folded herself into a wing-backed chair. He walked to the minibar tucked into the corner and busied himself with preparing drinks, but watched her from the corner of his eye as she fussed with the hem of her dress. The white silk fabric contrasted with the color of spray tan.

He carried over the drinks and took the seat next to her. He drew a long sip of the costly scotch. She focused on her cup as if lost in thought.

“So, tell me,” he started. “What’s new with the infamous Valerie Swank?”

She smiled and stared into her glass. Several breaths passed before she replied. “Not much. I guess getting used to the single life again.” She gave a humorless laugh, shrugged, then took a deep sip of her drink.

John nodded, but remained silent. He eyed her as he had another sip. The ice clanked to the floor of the glass, breaking the intense silence. Valerie swirled the amber liquid around the bottom of her cup, the ice clanking against sides melodically. She scoffed and a half smile turned up the corners of her green eyes as she met John’s. The familiar twinkle returned, and she took a long drink again, clearing the contents. She issued a sigh of satisfaction as she held out her empty glass. John finished his booze as he stood.

“Joel was such a piece of shit.”

She expected him to ask a question or offer some sort of reply. Instead, he emptied her ice into the small sink and ran the tap, rinsing out her cup. He sat it at the heart of the sink — repeating the actions for his own.

“I caught that spineless S.O.B. flirting with my assistant!” Her voice rose as she said assistant.

John grinned as he retrieved two new glasses from the shelf.

“My apprentice.” She clucked her tongue.

He plopped ice cubes into a glass. She remained silent behind him.

The doorbell chimed.

“Well, I guess my private audience is over,” she said.

John returned to her side and passed her a drink with a grin. “Excuse me a moment, Valerie.”

“Of course.” She accepted the scotch and gave him another awful wink. He wondered how she still signaled the various parts of her face with all the fillers and numerous injections.

He considered this as he made his way to the front door.

“John! Omg! So good to see you.”

He greeted his newest arrival with a smile. “Joanne. I'm honored.” John stepped back to allow her inside. His smile died.

“John!”

He sucked in a gasp and forced himself to smile. He released the breath around clenched teeth and said, “Hello, Tucker.”

Tucker Landing ran a palm through his curly blonde locks and held out the other for John. John’s forced grin fell into a grimace. He moved to shut the door, forcing himself busy rather than touch the insufferable stud.

“Wait! Hold on there,” the final guest called from outside.

Even more relieved than when he received his respite from Valerie moments ago, John opened the door and called, “Maury! Glad to see you. Jiggle yourself on up here.”

“Ha, ha,” Murray said, between heavy breaths.

John smirked. He huffed and stared at his watch, tapping his foot as Maury Whiteford finished the climb up the driveway. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his face, and wiped his hands.

“You son of a bitch,” the large man said, chest heaving but voice steadier.

John snorted. “You get bigger every time I look at you. You putting fat injections in your food now?”

“Asshole.” His breathing was becoming less strenuous. “I ought to—”

“Oh wow. Maury Whiteford? You’re kidding me. I didn't know he'd be here.”

John drank in a deep inhale. His dark eyes narrowed. His shoulders tensed and his free hand balled into a fist.

Maury looked over John’s shoulder as he pocketed his handkerchief. His gaze returned to John, and he smirked.

John forced his shoulders from his ears and loosened his grip. He moved back to make room. Maury waddled in, smiling like a jackal.

"Tucker Landing. Wow. It’s… it’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

John sneered and shut the door, taking care to do so without a display of anger

“Please to meet you, Tucker,” Maury said as John turned to his visitors. The two men engaged in a hearty handshake full of smiles.

“I just—Just wow, man. I can’t believe I’m meeting you.”

Maury waved the younger man off.

“I’m serious,” Tucker insisted. “You’re my hero. I wrote a paper about you in college. And here you are.”

Maury opened his mouth, but John said, “One of my guests arrived a bit early. Shall we retire to the sitting room.” He did not pose this as a question and walked away.

Valerie looked up as they approached. She bestowed something similar to a smile on them as everyone took a seat and settled. John busied himself with pouring drinks. Frank Sinatra crooned throughout the house. John cast a glance over his shoulder and found the group looking around, taking in the surrounding opulence. He returned to his task with a grin.

He passed out glasses of scotch but did not sit. Instead, he said, “Thank you all for being here.” Smiles all around greeted him. “Tonight is a special evening, and I am glad to share it with each of you.” He met Maury’s gaze, Valerie’s, then Joanne’s.

“I am so excited, John. I cancelled my trip to Italy to be here,” Joanne said, tossing her hair over her shoulder before taking a long drink of her scotch—downing half.

"I am thankful you could find it in your heart to make time for me, Joanne,” he replied as he took his seat.

“John,” Valerie said before Joanne could respond—everyone’s attention shifted to her. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She waited several moments. John only stared at her. He drew a sip of his drink.

“Introductions?” Her voice took on a sing-song tone.

John squinted and smiled. He drew another sip before speaking. “I suppose you’re right. Everyone, this is Valerie Swank.”

“I thought it was you,” Maury said, his round face turning an angry shade of red as he spoke. John refused the urge to gag.

Valerie turned her icy gaze on Maury. “Have we met?”

Maury’s mouth fell in a comical “O.” He raised his empty palms in surrender and sat back, shaking his head. “No. No. I wish.” He laughed as he continued to fumble over his words.

His blubbering worked, and Valerie softened in response. She gave him her winning smile. John grimaced and took another drink.

“Then you’ve heard of me?” she asked, unable to hide the pride in her eyes.

“Heard of you?” Maury said, chuckling. “You’re Valerie Swank. Is there anyone who hasn’t?”

Valerie said nothing to this. Her dead face gave away nothing in expression, but her eyes twinkled. Joanne gave a nervous look to Tucker. He shrugged and gave an exaggerated grimace.

“I suppose I should introduce myself,” Maury said, casting a glance at John. John pretended not to notice and drew another sip. He sat back in his chair, enjoying the giddiness threatening to take him over. “Maury Whiteford.” He stood and crossed the room to shake Valerie’s hand.

Valerie put out a hand for him to take and Maury only stared—paralyzed. After several moments, Maury held her hand, and bending low, planted a modest kiss. Valerie giggled. John winced. The sound was even worse than her laugh.

“You are quite the charmer, Mr. Whiteford.”

“Maury, please.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Maury. How do you know John?” Joanne asked, shaking her glass in John’s direction.

John stood to pour her another.

Maury cut him another glance as he passed. “John and I go way back,” he said after some time.

Tucker gasped. “What?! This is so cool. Chef Whiteford is a culinary master—a god! He is a living legend. Casti, you’ve been keeping secrets!”

John grimaced, glad his backside faced them now. To be so adorable, Tucker Landing was insufferable.

Maury waddled to Joanne and thrust out a hand. “And you are?”

“Joanne Miller.” She shook his hand with a beaming smile, her red lips framing her perfect white teeth.

“Pleasure,” Maury said, shuffling back to his chair.

“And who are you?” Valerie asked, turning her sights on Tucker.

“Landing. Tucker Landing.”

John rolled his eyes but held the groan.

“He’s famous too,” Joanne offered.

“Oh yeah? What do you do Mr. Landing?”

“Nothing really. I’m on TV. A reality show.”

"Are you famous for that? Am I to dine with a celebrity this evening?”

Tucker laughed and ran a palm through his hair again. John returned with another drink for Joanne before taking his seat.

“He competed on a cooking program,” John offered. “A true culinary visionary.” He stifled his laugh.

Valerie turned from John to Tucker. She gave him a once over, her expression impossible to interpret. “My, my. Isn’t that something?”

Tucker shrugged.

Tucker Landing proved you could be famous for being famous. The boy lacked originality or talent in the kitchen. He proved all you needed was an exotic accent, tanned skin, and tight abs. As long as you were desirable, you could do whatever you wanted in the entertainment industry.

“Ah! I recognize you. I guess my old age is catching up to me,” Maury said. “You’re the kid who won Ultimate Chef last season. Am I correct?” Maury raised his bushy eyebrows.

Tucker beamed and nodded with enthusiasm. “Yep! That’s me.” He paused and lines appeared on his forehead. “Wait, you watch Ultimate Chef and you saw my season?”