short & horrific

Title: The Last Baker [2]
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
One




The next day Greta and I awaited Brian Haner's arrival in my office. I had told him to be at the restaurant at noon and it was now half past. I wasn't impressed if this was going to be a claim of being fashionably late. I knew Californians really liked to use that excuse. And after my delightful first encounter with Brian Haner, I wouldn't put it past him to use it. Greta looked at me and shook her head.

"And you said this guy was highly qualified?" She verified with me.

"Yes..." I grimaced.

"Did you look over his references?" She asked.

"No." I answered plainly, hoping she wouldn't continue questioning me.

"Why not?"

I shifted my eyes about. "Well, he didn't have any with him."

"He didn't have references? Zachary, what possessed you to offer him a job then?"

"Good question." I said, slapping myself on the forehead.

"Well, did he have any prior experience?"

"Yeah," I perked up. "He said he owned his own restaurant before. Or cake shop. Or some impressive shit like that."

Finally, the door opened and in strutted Brian Haner, the man of the hour. This time he was actually clad in kitchen safe clothing. He had on a white button down coat and the standard matching pants. His footwear was appropriate and this time he wasn't wearing those horrendously large sunglasses. And I had half expected him to come in wearing swimming trunks and sandals.

"You're late." I gestured to the clock.

Brian pulled his sleeve up to take a glance at his watch. "No I'm not."

"Yes you are." I said sternly.

"You said be here by noon. It's still noon. Not my fault you weren't specific enough." Brian said with a mocking laugh.

"Okay, go with Greta. She's going to show you the way we work here. You speak to her like you'd speak to your own mother and listen to everything she says."

"Well my mom was a street whore from Hollywood, so I don't think I'm going to talk to her like that." Brian said, giving Greta a wink.

What. The. Fuck.

"Well whatever. Treat her with a little more respect than you've treated me with. Come back in two hours, Haner."

"Aye aye, Baker." He saluted me.

I glared at him as Greta showed the way out. The guy had some kind of attitude and I wasn't sure I really wanted to deal with his cocky self-centeredness. Maybe I'd have him go work in pastry and I'd keep looking for another assistant chef while he was busy. How could I deal with him constantly at my side if I already couldn't stand talking to him?

To bring back the zen in my life, I stripped off my chef uniform and walked down the street to a small street cafe that was tucked away inside a crowded business plaza. They made excellent Mochacinos that I didn't have the time to make for myself. I ordered a large caramel mocha and a banana nut muffin since I hadn't eaten anything all day. Once my whipped cream topped coffee was made I grabbed it and made my way to a table where someone had left a newspaper. I set my hot cup down and picked it up. The front section was missing, but I didn't care because it was the Arts section I was peeling through coffee stained pages for. They always had a little Chef's corner that I liked to read. Sometimes they did articles on new or old restaurants that were doing successfully in Huntington. Mine had been in the Chef's corner several times. I supposed that was the real reason I read it. To see if they made any mention of my restaurant.

There was a day old article in the corner about some new seafood restaurant that had just opened up a few blocks down from my own restaurant. I'd heard a lot of fuss about the new place. It was supposed to be top of the line. A little nook called Cino's that had taken over an old vintage clothing store. I read the review and snickered at the author's comments about how the fish was 'too dry' and the place still reeked like moth eaten clothing brought in from the eighties and nineties. Apparently it was getting good traffic though. The author told of how they'd waited in line with their date for nearly half an hour. They recommended bringing the concept of reservations into the new eatery.

Before I folded the newspaper back up, something familiar caught my eye somewhere on the article. I searched around for it and finally saw what had hooked my attention below the title and at the bottom of the article. Reviewed and written by: Brian E. Haner. So he had been telling the truth. I smirked and laughed at myself before taking a sip of my alarmingly hot beverage. The bastard wasn't lying.

After my thoroughly earned two hour break, I went back to my restaurant. There were a lot of customers in for lunch and the kitchen was abuzz with what I liked to see. Chefs working hard and creating food that was eye-catching, irresistibly aromatic and equally delicious.

"Good afternoon Mr. Baker." I was greeted as I made my way through the kitchen.

"Hello ladies and gentlemen. How's business?" I asked my team of cooks.

"Great Mr. Baker." Most of them said in unison.

I smiled as I walked by a large pot of bubbling tortellini shells. I quickly plucked one out of the hot water and tossed it up in the air, so by the time it reached my hand again it was cool enough to hold. I popped it in my mouth and chewed it around a little, testing the taste and texture of the pasta.

"Your shells are perfectly blanched Janet. Take them off now." I told her.

"Yes sir." The tiny brunette said obediently.

I think it was safe to say I strutted around my kitchen with a little bit more than just pride. I was overflowing with satisfaction. I felt like I was on top of the world when I watched my employees striving to make my money. I felt like my dad. And that was the most wonderful feeling for me.

After my full inspection of each department I went back to my office, expecting to walk into my empty personal space so I could relax just a little bit before having to deal with the new recruit. But my intentions were cut short when I walked through the door and saw him spinning around in my chair. I looked over the papers on my desk and almost choked on my own saliva. They were just everywhere. Not in the right places and scattered every which way.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I exclaimed.

"Waiting for you of course." He said before he threw his feet up on the desk.

"Get your feet off my desk!" I yelled as I grabbed up the papers and tapped them back into a neat pile.

He rolled his eyes and stood up, made his way around my desk and sat back down in the chair reserved for people that weren't me. I groaned after I opened the top drawer of my desk. My neatly organized office supplies were all strewn about in the drawer as if they were just thrown in there.

"Why were you fucking around in my desk, Haner?"

"I wasn't 'fucking around'. I was looking for some tape."

"Tape. Why the hell would you need tape?"

"Why the hell are you so angry?"

"Because!" I cried. "I like having things a certain way and I don't appreciate it when people ruin it, or invade my privacy. And don't ever come into my office again unless I'm here!"

Brian held up his hands in defense. "Jesus! Forgive a man will you!?"

I growled as I rearranged the stapler, scissors, thumbtacks, paper clips and sticky notes into their original convenient placements. After I was done I filed the papers I kept in my hand so Brian couldn't go through them again and shuffle them all over the place. They all went into their designated color folder. Resumes in red, copies in orange, extra applications in yellow, legal documents and warrants in green, and so forth.

"You all zen and mellow now?" He asked as I sat down, breathing deeply out of my nose like the time I went to that yoga class with my neighbour.

"I'm fine," said I, calmly. "Now, I hope you've familiarized with the establishment and met some of the team."

"The team?" Brian questioned me with a slight titter.

"Yes, I call them my team. They work together and I'm the coach."

"And I'm the assistant coach?" He asked.

"Not even close." I spat. "At least not yet."

"Okay, what do I have to do to become your assistant chef? Run laps? I can run laps like you wouldn't believe." Brian told me.

"No, you fucking....ugh! Would you just calm down? You're like a small child." I berated him.

"Hey, I'm not the one running around this place fixing up any little obscurity like a madman."

"I am not mad." I countered.

He waved his hand wordlessly and gestured for me to get to the point.

"Anyways, Greta is retiring. Right now, she's my assistant chef. She'll be training you and teaching you how to deal with me instead of it being the other way around. She's probably already shown you the whole place and where to find everything."

"Like any normal kitchen, except much cleaner. Tell me, Baker. Are you some sort of germophobe?"

"No, we just take pride in being sanitary and neat. It's easier to find things and their are less hazards. Learn the ways of my kitchen or else you won't be working in it."

"It'll be a pleasure to work in such clean conditions, I assure you."

"Good, then you won't have any problems cleaning up after yourself even though the state you left my office in was revolting."

"Hardly." Brian said with a laugh.

"Whatever. Tomorrow the restaurant is going to be closed, but everyone is coming in anyway to prepare for Greta's retirement party. Me and you are making the cake."

Brian rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Finally, something fun."

"Yeah. It's going to be a six tier cake, french vanilla strawberry with English cream layers. The icing is going to be a pink fondant. You get to decorate it."

"You're actually trusting me with this?" He asked.

"Why?" I sized him up. "Should I have any reason not to? You did say that you owned your own cake shop didn't you?"

"I did."

"Well then. I'll see you here tomorrow. Ten AM sharp."

Brian smiled and nodded. "So I'm guessing you want me to sketch up the cake then?"

I shifted my eyes around, trying to avoid his vice like stare. Those chocolaty eyes burning holes into me. "Uh yeah. Do that."

With that trademark smirk he leered at me. For a moment I swear he was checking me out, the way his eyes swept over my sitting figure slowly. "You weren't going to tell me to do that were you?"

I coughed to mask my silent embarrassment. "Of course I was."

He nodded knowingly. It was then when I decided I could deal with no more of his snotty attitude and the fact that he'd shown me up like that. It wasn't even that bad of a mistake on my part, but he stared at me as though it were and that he was happy he'd picked out my forgotten detail. I started to grow uneasy.

"Okay, now leave please." I dismissed him quickly.

Brian did not move. He only sat back in the chair opposite me, shooting me that look that was beginning to drive me up the wall.

"Why are you looking at me!?" I cried out.

He stood up, smoothed out his jacket and ran one of his long hands through his nicely styled hair. "I think me and you are really going to like each other, Zack. Can you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"Our bonding. You're already treating me like your assistant."

"Ha!" I exclaimed. "You think I treat my assistants this way? You have got to be the most arrogant little shit I've ever met."

Brian went to the door and opened it to leave, but before he disappeared down the hall he leaned back in. "Best get used to it babe."

Luckily he shut the door before the flying stapler hit him.