The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard by Elijah Douresseau (top books of all time TXT) 📕

they’re technically opposites in my world.”

“The white belt and the black belt.”

“That’s the gist.”

“Do you care?”

“What people call me?”

“How you’re seen.”

“You put out for a job months ago, requesting a private chef. The title is lower than an executive chef of a restaurant, but still prestigious. Out of culinary school, you’re mostly a cook or a sous chef. You have to earn the head chef position at an eatery, if you aren’t bankrolling the entire business.”

“So it’s of no big concern to you? Since you really just have the audience of me and the occasional guest?”

“It’ll come in handy later on. Good for the resume. But people just care about their food tasting good. Whether you’re taking orders from a drive-thru intercom, or your place is being featured on some food show.”

Coco thought about that. She had her mouth closed, but Alvin could see she was licking the dinner residue from her teeth, savoring a few things.

“What would you like me to call you?”

“Alvin.”

“Not that picky, I see.”

“Just hope you dig the grub when it’s served.”

They both enjoyed the last of the sun in the cool, evening air. In silence. It was a beautiful scene. Peaceful. The kind of peace that led to the thought of your existence in a big world. So Coco’s questions were welcomed. Alvin almost forgot to listen for tells that would help the FBI’s investigation. There was never no working that angle. Especially if the two were in the same room.

“So. Alvin. What would a chef like you be doing after you get off work?”

It was also easy to think, for a second, that Coco was running a little operation of her own. Collecting information for the right moment to strike. On her house cook? That did not sound right. Or too important.

“Some late night grocery shopping.”

“Wouldn’t it be a little too late, once you’re off?”

“The availability of certain items becomes tricky after 10pm. Most stores won’t restock until the wee hours of graveyard, after closure. But between 9 and 11 are when the interesting people show up.”

“Strange people? Tell me more.”

“It’s their items and the requests. Anyone can look decent when they’re walking around, looking for things. But the time to pay for stuff is where it comes out.”

“Isn’t it annoying to stand there and waste that time with the peculiars,” Coco questioned.

She was rather into the benign conversation.

“Sometimes. Though, once you set out a bottle of butter-flavored pancake syrup, a head of partially rotted cabbage, and eight packs each of rubber bands and adult diapers, you start to ask questions. The customer usually has a few questions of their own before they check out. On store specials that never existed.”

“The things you can learn about people.”

Coco sat back in her chair, hand on her stomach, looking deeply satisfied. As Alvin spoke, she kept her eye contact with him the entire time. Eating his words. He was the latest episode in a primetime drama. She was also a master at never looking down as she ate from her plate.

“You know how long it has been since I’ve shopped for my own groceries? I can’t even get a Slushee on free Slushee Day.”

At that moment, Alvin was grateful he was only cooking for someone who was so rich and obscure with their profession, she had to retire from the public. She could have done whatever she wanted, as far as her chef observed – anything, or something she ordered would be delivered lickity split – but she could not go out and get it herself. It had to be some open contraband. Coco could not feel self-satisfied with completing a list of monotonous to-do’s, could not touch the boring elements of errands. She was always going to be at task, fighting for her life.

Even without damning evidence, Alvin’s tax bracket felt like the perfect defense and offense to Coco’s affluence.

“Maybe you can go to the store with me before I cook. One day.”

“One day. Perhaps. Yes.”

Coco rose up, serious all of a sudden, and turned toward the kitchen.

“Leave the food out. Going to want more of it through the night.”

Before Alvin could respond, she was back and began to reach for her employee’s plate.

“You finished?”

“Um, yes. Thank you.”

“Good job, tonight. Listen, take the day off tomorrow. Going to need some space here.”

“You sure?”

“Quite. Spend it with your grandmother or something.”

“Wish I could. Grandma passed around five years ago.”

That was enough to stop Coco in her tracks, for the second time. Alvin was at his personal best with his new ability.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

At the utterance of the last few words, the mood changed.

Alvin hated that.

As soon as anyone brought up a dead relative, things always had to get somber for a second. How could the person asking not see that result coming? There were as many dead relatives as there were ones who were alive. The dead probably had the living beaten for miles. That’s why that whole zombie apocalypse thing would be a real problem.

Alvin would hide out in a restaurant, and hide near the strongest smelling ingredients. The living dead would not care a speck about spices and produce.

“Were you two close?”

“She raised me.”

Renewed interest. Whatever Coco had to do could have waited a little longer, as she stood feet from Alvin. The worst waitress in the world, with those plates in her hands.

“What would she want you to do tomorrow?”

“To make sure I had my three squares.”

“Hmm. A decent base to any day.”

Coco turned around and marched toward the rest of her night. The biggest mystery.

“See you the day after tomorrow.”

The change of schedule was something of note. Matts’. If he was being honest, the last half hour Alvin and his boss shared worried the cook.

What mood was Coco going to be in when he returned to work?

Their dinner break as closer acquaintances was nice. Pleasant, on the surface. No weird questions veiled as lectures. No funky absences of warmth by virtue of superior and subordinate interacting with each other. And it seemed