Jacob, one of the co-hosts of Culinary Con, stands at my door, looking smug as fuck. “Hayes,” he mutters as though we haven’t spoken in ages, which is not wrong. We haven’t been in the same room for at least five years.
“Jake, my man,” I greet, pulling him into a side hug. He slaps my back, then smiles, his face one of happiness.
“Toby, man. It’s been too long. And you’re looking younger than ever,” he muses, staring at me in awe. “There’s no way you’re in your late thirties.” I give him a wry smile in return, not realizing how old I’m getting day after day.
“Thirty-seven in October,” I remind him, wondering how time has flown by so quickly.
“Damn, son. We’re getting old.”
“Speak for yourself, old man. I’m young as hell.” But I’m sure the amusement doesn’t reach my face since he changes the subject.
“Ready for this?”
“What? Giving you money for something I see no return on?” A chuckle leaves him, his face alight with humor. “Wouldn’t change it for the world,” I lie.
We make it down to the conference room’s foyer. There, in the front, is a table set up with three women. They’re wearing shiny sequined dresses that only make them look old and trying too hard to appear young. They stare at me with wonder and it has me smirking. I’ve still got it. Even when my life’s a fucked-up mess, I’ve still got it.
“Ladies,” I coo, acting all grandiose when I feel anything but.
They all giggle in unison as if they’ve practiced this time and time again to get it right. “Sir,” the far right says. “Name?”
“Tobias Hayes,” I pronounce, and her eyes bulge out.
“The Tobias? Our golden sponsor every year?”
“That’s the one,” Jake booms from beside me, clapping my shoulder again. By the end of tonight, it’s going to be sore from his bear paws. “He’s been more than generous for years. I’m honestly proud to call him friend.”
Friend, my ass.
Moneybags is more like it.
“Here’s your ID badge and envelope of chefs,” the middle one explains. The one on the left stares at me in admiration, like she wants to flirt but won’t. I notice the ring on her finger and decide to tease her.
“And your name, gorgeous?”
“P-Penny,” she stutters.
“Ah, Penny. Such a pretty name. What is it that you have for me?” The other ladies glower as I give all my attention to the respectful woman at the end.
“Raffles,” she says breathily. “For the chef contest.”
“I see,” I muse, touching her hand and the ring on her finger. She doesn’t pull away, but she should. I’ve been known to ruin marriages. “How much?”
“Fifty dollars a ticket,” she explains, her face red and flamed from the skin-to-skin attention. “The money goes toward the foundation. It’s basically a donation.”
“Have a piece of paper to charge my account? I’ll write down a number, and you put me in for that much, okay?” Her eyes widen as if she’s not used to this kind of situation. She hands me a piece of paper, and I write down a one and five zeroes. Her mouth hangs open, and she types into the spreadsheet on the computer. “Jake here has my information. Feel free to charge my account.”
“This is huge, sir,” Penny finally replies. “You’re such a philanthropist.”
I chuckle. What’s ten thousand to a man like me?
She hands me a receipt, and I pocket it without looking at it. By the time I’m seated at a table, I’m beyond ready to drink I can’t see straight. These events are boring and so are the people involved. A waitress hands me a bottle of sparkling water, which tastes like ass, and not the good kind. Ten minutes pass by before Jake stops to see how I’ve settled. I take a big drink, hoping he decides not to stay.
“I can’t believe you bought a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of tickets,” is the first thing he says to me. And that drink I just took comes spewing out with a fit of coughs.
“What?”
“That’s what you wrote down. Penny showed me.”
“Fuck,” I curse, pulling the receipt out of my pocket. Sure as the day I was born, it says one hundred thousand. I’m not sure how I’ll explain this to Raul. And fuckity fuck. If I don’t get a chef with this amount of money, I’ll be pissed.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyebrow raised in amusement.
“I thought I wrote ten thousand,” I mutter, clearing my throat. “Raul