Bending Steele

Chapter Thirty

"Son of a fucking bitch!" Adam snarled as he burnt his hand on the pot handle...again. Dropping it with a clang and sending sauce splattering across the range, he strode over to the sink to put his blazing palm under the cool water. Gently toweling it off, he walked grumbling over to the subzero and filled the towel with ice. Hissing when the coldness hit his throbbing hand. Closing his eyes, he took a calming breath.

He was the sole owner of Steele Industries. He made roughly 1.5 million dollars per hour...surely he should be able to cook one lousy meal without it requiring paramedics and a trip to the ER. He cracked and eyelid open and took in the disaster of his once immaculate kitchen, before snapping it shut again.

Theory and reality were two totally different beasts at this point. He sighed and walked over to the cookbook he'd left sitting open. Cradling his hand, he looked at the picture of the delicious Veal Marsala and compared it to the concoction he had bubbling in the pan. Cringing, he cursed some more.

His resembled bits of shriveled charcoal briquettes, drowning in a thick tar like substance which was motor oil brown in color rather than the rich burgundy it was supposed to be. At least the fettucine noodles had turned out alright, he thought. Grabbing the pan, with the towel this time, he dumped them into the colander in the sink to drain. They fell out in an enormous colligated lump.

"Dammit!" Adam, tossed the pan in the sink. Running his hands through his hair, he winced at the pain in his palm. What a fucking catastrophe. He turned and stomped over to his abandoned wine glass and took a bracing drink. At least the wine was good.

JC wound himself between his legs, meowing loudly for a morsel. "Sorry, buddy." Adam looked over at what was supposed to be an elegant dinner and grimaced. "It's not fit for man nor beast," he mumbled.

"What do you mean he doesn't want to be disturbed this evening?" Jonathan's voice echoed into the kitchen. "Tell his goddamn majesty that his brother, who has a fucking appointment I might add...is here to see him."

Adam dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. Jonathan was expected this afternoon, not...Adam glanced at his Rolex...fucking two hours before he was due to pick up Abigail. Meeting him at the door would be a futile waste of steps, so Adam poured another glass and waited for his belligerent brother to come barging into the kitchen.

Exactly two minutes later, he came sauntering in with a very pissed off Erich hot on his heels.

"I'm sorry, sir. I tried to stop him, but he overrode the elevator block codes," Erich growled, giving his brother a glare that would have melted paint. Judging by the twitching of his fingers next to his suit jacket, Erich was seriously contemplating tazing Jonathan or...perhaps...shooting him.

"It's alright, Erich." He gave the man a nod. "You are not to blame for my brother's boorish behavior." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Erich stiffly nodded. Sending Jonathan one last scowl, he turned on his heel and exited the kitchen.

"Boorish?" Jonathan scoffed. "My, somebody has Merriam Webster shoved up his ass tonight." He gave Adam a sideways glance before walking over to the stove and sticking his nose into the failed skillet of Veal Marsala. "What is this?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"It was dinner." Adam's eyes followed Jonathan's movements as he stuck his finger into the gooey sauce substance and brought it to his mouth. In a moment of unprecedented optimism, Adam asked, "Is it edible?"

"Depends." Jonathan dragged his tongue across the front of his teeth several times. "Are you planning on killing whoever you are feeding this too?" He turned wide eyes to Adam. "Because, to be honest, I need to run back to my condo. I took out the shovels and plastic bags. I wasn't aware disposing of bodies was going to become a habit with you."