greater, so it’s not something I’m willing to do. Especially not since we live together. I mean, you try staying ahead of the curve when your roommate has a kinky past with cocaine.
“Benji?” I say, cracking the kitchen door open a few inches. “Can you come here a sec?”
He puts down his knife roll and heads to the doorway, tapping Sebastian on the way over and telling him to take five.
“What is it? Everything good?” I can see the anxiety in his eyes. Whether it’s an audience of one or a roomful of skeptical diners, Benji cuts zero corners when it comes to his cooking. He wants tonight to go seamlessly and if he’s not pulling a huge profit in the end because of some dealer drama, well, then, his reputation among these unsuspecting people needs to be the thing that comes out on top.
“Everything’s great,” I whisper. “But are you going to step out? I think people want to applaud you. They loved everything. Honestly, it was the perfect night.”
Benji’s not shy. Not by a long shot. But I can tell he’s delayed making his cameo until I offered up the reinforcement that people really are waiting in the wings like Bono’s groupies.
“Really?” he asks.
“Really. Look at table eight. Bunch of food bloggers who wet their panties when they ate the deconstructed squash blossoms. I’m pretty sure they’ll have a full-blown orgasm if you just come out and wave to them.”
He peers over me to check out the guests. Table eight is all attractive blondes with hot-pink cell phone cases who must have taken a thousand photos so far. I’d worry, but when your reckless love story has been chronicled on every social media platform since its hot and heavy start, that makes it pretty official: Benji Zane is off the market, folks. Has been since the middle of May.
“Alright, fine. Give me a sec.”
Benji ditches his apron and grabs my hand. Together, we walk into the dining room and all chairs turn toward us. I feel a bit like the First Lady, just with a trendier outfit and a more tattooed Mr. President by my side. I bite back the urge to wave to our adoring fans.
“I just want to thank everyone for coming out tonight. I hope you enjoyed the food. It was my pleasure feeding you. Feel free to stick around and enjoy the view or see Allie for a cab if you need one. Good night, everyone.” Benji holds our interlocked hands up and bows his head.
The crowd goes wild—well, as wild as forty diners who have all just slipped into a serious food coma can go. It’s a happy state, the place Benji’s food sends you. Kind of like how you feel after a long, passionate sex session. When done, you’ve got a slight smile and glow on your face, but just want to lie down for the foreseeable future and possibly smoke a cigarette.
I spot my father standing in the back, filming on his phone as my mother claps so hard, her Tiffany charm bracelet looks like it’s about to unhinge and fall into what’s left of her dessert. Seeing them both smile proudly across the room at who their daughter has wound up with warms my heart. It’s been an uphill battle, but I’m confident we’ve won them over.
Benji whisks me back to the kitchen and before I can congratulate him on a successful evening, he pushes me up against the walk-in fridge. His tongue teases my mouth open and I am putty in his hands. With his right hand, he pulls down the collar of my romper, exposing my black lace bra. He frees my breast and kisses my nipple. My neck turns to rubber and my eyes roll back.
“Benji,” I pathetically protest, very aware that all that separates us from a roomful of people who are currently picking a filter for a photo of the two of us holding hands is a swinging door that doesn’t lock.
He continues kissing my neck, my breast still exposed. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Allie.”
“Oh, really?” I say, recognizing that the natural high he’s on is most certainly fueling whatever is happening here. He slips a hand up my thigh.
“You made everyone out there have a good time tonight.”
“I know,” I playfully agree. He pulls my panties to the side. I know where this is going.
“And now it’s my turn to get in on it.”
Before I know it, he’s inside of me and we’re officially having sex against a cooler with forty people standing fifteen feet away, two of whom are my doting parents.
Sex between me and Benji has always been explosive. It’s like he knows exactly what I need and where to touch me without me having to give a lick of instruction. Sex has never been like this in my entire life. Granted, I’ve only got about five solid years of experience, but nothing rivals what Benji has introduced me to in the last three months. There’s virtually nothing I’ll say no to with him. Pornos, toys and now public places. Who am I?
I’ll figure it out after I get off. A few hushed moans later, and I’m there.
“You did so good tonight,” he whispers in my ear as he helps adjust my outfit. “Now I need you to go back out there and get everyone to leave so I can fuck you again over that balcony with the view of the lake in the background. Okay?”
I come back down to earth and reply, “Yes, sir.”
Back in the dining room, I brush shoulders with Benji’s sous chef, who’s on his way back to his station. I give Sebastian a nod and return to my post, trusty water pitcher in hand.
There are a few stragglers left in the dining room, including my parents, finishing the last sips of their BYO selections. From what I can tell as I clear empty dishes and put the tips in a billfold, people liked dinner. They really liked it. The average gratuity being left on the prepaid meal is about fifty dollars cash per person.
After subtracting the dealer’s cut, it’s looking like we’ll walk with about $2,000 cash for ourselves and I can’t help but feel like a bit of cheat. I know nothing about this world—this high-end foodie club that I got inducted into overnight—yet people are emptying their wallets of their hard-earned cash to show their gratitude for what we’ve done. Do they realize just hours ago, the black squid ink from course two was being stored on ice in my bathtub? Regardless, we need the money. Benji may have kicked his expensive habit, but I’m the only one with a steady job right now and being a social media manager for Daxa—yes, the organic cotton swab brand made famous by Katy Perry’s makeup artist on Snapchat—isn’t exactly like being the CEO of Morgan Stanley.
“Excuse me, where is the ladies’ room?” a tipsy guest asks. Benji might not have taught me how to sous vide a filet mignon, but he did tell me you always walk a guest to the bathroom when they ask. I promptly put down the dirty glasses and the wad of tips and walk the boozy babe to the loo.
Upon my return, I nearly collide with another guest, this one quite a bit soberer.
“Allie.” The prim-looking thirtysomething woman with a bleached-blond pixie cut says my name matter-of-factly. I stand up straight; this chick has CRITIC written all over her face.
“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you? Do you need a taxi?”
“No, thank you. I just wanted to give you a tip.”
“Oh, that’s so kind of you. You can actually just leave a gratuity on the table.”
“No, I meant, like, some advice.”
