The Killing League - By Dani Amore Page 0,7

small affair. But then again, that was the point.

Everything she had worked so hard for was now riding on the success of Thicque.

She had chosen the name of her restaurant as a joke. It was a French bastardization of the word Thick — which is where she liked to be nowadays. Right in the thick of things. She still never felt all that comfortable alone. So she surrounded herself with other chefs, food, customers, and more than a few sharp knives.

“Nicky, where’s the sole?” Paolo Gerrar was her sous chef, a young understudy recently graduated from the Culinary Institute of Nevada.

“The walk-in. Below the eggs,” she said.

“Who’s ready to kick some ass?” a man said behind her.

Nicole turned to face Jay Lucerne, her business partner and unofficial co-manager of the restaurant. They had met years ago in culinary circles and Jay had put up 49% of the money for the restaurant. It was the way Nicole liked it; he had almost as much at stake as she did, but ultimately she had control. Control was something very important in her life, although she and her therapist were working to let a little bit more of it go whenever possible.

“I’m ready,” Nicole said.

Lucerne smiled. He was a round little man dressed impeccably as always. Nicole knew that Lucerne had approached the director of the Institute to find out who was the top chef in her graduating class. Nicole’s name was at the top of the list. Lucerne had introduced himself and a friendship had developed, ultimately resulting in their business venture.

He came over and Nicole gave him a hug, liking as always the feel of his taut little belly.

Nicole closed her eyes and did a silent prayer. After all she’d been through she desperately wanted the night, and the restaurant, to be a smashing success.

9.

Family Man

Dinner was roast beef, mashed potatoes and soggy green beans. Brent Tucker looked down the long dining room table at his wife. Mrs. Brent Tucker looked nothing like the slinky, raven-haired hottie he’d married fifteen years ago. No, the woman sitting opposite him and their four children looked like her mother — tired, pudgy and unattractive. At times like this, Tucker couldn’t believe that he’d ever had the temerity to stick his dick inside that flabby bag of body odor.

And what had it gotten him? This crummy house that always smelled of mildew, these four little fuckers with their incessant yelling and crying, and a dead-end job that would guarantee twenty more years of the same goddamn thing.

Tucker looked at his plate with dread, and let the comments from around the table merely scratch the surface of his consciousness.

“And then Mr. Backman said if I don’t do well on my math test—” one of the little shits was saying.

“Asparagus always makes me feel too full,” another one said.

“You’re full of it all right,” a third said.

Tucker stood up, collected some dishes and went out to the kitchen. He put the dishes in the sink and walked quickly from the kitchen up the stairs to his study. He shut the door and threw the deadbolt to secure his privacy. There was no way any of “them” would be able to intrude here.

He went behind his desk and sat down in the big, brown leather chair. He reached into the desk and pulled out a key, swiveled in his chair to a small cabinet and unlocked it.

He pulled out a thick manila folder and spun back around to his desk. He dumped the contents of the folder onto his desktop.

Driver’s licenses, necklaces, rings, a few clips of hair and a tooth lay in a small jumble on his desk’s leather blotter.

The driver’s license pictures showed young women with blonde hair and blue eyes who all looked vaguely similar.

He slowly spread the collection out, one by one, and with his other hand, unbuckled his pants.

Soon, Tucker could no longer hear the voices of his family just one floor below.

10.

Mack

Ellen Reznor ordered a chilled glass of chardonnay and Mack chose a bottle of Heineken. The restaurant was a good one, on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., but close enough to Maryland’s seafood suppliers to guarantee the freshest fish and clams in the city.

“You kicked ass today, Mack,” she said. “I wish you had kicked Whidby’s ass, literally.” Mack smiled. She raised her glass and Mack clinked it with his beer bottle. “It’s the new me,” Mack said. “Very restrained.”

“I like the old Mack,” she said. “You’d have been calling Whidby