Chapter 2

He also would have argued that he was just annoyed by the process and not jealous. But that would have been more of a bald-faced lie than the first argument.

Malcolm had learned a long time ago that he wasn’t the kind of guy that was going to get by on his looks. He wasn’t unattractive by any means: dark and tall, with a good thick head of hair and pleasant smile when he saw fit to use it. He was just incredibly unspectacular. He was what his mother used to refer to as “good stock” and what she now called “rugged” or “well-weathered.” Apparently, he’d been known to say friends, he was a racehorse that had been driven hard and put away wet too often. A single glance in the mirror had only to confirm that he was nothing any of the men around this particular scene were looking for in another man. Under no circumstance could he be confused for a pretty boy, and he was far too young and poor to be anyone’s daddy.

He was, however, a damn good chef. So, for the groups that came to celebrate and the elite that stayed, he was important at least. If for nothing else than to ensure that people like the pompous little rock prince that was known as Darien Flint didn’t have to see a single piece of fruit or, God forbid, be presented with chocolate. Nothing ruined a good old bout of cock-rock like fruit, after all.

Malcolm rolled his eyes at the impression he already had of the superstar that was holding his release party in their banquet hall. As Malcolm was probably one of the few folks in North America that couldn’t recall Darien’s face, let alone get weak-kneed and swooning over it, he could only rely on the genre to base his assumptions. He imagined self-important but not too bright, a man that thought with his dick and not much else, in too tight jeans and V-necked T-shirts. He saw belt buckles and bike boots, a goatee and a grin, and someone that started every single sentence ever spoken with the word I. A paradox singing about true love and broken hearts whilst boning every star-struck teenager he came across.

“Gross,” Malcolm whispered, and the word had nothing to do with the bowl of squid that had just been placed in front of him.

* * * *

The door was still swinging closed behind the kid that washed the dishes when Malcolm dimmed the lights and dug out the bottle of Gewürztraminer from the bottom rack of the cooler. He yanked out the only chair in the kitchen, a ripped, worn and tilting office antique left there for one purpose and one purpose alone: the end-of-the-day, kitchen-is-sparkling-and-everything-is-done moment when he could sit, relax and enjoy. No one but Malcolm sat in his kitchen. Ever. It was a working kitchen and damn it, if someone was going to be in it, they were going to be working. There were dining rooms and lounges, private rooms and suites that could host any other activity. These moments of silence and leisure were for him and him alone.

He poured a tumbler full of liquid sunshine, took a long sip of the wine and tossed his smock into the dirty laundry hamper. He shuffled freshly scrubbed palms over the encroaching stubble on his face, doing his best to encourage exhausted skin to relight. He flopped into the chair, fiddled with levers to engage the tilt release and, as an afterthought, flipped off the T-shirt that he knew would reek of sweat and food; scents he was far too familiarized with to actually notice himself. Another toss netted him another win as the cloth was reunited with the abandoned smock.

Malcolm sighed heavily, clasped his hands behind his head and leaned as far back as the chair would allow. Perhaps it was crazy that he found it so serene to be in an environment that he spent so much time in, but it was the change in atmosphere that Malcolm found so calming. The room was quiet; the air lightly scented with Clorox and pine cleaner, the heat from the grills and burners dissipating into a tolerable temperature. Dim light had replaced harsh clarity; silence taken over calamity, and stillness and peace had stepped in where hustling and chaos knew no bounds. It was like battling and conquering a new war every day.

The party still continued somewhere to the east end of the manor and would, no doubt, until the late hours of the morning. On more than one occasion, Malcolm had found himself rising to begin the next breakfast and come face to face with the glassy-eyed, cocaine-riddled guest of a previous night’s parties. More often than not Malcolm would find someone to see them to a room, or call a cab. The guests were not his concern, only the filling of their bellies. A good thing, really. Malcolm wasn’t exactly a people person.