Sparks and a Girl (Rewritten to publish)

4. Dinner and a show

"Fuck!" Jeisa yelled as she doubled over. She was sure she'd heard something crunch that time.

"You're not focussed," the dojo master yelled, backing away from that last heel kick to Jeisa's midriff. "You're leaving yourself wide open!"

Of course, she wasn't focussed! It was more than a week since she'd dropped off the red dragon at the Police Captain's house and the captain was still walking the Earth. Despite everything she'd done, Jeisa couldn't get the woman alone. It was like she was reading Jeisa's mind, pre-empting every move she made. Did she know about Jeisa? Not that it mattered if she did. What mattered was that Jeisa was failing on too many fronts. She was sparking again and now she wasn't even able to do her work as the Enforcer. It wouldn't be long before her father called her out on it, and Jeisa wasn't sure how she was going to deal with that.

"You didn't have to hit me that hard!" Jeisa spat back, more bile than she'd intended colouring her voice.

Coach chuckled, softening considerably and shattering the tension between them.

"Payment for the permanent markers, as promised," he said with a grin. "Those ten-year-olds were vicious."

Jeisa laughed, then quickly doubled over again with a groan, a hand against her right ribs.

"You definitely broke something!" she said.

"They're bruised, not broken," he replied. "You're strong. You'll heal fast enough."

"Right, thanks." Jeisa sighed and groaned again as she walked to the changing rooms. "Well, I'm done for the day. I'm going to work."

*

Jeisa secured the last button of her custom made, black, double breasted, chef's tunic that wrapped around her perfectly. She dusted off imaginary lint from her black jeans, which reached into the tops of her black, steel toed, leather, work boots. She took a moment to sit down and breathe through the pain radiating from the left side of her torso. She considered leaving and going home to down an unreasonable amount of pain killers then sleep for the next twenty four hours, but this job was yet another thing she'd insisted on having against her father's guidance. Like her never-ending volunteering gigs and the music lessons, this job kept her grounded and gave her structure.

Gave her a taste of normal life.

She got up and made sure her reflection was perfect. This job demanded nothing less than perfection.

Jeisa rocked her chef whites, or rather, blacks. No one else was allowed such liberty with the uniform in this kitchen. She didn't like the toque though. No one rocks a toque. It was, however, better than the hairnet that she'd be forced to wear if she refused to wear the silly, hundred-pleated monstrosity of a hat. As a compromise, she'd had hers done custom with less pleats and a sexy slant to it. It didn't take away from the fact that she knew how to cook eggs in one hundred different ways, which is what the original, fashion-challenged, head gear was supposedly meant to symbolise.

When she finally walked into the kitchen, five minutes before she was officially supposed to start, her mentor shoved a tray of shallots into her hands. He smiled at her and Jeisa sighed. He was being nice. This was bad. You wanted Roger to be barely holding on to spittle as he screamed profanity into your ear in decibels that warranted the same warnings that came with headphones that could be too loud. It was a total executive chef cliche, but it was how you knew he was having a good night at the restaurant. If, however, he handed a tray of shallots to you with a quiet smile, he was not having a good night at the restaurant.

"I need those peeled, washed, roasted, and prepared for your special. Table ten. Thirty minutes." said Roger.

Roger was down with the whole hundred pleated travesty of cloth being on his head and wearing all white apart from his black and white pants and apron. He was as traditional a French chef as one could possibly be. One good thing was that he didn't force you to say his name in French. That would have been a pain. A few wisps of his blond hair had escaped the toque, and the smoky eyeliner that ringed his stunning ice blue eyes was slightly smudged. His pale pink, full lips were free of glitter studded, fruit flavoured, lip gloss.