Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Why did this happen?
Aren’t fathers supposed to protect their daughters?
“Mami,” I whisper into the silence, wishing more than anything that she were here with me. She would know what to do. She would know how to make it stop.
But she’s dead. In the ground.
And I’m on my own.
Present Day…
I’ve been thinking about Hawk Bellamy for the past three days. I didn’t text him again, nor did I respond to his drive safely and heart emoji that he sent me the night I drove home after we kissed.
Today is my first day of culinary school, and I’m trying to focus.
The class is called “Culinary Foundations,” and we’re set up with partners in front of tiny kitchenettes as our professor, Chef Charleston, describes how to prep the kitchen before cooking begins.
“In order to create, one must first prepare the area,” Chef begins. He moves with practiced ease as he organizes the workspace in front of him. “A cluttered kitchen is like a chaotic mind. You should always start clean and organized.”
He clears the surface, placing each tool and ingredient in its specific place. He talks as he works, explaining each step in detail.
“Now, safety. Knives are not toys. They are essential tools in our craft and must be treated with respect.” He picks up a large chef’s knife and demonstrates the proper grip.
I glance at my partner, a burly guy named Jordan who grins back at me. I can’t help but return the smile, feeling some of my nervousness dissipate.
The class continues like this for the next few hours, Chef Charleston explaining and demonstrating while we follow along at our stations. We learn about the importance of mise en place, the practice of having all your ingredients chopped and measured before you start cooking. We learn about the different types of knives and their specific uses, and the correct way to hold a chef’s knife for maximum control.
If I’m being honest, I’m bored to tears. This is all stuff I had already figured out on my own.
Jordan turns out to be a friendly partner at least. He’s patient and easygoing. He’s been working in a restaurant for a few years now and wants to expand his culinary skills. He effortlessly chops an onion, his eyes watering slightly.
His eyes widen when it’s my turn to chop. I used to chop onions at home in Colombia all the time. My father’s chef was allergic to them, so they were my domain.
“Wow. And I thought I was an expert chopper,” Jordan says.
“Cooking was the one thing my father let me do at home in Colombia,” I reply.
It’s not exactly the truth.
The truth is that once I turned fifteen, I read cookbooks under my covers and bribed my father’s chef with smiles and a few blowjobs—turns out I’m pretty good at them—to let me help in the kitchen.
I learned to hate the taste of dick.
But every one of my father’s friends and associates, including his chef, wanted my mouth on their privates.
My cheeks warm at the memory, a sharp contrast to the coldness I feel inside. I wonder if Jordan would be so friendly if he knew about my past. If he knew what I’ve done. What’s been done to me.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, concern etching his features.
I nod, forcing a smile onto my face. “Yeah, just thinking.”
He gives me a warm grin. “Don’t think too hard. It’s only our first day.”
I laugh at that, grateful for his easygoing nature. It seems like everyone in this strange new world is so much kinder than the one I left behind. The thought makes something tighten in my chest.
We move onto knife safety skills, and then a workshop on cleaning and safe food handling.
While I understand that the basics are important, I helped prepare an enormous dinner for ten a few nights ago. I created recipes, fused cuisines, and it was a rousing success. I had Star Bellamy’s help, of course, but I did a damned good job regardless. I already know all the basics.
As much as I was looking forward to today, I’m ready for our lunch break.
Plus… I haven’t been able to get Hawk Bellamy out of my mind—his kisses…and what nearly happened between us.
What should I do?
He still doesn’t know everything I’ve been through.
He’d probably run away screaming if he did.
Hell, I wanted to run away screaming myself.
I’m here now, doing what I’ve dreamed of for so long.
And my father—who thought nothing of pimping me out to his associates—is dead and buried.
Good fucking riddance.
17
HAWK
My mind has been reeling.
This isn’t like me. Daydreaming. Jacking off. Letting a woman invade my mind like this.
Fuck. I’m acting like Eagle.
That jars me.
No way will I ever be like Eagle.
I’m the Bellamy brother who gets things done, does things the right way, always has his ducks in a row. Hell, I make to-do lists.