Simmer

Prologue August 1999 Devon Johnson watched her chef, Jacob Arness, stand in front of the grill, slowly moving his hips back and forth to the beat of the unedited version of "Back That Thing Up" by Juvenile. He cleaned the grill as other employees cleaned around the kitchen. He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen. His blond hair was cut low. He was tall. His tight t-shirt hugged his lanky torso. She glanced at the only chair in the kitchen, a stool covered with his chef's jacket.  Every time he moved his hips, her need for him grew. Less than twenty-four hours ago, you moved your hips between my legs. I can still feel you inside me. Oh my God, you tasted so good last night. The way I broke your rhythm each time when I grabbed your ass and pushed your d**k deeper inside me was sooo good until you made me pay for it. When you held my wrists and pressed them against the wall and pumped your d**k into my p*ssy fast until I screamed, "Oh my God, Jacob, quit moving your hips." She shifted her stance to her left foot. Stop looking at his freaking hips. You're here to do the job your family appointed you to do. Last night wasn't supposed to happen, so stop thinking about it.  "Devon," Jacob acknowledged her before he returned to scrubbing the grill.  She stood erect. He acted like last night hadn't happened. Maybe one-night stands were the norm for him, but they weren't for her.  She glanced around at her other employees, her employees. Devon smiled. She couldn't believe her life. She was 20 years old and a manager of two restaurants. Devon glanced heavenward. If it wasn't for her grandfather throwing her into this life, she wouldn't have her GED, nor would she be here. Here. She remembered why she was here. She stopped smiling.  I can't do this. I can't. I wasn't raised this way. I know better. No one should be fired for doing everything right. I can't do this.  OK, I'm a manager. This is what managers do. They fire people. Oh God, what the hell am I going to do? Just get it over with already.  Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...five...four...three...two... "Jacob!" she yelled over all the commotion in the kitchen. He smiled at her before motioning to give him a moment. She pointed to her office before she exited.  Her office was the opposite the kitchen. Total silence. The white walls were basic, but her brown wood desk was antique because it was Grandpa Shack's. The only thing she had added was a computer and lamp.  Devon strolled in front of her desk. She shoved away thoughts of last night. This had to be done. The restaurant had an image to uphold. Decades ago, her grandfather had created a place where blacks could escape racism, bigotry, and other hardships and enjoy good cooking and entertainment. Unfortunately, Jacob's presence contradicted all of that. So, what, she'd been here for six months compared to his six years?  So, what, her grandfather had hired Jacob? Still, there was an image to uphold.  She should have dressed for the occasion. She removed her brown barrette from her jet-black hair and let it fall to her shoulders. She threw the barrette on her desk. She stared past her bright, brown-skinned hand to her chewed-up fingernails. I'll likely treat myself to a manicure after this is over. I've never had one before. She shook her head. No, a manicure isn't going to help me forget firing Jacob for no reason. Who am I kidding? She shoved her hands into her black jeans pockets. Devon had curves, but she hid them under a large T-shirt she tucked in and pulled it out until it hung over her tiny waist. She wasn't into the tight look where women showed their G-strings yet and wore tight-fitting tank tops. Maybe never.  Jacob tapped on the door before he opened it. She walked around her desk, then stood next to her chair. Jacob's smile almost made her fall into her seat. His blue eyes pierced her soul. Devon glanced away because she feared he could tell what she was thinking.  "Hey, Beautiful."  Devon briefly closed her eyes. That had been his pet name since the moment they met.  "Why did you leave last night?" he asked. Devon couldn't take it anymore. She told him, "You're fired." Jacob took a step back. "Wait. Are you trying to stiff me for harassment or something? Last night was mutual. We—" "No," she interrupted, "it has nothing to do with last night." "Then what," he asked. "Why?" "White boys can't cook soul food," she told him in a rush.  He double-blinked.  She didn't want to hear whatever he had to say. "You're fired."