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“You need a second?” he asked me waiting with the door open to his midnight blue 1962 Ferrari. I grinned. “This is your car?” “No, I stole it off an old lady in Worcester.” He rolled his eyes. “I need to get myself to Worcester.” I grinned, sliding in.
“Go home, Alexander. Come back when your head isn’t up your own goddamn ass!” “Yes, Chef.” He also took off his apron and left. “What do I hate?” he asked the rest of them. “Apologizing to customers,” his army answered as one. “What don’t I tolerate?” “Bad chefs,” they replied. He took off his apron and threw it on the table, “Think about that while I’m out there apologizing to a sixty-year-old woman over fish, you fucking cunts.”
“You know cold water makes your wee-wee shrivel up, right?” Pippa said feeding a cracker to Mozart, who sat on her shoulder. “You’re not helping,” Wes, who just cupped his dick, ran back upstairs, leaving me there. She stared at me and then started to giggle.
