All The Way (The Sarah Kinsely Story - Book #1) (2 page)

Before I left she said, “We are really glad that you are here Sarah.”

I told her I felt the same and walked out of her office. I said goodbye to the burlesque receptionist, got back on my bike, took the streetcar over the river and walked in the doors of my new house.

That night as I lay on my mattress on the floor of my living room I cried a single tear and promised myself it would be the last I would shed for everything that I left behind in New York.

I only wish someone would have warned me about the weeks that were to follow.

Chapter 2

The following week was a whirlwind of orientations, meetings and paperwork. I showed up for work at 7am every day and wouldn’t make it home until 8 or 9pm. By Friday I was spent.

I was anxious for the weekend to rest and relax, but knew that a mountain of unpacking still needed to get done. I considered hiring the
College Hunks
again to come help me unpack. Curling up on the couch with a glass of wine while muscle bound “hunks” did some heavy lifting within view didn’t sound like a bad weekend at all. I wondered if I could convince one of them to rub my shoulders for tips.

Lost in my own fantasy and partially asleep from a weeks worth of exhaustion I didn’t even see her standing beside my desk.

“Hello Sarah.” She said.

I startled.

“Oh hi Peyton. I’m sorry, I was just-”

“Just falling asleep on the job?” She asked with a smile on her face.

“You caught me.”

“Yes I did and now I am going to punish you. You are coming out with me tonight and a few of the other gals in the office. You’ve had a rough first week.”

She didn’t sound like she was asking and it did sound fun. I just wished I didn’t have so much to unpack still.

“You know, I was really hoping to get some time to unpack.” I said.

“Nonsense. You can unpack when you are an old maid and have nothing better to do. Since your boobs aren’t sagging nearly enough for old-maid status you don’t qualify for shut-in weekends just yet. You are coming out with us tonight and that is an order.”

I smiled. She was persuasive.

“Ok, I am in.”

At 7pm I met Peyton, the receptionist and one other girl in front of a gritty strip joint in downtown Portland called
Mary’s
. A half-lit neon sign blinked half caring if patrons came or went. There was a sad mix of done-up girls and lonely looking men coming and going. It was surprisingly busy for looking like a disease infested black box in a random part of downtown.

Peyton introduced me to the girls. Angela, who worked directly with clients of the firm in accounts looked like she had just stepped out of a JCrew catalog. Her shoulder length sandy hair curled slightly as it rested against her shoulders. She wore thin black-framed glasses that hung on the end of her thin nose. When she said hello she had bent her nose down and looked up at me over the top of her frames. Being almost a foot shorter than even I was I was impressed that she was able to find clothes that looked so posh and adult. I reminded myself to jot her down as a potential shopping asset in the near future. If she could find clothes like that to fit her tiny body, who knew what magic she could work for me.

Lizzy, who I already knew as the receptionist, had also joined our little crew and looked exactly as you might imagine a burlesque receptionist would look on a Friday night standing in front of a strip joint. Her Levi blue knee-length showed just enough cleavage to expose the twin eagle tattoos that adorned her intimidatingly large breasts. Her lipstick was a dark red, almost black, and she had a red bow in her hair that made her look like a modern Rosey the Riveter. Her white gauge earrings dangled in ears as she talked.

Peyton outclassed us all. She was a high powered exec at an up and coming digital marketing firm and her clothes showed it. An all black dress hugged her thin body accenting all the right curves and her black clutch sparkled in the lights of downtown. She was the only one in heels and didn’t seem to mind that, compared to the rest of us, she looked overdressed.
I want to look like her when I grow up.

We said our cordial hellos and then curiosity got the best of me.

“We aren’t going inside are we?” I said anticipating a night at
Mary’s
shared with strangers.

The girls all laughed.

“Seriously Sarah, you are hilarious.” Peyton said.

Without answering, all three girls started across the street. I ran to catch up.

To my delightful surprise we entered an Asian fusion restaurant in which all women were fully clothed. No stripper poles, no bad music and no fried chicken. Just low lighting, the smell of garlic and ginger, and plenty of classy, beautiful downtown types quietly chatting about whatever they considered important in their lives. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Did you know,” Angela said to me, “That Portland has the highest per capita strip joints in the country?”

I didn’t. After the work I put in this last week at “Abraams and Snider” I considered asking how much the strip joints paid.

“Don’t believe that for a minute.” Lizzy said slapping Angela’s arm.

Peyton shook her head.

“Yea, never believe the people in accounts. That is rule number uno.”

Lizzy and Peyton smirked. Angela scoffed.

The waiter brought our menus, we ordered drinks and spent the evening gabbing about this and that. I was happy that Peyton had basically forced me to come. The boxes could wait, she was right. This was fun and I needed it.

“Is this one of your regular spots?” I asked trying to make small talk.

“Yea,” Peyton said, “Brandon, the creative director you met on your first day, went to high school with the owner. If Lizzy wears a low cut enough dress we can usually get the waiters to give us free food. They know us here.” With that she took a long sip on her water and then snapped her fingers in the air.

A man with a full beard wearing all black approached our table.

“Oh ladies, not you again.” He was the most burly, effeminate gay man I had ever seen in real life. Not even New York could lay claim to the gay class of burly logger-man.
Only in Portland could such a rare and beautiful specimen be found
.

“Hey Marcus, what can you do for us tonight?” Lizzy said pushing her arms together and nearly squeezing her breasts out of her dress.

“Ha, girl you know that shit doesn’t work on me. If it ain’t sausage I ain’t cooking!” He gave Peyton a hi-five.

I liked Marcus.

“Go get the chef. I want to bust his balls for what happened last week.” Peyton was looking at a menu trying to keep a straight face.

“Damn girl. You still mad about that? Ok, I will go fetch him for your highness.” Marcus twirled away and made his way to the kitchen. Even from our table we could hear his voice rise above the low hum of the restaurant as he called for the chef in the kitchen. I couldn’t help but smile.

After about 10 minutes Marcus returned, a sullen look on his face.

“I am so sorry to trouble you all-” he said.

“But you are out of everything we ordered?” Peyton asked offhanded.

“The chef has asked that you all come back to the kitchen.”

Lizzy and Angela shot glances of surprise towards each other.

Marcus looked as confused as we did.

“Hell yes, we are going right now.” Lizzy tried to scoot and shove her way past me. I half fell out of the booth.

“Wait,” Angela said, “Why does he want us to come back there?”

The waiter shrugged his shoulders.

“We are going.” Peyton said.

This is why hanging out with your boss can be bad. You can’t say no when you really want to. I briefly considered trying to protest but realized I held little equity amongst the girls and was just as likely to get left behind. This was no time to try and stand out.
Just follow the lemmings over the cliff for one night and everything would be fine.

We followed Marcus through the restaurant.

Marcus pulled us through the double doors that led to the kitchen and planted us in a corner out of the way of traffic. The aromas that had been teasing our pallet and causing our stomachs to growl earlier were stronger here in the kitchen. Cooks in white coats were whirling, twirling and flipping their pans. Fire danced and grew as orders were shouted from across the kitchen towards each other. The repetitive noise of knives chopping had a certain rhythm that combined everything together and made me feel like dancing. Or maybe it was just the booze. Either way, I felt a strange urge to grab Marcus and Tango across the kitchen.

“Please wait here while the chef finds a moment.” Marcus said and left.

I was wide eyed as I watched the cooks tending to their craft. Their motions were so fluid, so precise. They all had that calm look in their eye even though the kitchen itself looked like a mad house. I considered the obscene amounts of time I had spent over the years watching the Cooking Channel and realized how very little I actually knew about kitchen life. It looked much different in real life.

“Damn. I want to take that one home.” Peyton said pointing to the cook standing at the head of the kitchen. He wasn’t standing over a stove but he seemed to be the one in charge, barking orders and handling tickets.

“Well I want that one.” Angela pointed to the muscle bound cook who was gently laying cuts of fish on a hot pan. We could see the oil popping and cracking but he seemed unphased to use his hand to place the fish in the pan.

“Hmm, I would take any of them home. Find me a man who can cook and I am in heaven.” Lizzy licked her lips and thrust her hips.

We all laughed.

Chapter 3

Just as Angela began to get restless and suggest we go somewhere else, the chef arrived.

His hair was just long enough to be pulled back and just dark enough to shine against the bright florescent kitchen lights. He wore thick framed glasses, but took them off to shake our hands. His hand was rough, and it nearly wrapped entirely around mine. A towel was flung over his shoulder and he wore a dark gray chef’s coat that hugged his body in all the right places.

It may have been the alcohol, it could have been the atmosphere, but I was certain that he had lingered a bit longer in shaking my hand than the others. I could have sworn that he gave a little extra squeeze before releasing. And if I hadn’t emptied so many glasses just minutes before I would have testified in court that he gave me a little side smirk.

But one can never be sure about these things with lightening courage coursing through the veins.

“Thank you very much for coming.” He said, his voice smooth and deep.

“Well, thank you for having us.” Peyton said as Lizzy gave her a little nudge with her elbow.

I had this funny feeling that we were all in high school again and the star quarterback had just waltzed into our slumber party - but like I said; alcohol. Either way, we were giddy and he played right along.

He showed us around
his
kitchen. Introducing the cooks, talking about what each station did in the
line
and at every station he asked,
insisted
, that we sample something being cooked at the station.

I tried the smoked salmon in lemon-herb soy glaze, the fresh truffles and pickled garlic. I would have hated the pickled garlic except he hand fed me the little devils and I just couldn’t resist. I had to have
another
.

At just about every turn our four bodies would get jammed in a corner. The kitchen didn’t seem to be made for people but for ovens and stoves and when it was time for us to move on to the next part of the tour the chef would have to wiggle his body past ours to get out of the trap we had made. Lizzy could barely contain her delight when he would rub past her. I tried my best to steer clear. As hot as he was, the last thing I needed in my life at that moment was to be touched by a man. Especially a man like
that
.

He took us to an area of the kitchen where beef was being prepared. He said something unintelligible to the cook and took the knife from his hand. He made quick slices of the beef and laid it gently in the pan. The sound and smell of searing meat had me nearly drooling on the floor. After a very short time he pulled the beef off of the pan with his bare hands and laid it on a white plastic cutting board. He effortlessly ran the knife back and forth, back and forth against the meat until he had enough shards for each of us. Not even Gordon Ramsey made cutting meat look so damn sexy.

We tasted the meat. It was soft and flavorful.

“What did you put it in?” Angela asked still chewing, savoring each morsel.

“Love.” The chef said and walked on to the next station.

They say that if you can’t handle the heat in the kitchen that you should get out and normally I would have gone running out the back door but the girls kept ushering me along.

I had to stay.

After the chef saw that we were all properly flirted with and fed, he ushered us into a small back room which looked something like a private office with a portion of the wall knocked out so you could see the kitchen as you ate.