Addicted (The Addicted Series, #1)(66)

It was long moments after my vision stopped that I realized that the music had faded away too, with Meat Loaf back on the microphone. Staggering, I pulled back and out, my cock slipping out of her with an almost obscene schluuuurp. "My God," I gasped, feeling the sweat glistening on my brow. "That . . . ."

"That was the best I've had in years," Gina said back to me, turning and giving me a naughty smile. "God damn Julian, you are one talented f*ck. But I think it's time for us to get back to the reception before they wonder where we slipped off to."

"Uh . . . yeah," I said, still with my mind whirling. What the hell had just happened? "That was amazing."

"Thanks, sweetie," Gina said, coming over and kissing me. She reached down and grabbed my cock "that's one nice piece of equipment you have there," then she sashayed over to her dress and pulled it back on, before coming over and actually lifting my pants up for me. Carefully working the zipper back up before sliding the fastener, she reached into my pocket and pulled out her panties.

"Now now, if you want a souvenir you have to ask for it," she giggled as she stepped into the bathroom to clean up. I could tell she wanted me to say something in reply to her slutty banter, but my mind was still too staggered to really formulate anything. "Well, if you ever want to get together again, call me," she said. When she was done, she came over and slipped a piece of paper with her number on it into my pocket in place of her panties. "Seriously, if you're ever in Detroit, give me a call."

With a quick peck on my lips, she turned and got her high heels, leaving me still standing there. I staggered over to the same lounge chair I'd just finished f*cking her in and sat down, still perplexed. What the hell had just happened?





Chapter 7


Krystal - About five weeks later




"Your secret ingredient is . . . ribs!"

I looked over at Shannon, whose face narrowed as she slipped into her mental space that I knew she went to whenever she was mentally game-planning. We were in a borrowed kitchen to simulate the fact that we'd be cooking in an unfamiliar space, and we were in the three-minute planning period that the producers had told Shannon would be given to her before her time actually started. Of course, due to the magic of television editing, that three minutes would look like about ten seconds, but it heightened the drama that way. The guy acting as official timekeeper, the owner of the private cooking school we were using for this practice, tapped his desk as one minute of the time passed. Two minutes left.

On the chopping block in front of the room was a selection of ribs, with pork, beef and lamb all there. Another secret of the Iron Chef competition is that the producers tell the contestants beforehand that they will be competing with one of five different possibilities for their secret ingredient. So it wasn't like we were walking in totally blind. We even knew who we'd be competing against, one of my culinary heroes, who specialized in Mediterranean food and had a spice palette similar to my own. It made my palms sweat, but I felt good about it.

"All right guys, huddle up," Shannon said. She used a lot of football analogies, her father played quarterback for Nebraska back in the seventies I think. "Okay, here's the plan. Pork ribs broken down into pulled pork for sliders, baby back beef ribs, a lamb crown roast, and pork bits pan roasted for a caramel on a pork fat ice cream. Smith, I want you making up our sauce. Hobards, you're on the crème anglaise and getting the fat off of some pork ribs. Aksoy, you're on the crown roast. Remember, we only have an hour, so you'll need to move your ass."

Moving my ass was an understatement. A crown rack of lamb usually took at least an hour alone to make, half of the time being prep and another half being cooking, before worrying about plating, presentation or side dishes. I'd have to shave time somewhere, that was for sure.

The timekeeper tapped his table, and Horst, who was playing our host and referee, nodded. "Ready? And go!"

"Bang the gong, we are on!" the timekeeper, a funny man who loved using cheesy lines from the original dub of the Japanese version, yelled. Ignoring him, I sprinted over to my station on the line and immediately started my mise en place, or preparations. In a professional kitchen, having everything in just the right place saved precious seconds later.

I tore through the Frenching of my lamb rack, where I shaved off the lower end of the rib to make it look like bare bone in a rapid pace, while Horst overlooked my work. "Keep going," he said, slipping out of his referee role to do some coaching. "Don't miss that silver skin just to save some seconds!"

I saved some time by using garlic paste rather than chopping fresh garlic, and had my rack in the oven by the thirty-five-minute mark. I immediately turned to Shannon, who was chopping away like a madwoman on her own dishes. "Chef! Station clear!"

"Good. Help Smith with his vegetables."

"Yes, Ma'am!" I immediately went over to help one of Alinea's best saucers with the vegetable prep for the other dishes. He told me what to do, and for the next ten minutes the only thing we focused on was working our way through potatoes, bell peppers, some radishes, turnips, and a pile of parsnips that I figured would be quick roasted and turned into a puree. With ten minutes to go, we were doing pretty well, I thought.

The last five minutes was total chaos, with all three assistants bringing things over to Shannon at full speed, either plating them as she ordered us, or turning the pots and pans over to her to plate. I got a dollop of hot parsnip puree splashed on my right hand, burning me, but I didn't stop until the timekeeper counted down the last seconds. As soon as the time was up, I ran over to the sink and stuck my hand under the cold water, soothing the already red section on the back of my hand. Shannon came over to check on me. "You okay?"