short & horrific

Title: The Last Baker [1]
Author: shorthorror
Pairing: Brian Haner & Zachary Baker
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This beautiful asshole just came around and started ruining everything for me. I was the last Baker, and I'd promised my father our name would not die with me.
Disclaimer: I am confident the readers can distinguish between what is real and what is fiction. I need not state the obvious.

Prologue




"Well, I like cooking, and I'm good at cleaning. I can follow direction and I only live down the street. So I thought that might be a plus, because I'll never be late."

I stared at the pretty blond woman sitting in front of me, pinkly glossed smile stuck on like her hair must have been. I smiled back and pretended to mark something besides 'No' down on her application.

"What culinary school did you go to?" I asked her.

She pondered for a moment, thick black coated lashes and blue eyes pointed to the ceiling. "Um, I never really went to a culinary school. But I did take some cooking classes with Mrs. Diopendito. She's just great."

I nodded. No degree in Culinary Arts, Baking or Pastry Arts. Was she serious about this? This was a fucking five-star restaurant on the coast of the Pacific, not some little fast food joint.

"Okay well thanks for your time... uh, Brenda. We'll be giving you a call in about a week or so to see if you made the position." I politely lied.

The blond woman stood up, smiling with her small hand outstretched. I took it and let her shake the shit out of my arm. "Thanks. You won't regret it if you pick me."

I watched her as she left my office, shaking my head. Ten interviews today and so far none of the candidates were fitting for the job as my assistant chef. I dropped my face into my palms and let out a big dramatic sigh that could be heard from outside my door. Suddenly, Greta came in looking curious and concerned over me.

"Zachary..." She said with that incriminating stare she always had saved up just for me.

"Whaaat? What is it?" I drawled.

"That's the tenth person today. Whenever will you make your decision?"

"When I find somebody comparable to the likes of you, Greta."

Greta smiled, her dentures gleaming white and perfect. She was in her mid sixties, but she still looked like she was in her late forties. She had curly dyed brown hair that she usually wore up in a bun and bright green eyes like my own. Greta was my right-hand man, so to speak, and had been for the last two years. She was the only person I knew that could out cook me. She was also like the mother I never had. Greta took care of everything for me, whipped the new recruits into shape so I didn't lose my mind doing it and knew exactly where to put everything so that it was in it's proper place. She was the only human being that could keep up with me and my habits. Now she was retiring from work forever, and I needed a replacement. Fast.

So far all the potential employees that showed up for an interview were nothing compared to what she was. They either had no degree or just didn't fit the slot at all. They weren't kind or patient or pretty or anything even close to Greta.

"What about Nancy from pastry? She's been training so hard lately and her cream puffs are a hit here. Why don't you promote her?" Greta offered.

I shook my head vigorously. "Have you seen the state of her kitchen? It's absolutely disgusting. You know that I can't deal with that. I refuse. I don't even like to go in there."

Greta narrowed her eyes on me. She was the only woman that I could ever be intimidated by. Maybe it was because I knew deep down that she was better than me. She was the one I wanted to model myself after, besides my own father. But he wasn't in the business of culinary profession, and Greta was.

"You know, people can't be born perfect. They have to be taught just like everyone else. Just like you and me." She lectured.

"Wouldn't it be grand though?" I fantasized of the perfect employee walking through my door.

"The only thing that could keep up with you would be a robot."

I smiled at her. "What are you saying Greta? Are you made of metal?"

We laughed simultaneously. "We both know you only keep me around because I'm an old lady that needs the money."

"Oh please Greta," I rolled my eyes. "You have more money than everyone in this entire establishment."

She waved her hand. "Never mind that. You have one more interview to do anyways."

I leaned back in my swivelling chair. "Send 'em in then. I guess."

I spun around in my chair and awaited my next and final interview of the day. My hopes had been lost somewhere between one and two thirty so I wasn't really expecting much from this next applicant. The clock now read six PM and I was growing tired of questioning people. I anticipated the knock on my office door, but instead I got the complete opposite. My door was opened by itself and in strolled a man that I nearly laughed at upon sight.

He had spiked black hair, a nose piercing and tattoos reaching up his sculpted arms. It wasn't that he looked unprofessional. Hell no. He looked even more professional than I did. What with my dual lip piercings and septum ring. It was the fact that he was wearing sunglasses and a cut-off sleeveless T-shirt, jeans and Doc Martens. Most of the other people that came in wore their chef suits or something that described business to me. This guy looked like he had just strolled in off the street by accident.

"Uh hi... and you must be?"

"Brian. Brian Haner. But you can call me Brian."

I gave him my greatest sarcastic smile. "Lovely. But I think I'll just call you Haner."

He plopped down on the seat in front of my desk and leaned back in it, appearing as though he hadn't a care in the world. "Aren't you going to take your sunglasses off? This is an interview." I reminded him.

"Nah, lights too bright in here." He mumbled. Welcome to California, dipshit.

I sighed heavily. Another joker. This looked promising. "Alright. What are your qualifications to work for Milan Verde?"

"Well um. I've got a Bachelor in Culinary design. A Bachelor in Pastry. I've owned my own cake shop and I've written reviews for every restaurant in this city." He told me.

I nodded. "Well that all sounds great, but do you have any proof of said educational achievements?"

This Brian Haner guy leaned in closer, over my desk and tipped his Dolce and Gabanna sunglasses so I could see his chocolate sauce eyes sparkling at me. "Like I said. I'm Brian Haner."

"Okay, look dude, cockiness won't get you anywhere in my restaurant, alright? So unless I see some proof or some references then you can just get out."

"Ooooh." He said as though he came to the biggest conclusion of his life. "So this is your restaurant? You're Mr. Baker?"

"Zachary Baker." I corrected him.

"So you're the entrepreneurial genius behind the Italian themed restaurant that's putting so many others out of business huh?" He asked.

"It's not an Italian 'theme'. It's Italian period." I corrected him. Again.

"Well, it can't really be Italian if it's ran in Orange County can it?"

"It can be, and it is. It's ran by Italians and we only serve Italian."

"But your Italian is made from American produce." He pointed out.

I gripped the arms of my chair tightly. I hated arguing with people, especially people who didn't have a fucking clue about what they were saying. "Whatever. It is my Italian restaurant. Italian-American, if you will."

"And a fine one at that." He commented.

"Thanks..." I said uneasily.

"I mean the food here is to die for. I've never tasted anything like it. I believe it's you that cooks the entrees? Am I right?" He asked.

"That's right."

"Amazing." He marvelled, smiling directly at me. "You own, run and work in your restaurant. Very respectable. I like that. I think that's maybe why I gave it such a good review last year."

"You reviewed my restaurant?" I inquired.

"Twice actually."

I nodded. "Well I'm glad you have nice things to say, but I'm afraid we have to carry on with the interview."

Brian Haner smiled and gestured for me to go on like he was the one to say when. I avoided sending over a glare at him as I looked through my papers.

"Hey... you weren't even scheduled for an interview." I realized when I couldn't find his application amongst the thick stack of others.

He shrugged with that arrogant smirk that seemed to be permanently glued to his richly tanned face.

"Goes to show how confident I am, I guess." He said with another shrug.

"You are by far the worst applicant I have ever seen. Why the fuck are you even here?" I asked, my anger levels rising.

"I came here to be your assistant chef. I'm highly qualified. Likeable, compatible and I specialize in pasta creations. I figured this could be my new home, you know with the whole 'Italian' thing going on."

"This isn't just spaghetti and meat balls, buddy. This is Gnocchi, freshly made Orecchiette and Mostacciol."

"Luckily I have the perfect sauce for each." He said, grinning that proud, cocky grin I was learning to dislike quickly.

"What about bread? How are you with bread?" I asked, pretending to be interested though I knew he had another story proving to me how full of himself he was.

"I've been making bread my whole life. I'm also good with seafood, any kind of meat and I do pastries. Ciarduno, Biscotti, Zabaglione and so on."

I was so pissed off. I was pissed off that this big-headed egomaniac sitting in front of me with the large dark sunglasses and faded jeans was the only person that had come in that knew what they were getting themselves into. I didn't want him in or around my kitchen, but I knew that if I passed him up I might somehow regret it. It would be easier on Greta because she wouldn't have to train him as much and easier on me that he already knew everything. I sighed. What to do?

I eyed him up, and he seemed to like it but I pretended not to notice. I began frantically searching through resumes and applications in search of someone that might have been better than him. Maybe one that had come in earlier that day.

"Just think Zachary. We could be great friends." He imagined.

"Indeed. But you won't be calling me Zachary. You'll be calling me Head Chef or sir. Either one will do."

"So when do I start?" He clapped his hands, an eager expression on his face.

"I never said that you did."

"But you just told me to call you Head Chef." His eyebrow rose from beneath the lens of his oversized sunglasses.

I clammed up, gripping the useless papers in my hands as I stared at him. This guy was going to be a challenge, I could tell already. He was sure of himself, almost too sure of himself, over confident and highly qualified. Too qualified. I think the reason I clashed with him upon our first meeting was because he was so much like me. And I wasn't a very likeable person.

"Fine. Come in tomorrow at noon. We'll see how you do," I said. "Oh, and bring some proof that you are who you say you are, some identification, a void cheque and a list of references."

Brian Haner rose from his seat and bent over the desk, his hand held out to me. I shook it sparingly.

"Pleasure to be working with you Zachary."