The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard Elijah Douresseau (read aloud books .txt) 📖

intimidating. It was when the business end of the utensils disappeared in the mouths of his audience.

“At least allow me to—”

“Nope, Al. Really. I have it. If I need you, I’ll send for you.”

“Yes, Coco.”

“Get out there and make sure the kitchen I never cook in is tidy from your days-long affair with it.”

He was told to prepare. To treat his dishes like they were awards going out to the best crime bosses of the year. And yet, it was hard to ignore that in practice, Coco was creaming the competition – receiving every prestigious award. Something was afoot, even in rehearsal.

Still, Alvin was responsible for his job, and could do it from anywhere in the house.

“I’ll be in the kitchen then.”

Seconds later, just outside of the banquet hall, he heard – if he was not mistaken – an audible, “Mmm!”

As he wiped down the countertops, laughter managed to reach him from the hall. Reactions to food were funny like that. Whatever was not good was sent back. Whatever was created with the expectation of strict consumption had the potential to untie mind and heart over oceans of separation. It might have been just what the being needed to feel whole. Even for only a few seconds.

Looked like the day had amounted to a victory. For Alvin and for Coco.

No guards came to the kitchen to give the chef any further instructions. The food did its job. But there were parts of Alvin that were not okay. Satisfying Coco, on behalf of others, felt like the hardest part, but for all of his nerves going into the tasting, something was unsettled. Like angry, complaining customers who made a fuss, but the employee or management pushed back. They were patient. They listened. They deferred to the amateur wisdom of the cliental always being in the right.

Then the worker bee got indignant, and then there was a problem. A bunch of yelling ensued that did not resolve anything. After empty threats from both sides, the mention of the cops managed to get the customers out the door. Hair was still standing on end. Blood still harshly acidic, pumping something like the liquid of an energy drink.

It was the pressure from feeling like he should do something.

Refuse to cook?

He would probably be shot on sight.

Desert the position.

The whole, mysterious organization would be out looking for him.

What exactly was going to happen at the dinner tomorrow?

Questions were abound, but it seemed like Alvin could enjoy the rest of his evening, aside from prepping for the next day.

What about tomorrow?

He might order a pizza.

But tomorrow?

Alvin never felt like he was in more trouble than in the moments he was left to do whatever he wanted when he was off the clock. He could not talk to Matts. He was in the wind, working on the big takedown. The chef was not sure where he was supposed to be in those last phases. He had immunity, if he survived long enough to take it. But was he going to be in all those true crime photos and in the footage when this was a docuseries on a streaming platform ten, eleven years from then?

Could he speak as an expert witness? Would the statute of limitations clear him from the incrimination of such a feature? He needed to stay alive first.

In the middle of a shift, it was easy for Alvin to forget how human he was as a chef. Coming to the present, his sudden and compelling hunger was a heavy load to run into. Almost like waking up with an elephant on his chest. And the only thing to do was get the beast off. Maybe to the vocal tune of a demon, just out of reach, to gobble it all up.

As a chef, it was hard to be surprised by food anymore. Nothing was quite shocking on the surface. It was more impressive to submerge yourself into the depths and layers of flavor. But food could still taste good. Even the eats that existed in culinary spaces for an eternity.

Eating in the middle of shift, in the middle of firing dishes for service disregarded all of that. The need to feed was just biological those crucial times, in which a human’s system simply needed nutrients to keep operating.

Alvin was never discouraged from thinking he could eat while cooking for Coco. It was just something the personal chef always thought was frown-inducing behavior.

Of course, he had to starve until he knew he had fulfilled the wishes of his employer, beyond a shadow of a doubt. It was like catching up on Game of Thrones at a desk job. Most people could get away with it, but it still was not in the most professional taste to binge-watch something amidst assignments.

The biggest entrees on the menu were worry and scolding his position. But he was listening. Matts and Grandma had nothing to worry about. He just wanted to taste food again. Even when he was safe, for the time being.

Forget the stove.

Pizza still sounded good, but he certainly could not order out for something. It would not get past security. He would just have been buying them dinner.

That was when his friends would tell the chef to make what he wanted to eat.

Could he not whip one up?

The thing that was diametrically opposed to all the staunchly sophisticated plates Alvin had been crafting for the last day, was a simple sandwich. Coco gave Alvin free reign over the kitchen. At all times. He just could not mess with her midnight snacks. All the frozen goodies.

What really made his jaw muscles ache with desire was the sandwich chaser. Some potato chips. But he could not justify eating so many without something more substantial to sink his teeth into.

The cook was much too tired to concern himself with proper nutrition in the first place, but he had to satisfy the carnal cravings where the mind of his appetite went to first. It was those chips, and in some