Beat Down

By KC Enders

This band is my life and there is nothing worth screwing that up—except maybe my best friend’s sister. I spent most of my teenage years with her front and center in my mind, and that isn't changing anytime soon.

But a huge surprise dropped on my doorstep could ruin everything.

-Ian Scott, drummer for The UnBroken

My career is my life. I have been working toward this for as long as I can remember, practicing my skills on my little brother and his friends whenever I was forced to babysit them. Only one of the boys ever seemed eager to be my guinea pig, my best friend.

He’s the one that every other guy has paled in comparison to.

-Sasha Keller, head chef at Kitchenne

Too bad these recent twists and turns in life will leave me feeling more than a little Beat Down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KC Enders
• Release date: Aug 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005619145

KC Enders

Karin is a New York Girl living in a Midwest world. A connoisseur of great words, fine bourbon, and strong coffee, she's married to the love of her life who is also her best friend. The mother of two grown men, she is proud to say that they can cook, open car doors for the ladies, and clean up after themselves (you're welcome, world). Even though her boys no longer live at home, the many dogs she's rescued have taken up their empty space.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

HERE WITH YOU

IAN

Throngs of people push their way past, diverting around me like fast-moving water around… a… thing in a river. Or some shit like that. For the love of fucks, this is why I don’t write songs. I leave that up to the rest of the guys in the band.

I know there’s a better, more poetic way to put that, but who the fuck cares? Not a single one of the faceless people trying to get past where I’ve planted myself on a busy New York sidewalk to check a notification. That’s for damn sure.

A well-placed shoulder knocks into me as I swipe open the waiting message, almost knocking me into a lady with a baby strapped to her chest in some weird backpack-looking thing.

Sorry, I murmur, offering my hand to steady her.

She glances at it, barely acknowledging me, and is off, down the sidewalk, and swallowed up in that fast-moving river of bodies.

Huh. That was kind of poetic. Maybe I should start carrying around a notebook like Nate and Gavin do and write that shit down. Not likely. That belongs strictly to the bassist and lead guitarist of The UnBroken. Our singer doesn’t even get in on lyrics; Kane’s not likely to lower himself to things like that. He’s the quintessential rock star.

I weave my way to the edge of the sidewalk and step between two parallel parked cars, turning my attention back to the latest message.

This lady—woman? Girl? Nope. Those descriptors might be accurate, but none of them work here. This chick has been messaging me more and more frequently.

I tap out a quick response, stow my phone in my pocket, and continue down the sidewalk.

It’s a trek from my apartment in Tribeca up to Hell’s Kitchen, but I have the time. And if I’m going to partake in and fully enjoy the feast that will absolutely be laid out in front of me, I need the cardio kick.

Notifications buzz against my thigh a handful more times, but the sun is shining, the city doesn’t smell like overcooked garbage, and I’m going to enjoy the fuck out of the handful of blocks I still have before I reach my goal.

At the corner of 46th Street and Broadway, I turn left and cross from Times Square into Hell’s Kitchen.

The black awning above a door set back into a red brick facade calls to me. And as soon as I can see the lettering announcing my favorite restaurant, Kitchenne, I cut across the street, dodging a yellow taxi and ignoring the way he lays on his horn. I earn a unicorn fist from the guy, but whatever. He’s driving a taxi in New York City, he should expect someone to cross in his path. Amateur.

My tongue flicks at the hoops in my lower lip as I push through the door of the restaurant, and it’s like coming home. Every. Single. Time.

Reservation? the girl at the hostess desk asks without bothering to look up.

Nah, I’m just headed to the bar, I say, already trying to move past her. And doesn’t that get her attention.

Recognition flickers across her face, but when it truly hits, she does what they all do. She smiles big and looks over my shoulder, that recognition changing to hope and then finally disappointment. Her shoulders drop, and if there was a facial expression for settling, this would be it. The smile is there, but it’s less, and the interest only goes as far as maybe she can get at what she really wants through me.

I sigh and give her my public relations smile. I fucking hate that shit. There’s nothing like being famous, in the hottest alternative rock band, and still being treated like a consolation prize.

It’s just me, so— I nod toward the bar area, and she waves me on like some kind of game show host presenting me with a prize.

Of course, Mr.—

I don’t even know if she gets the right last name, her words lost in the din as I move down to the empty seat at the far end of the bar. I do know that it was either my last name or Nate Calloway’s because everyone knows who Gavin Keller and Kane Newton are. The lead guitarist and singer are the ones who get all the love. And no one gives a shit about the drummer or the bassist. No glory at the back of the stage.

As soon as my ass hits the barstool, a cocktail napkin flutters onto the bar in front of me, followed by a fresh pint of IPA from the upstate brewery I love.

Thanks. Who’s the new chick up front? I take a pull of my beer, the crisp brew ending in a bitter finish from the hops.

The bartender laughs; this is not her first rodeo. Keeley? Did she fail the test?

I don’t even bother confirming, I just arch my brow and drain another quarter of my beer. Somewhere along the line—likely from Gavin or one of the bartenders at the pub where his fiancée Gracyn works—I heard that the mark of a well-drunk beer is three foam lines around the glass. That the lines should be equally spaced. It’s probably just some bullshit shared in Irish pubs to get patrons drunk faster and up their sales, but it works for me.

You here to help me pass my afternoon, or do you want me to go back and grab Sasha?

Personally, I would like to be the one to grab Sasha Keller, but I keep that little tidbit to myself.

Much as I’ve grown to appreciate you, I’m here to let Sasha feed me. The smile I tack onto the end of that statement is one-hundred-percent authentic. Because no one, and I do mean no one, is as good as Sasha. Cooks as good as Sasha, I silently correct myself. Because I can’t go there with Gavin’s sister. He made that crystal clear a couple of years ago.

Everything she makes, every single thing she’s dished up, is the best I’ve ever had. That needs to be added to the list of shit I don’t tell my mom. The woman is amazing, practically a saint for raising me on her own. But Sasha’s creations melt in my mouth and make my dick chub up. I never want to think that about my mother’s cooking. Never.

A warm hand in the middle of my back pulls me from that really uncomfortable line of thought. Hey, you. Did you come here just for me?

With a broad smile tugging at my lips, I turn, swinging my arm around the curvy blonde. Her chef’s coat and those checkered pants hide the body that belongs in every guy’s spank bank. Except, I don’t really want anyone else beating meat in Sasha’s honor. That belongs to me and me alone.

For you and only you, doll. I pull Sasha close to me and drop a kiss to the top of her head. Her shampoo is just barely discernible under the scents of the kitchen. Mint and some spice or herb that she likes to cook with. God, you smell delicious, I murmur, inhaling another lungful.

She huffs out a laugh and pushes on my chest, putting space between us. Friend space. Public space.

I’d love nothing more than to pull her back, obliterating that gap. But I can’t. So, I don’t. Instead, I remind myself that she’s my friend’s sister and nothing can ever happen between us.

You want your usual, or are you feeling adventurous today?

Why is it that every damn thing out of her mouth turns into something dirty in my mind today? Who am I kidding? It’s not just today.

How adventurous are we talking? I ask skeptically. My eyes are pinned straight to hers, because I have got to focus. My jeans stretch, so I don’t have to deal with pinchage, but they don’t do dick to hide… my dick. Not when my gaze wanders over her curves.

Sasha snorts a laugh. Can I play with the taste profiles? Mix up flavors a little? Nothing too exotic, I promise.

How she can say this shit to me, I have no idea.

She’s obviously not fighting dirty thoughts about me the way I am with her. She doesn’t want to lay me out and spend hours discovering what I like, what I taste like, and what makes me shudder. But I do. To her. I want to do all of that and more.

I shift in my seat and work really fucking hard to shift my thoughts to the safe zone. Supersafe.

Anything you want, you do it. I am at your mercy, I say, keeping my tone light. Channeling fun Ian, chill Ian—calm and laid-back Ian.

When Sasha finally breaks eye contact and heads back to the kitchen, I release the breath I’m holding. I down the rest of my beer, ignoring the fact that there’s only one foam line and push my glass across the bar, nodding when the bartender offers me another.

There is nothing I have to do today. I can sit here and pass time. Enjoy a couple of drinks, catch up on my social media. Fuckshitdammit. I pull my phone from my pocket to deal with the handful of DMs I ignored earlier.

I swipe my phone screen and bring up my IG, Snap, and Twitter. The number of messages waiting for me is kind of a lot. More than I usually have. But I chose this.

Keeping my hand in my social media, having that connection with fans, feeds my ego. I’m not ashamed to admit that fact. I need it. And that’s why I have the test—the one that Kayley? Carley? Keeley? chick up front just failed—to weed out the ones who remind me that I’m not at the front of the stage. That I’m not the one who the groupies fall all over themselves for.

Nope. That honor goes to Kane and Gavin.

So, I get my ego stroked like this. The rest of the guys were happy to let Rand, the band’s manager, set up an assistant to post for them, respond to messages and shit. But I need the boost. I need the connection to feel validated, like I’m a somebody. Hell, I need something to occupy my damn self when we’re not on tour.

Here we go, Sasha says as she slides a plate onto the bar. Grilled cheese and tomato soup.

Doesn’t look all that adventurous, dollface. I glance over my shoulder and smile.

Try it.

I pick up a piece of the sandwich and bite into it. Cheese oozes from between the perfectly toasted slices of bread, and there is no stopping my moan. It’s that fucking good.

What did you do to this? It’s rude, but any talking I do right now is going to be with my mouth full. I dip a corner into the little bowl of soup and pop it into my mouth. Fucking delightful. Oh my God.

Sasha laughs, low and throaty, and that sound alone has my thoughts veering off in a direction that could get me in so much trouble. But then, to make matters worse, she leans in and slides her arm around me. I made your favorite, too. Just in case you didn’t like this one. She nods to the first plate she delivered while gently setting another full plate in front of me.

This is my standard order. What I get every time I come in here. What Sasha makes me every time I need it. What Sasha made me when we were kids and my mom was working an extra shift. This is my comfort. She is my comfort.

Fuck that, she is my goddamn happy place.

I roll my lips, catching my hoop with my teeth, and then smile broadly at her. You’re the best, Sasha. The fucking best.

CHAPTER 2

MUSIC TO WATCH THE BOYS TO

SASHA

I’m practically blinded.

That’s how big and bright the smile from Ian is. His gray-blue eyes sparkle as they slide in my direction.

It’s wild that, even with us all moving away from Virginia, we all ended up in the same city. Well, mostly, but I will never complain about my brother, Gavin, moving to the farm he bought in the country to be closer to his girlfriend. Beekman Hills is only an hour north of here, and Gracyn is worth the sacrifice.

I can hardly call it a sacrifice, though. When I need to clear my head, breathe fresh air, I have a free place to go. Fields and farmers’ markets, a fully kitted out kitchen, and even a little garden for me to play in the dirt and plant to my heart’s content.

Here in New York City, I have my job and all the bright lights and constant commotion to keep me on my toes. And I have the rest of the boys from The UnBroken. Nate, the bassist, has a brownstone in Brooklyn, while Kane and Ian each have permanent places here in the city. At least I assume Kane does; I’ve never been there.

They all come in to see me from time to time. At first, it probably had more to do with free food, but as they found their fame, I think it had more to do with feeling grounded. A little bit of home in the city.

Now, it’s mostly just Ian who comes to see me. A couple of times a week when the band isn’t on tour or recording in California.

He has always been the sweetest. The kindest of all of my little brother’s friends.

That sounds so funny, even in my head. Gavin is only two and a half years younger than me, Ian is three years and a day. Exactly.

You’re the best, Sasha. The fucking best, Ian says softly. Just loud enough for me to hear if I lean in close to him.

The bar isn’t busy, but there’s always motion and sound—a din that’s the constant soundtrack to my life. And right now, he and I are the only ones at the bar.

I smile at him. You’re my most loyal taste tester.

He gives me a nod and a mmmm… before adding, I’ve been your guinea pig forever. Reaped the benefits of your first Easy-Bake Oven. He swipes his tongue along his lip and then dabs at his mouth with a napkin, clearing away the tiny crumb that had stuck to his beard.

I made you a mini-cake for your birthday that year. There were times when his mom was working so hard to keep her head above water after his dad walked out on them. Working nights and weekends, Ian practically lived at our house. And some of those times fell in line with our birthdays.

He sits back in his chair and smirks at me. Yep. Thanks for that, and for sharing your birthday with me. That was fun.

It was until it wasn’t, I say, laughing. My parents never thought twice about doubling up on celebrations. Dad would take the boys, and Mom hung out with me and my girlfriends.

What? When did it stop being fun?

The year you boys hit puberty. I ignore the manufactured shock on his face. You guys started flirting with all of my friends and you had no idea how to control your dicks. I’m not sure any of my friends slept over that year. I kick my elbow out at him, nudging his shoulder, and laugh.

Ian slides me a side smile and says, I’m going to go out on a limb and blame Kane for that. I swear to God, he was flirting hard with the doctor and the nurses the day he was born.

Pffft. That was the year Kane discovered his feelings for Gavin. Pretty sure he was busy flirting with Gavin while the rest of you were trying so hard to show off your skinny bods. It was like a pirate party.

Yep. Showing off my booty, he says.

More like your skinny arms and sunken chests. I pat his very much not-a-skinny arm and head back to work.

In the kitchen, I get lost in my prep for the night. My earbuds are in, music thumping through and setting the pace for me.

After putting in years of study, apprenticeships, and working under master chefs—clawing my way up—I’ve finally made it to head chef. Owning the kitchen and the staff. The menu and presentation.

I worked my ass off for this. Stumbled and sacrificed for it.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

A glance at the clock high on the wall across from my station has me tidying my workspace. Tucking containers back into the walk-in cooler and wiping down the prep table before the dinner rush.

Is this sous-chef work? It is. But one of the things I feel strongly about in my kitchen is that no job is too small. I hope to never make an up-and-coming chef feel like they are less than. I’ve been there.

It was soul crushing.

After pulling my earbuds out and stowing them in my bag, I step into the center of the kitchen and, like they do every single day, the waitstaff files in and everyone gathers around.

I give a rundown of the night’s specials and lay out a few adjustments to the regular menu as well as the desserts we have prepared. As much as I would love the simplicity of outsourcing our desserts, I just can’t. Attention to detail aside, the number of times under the previous chef we had to shift gears and scramble because the supplier screwed us over is mind boggling.

I don’t know how that bakery managed to stay in business with the crap they pulled over the years—shorting deliveries, bringing product that wasn’t just subpar, but outright not sellable, or just not bothering to show up at all. It was unprofessional. And the barely contained chaos of our schedule went to shit more often than not.

Um, so we don’t have tiramisu tonight? one of the new servers asks.

Heads turn, and she takes a step back at the sudden attention.

There’s a guy sitting at the bar and he asked me to bring him some. I’ll… I’ll go tell him we don’t have it. She shifts toward the door.

The hot guy with the beanie? a different server asks, already heading toward the cooler.

The new girl’s cheeks turn bright pink, and she fans herself with a small tray. Yes. I should tell him that’s my name. Maybe he’ll take me home and—

Tension rolls through the cramped space—enough that the FNG, fucking new girl, shuts her trap real quick.

Will you take that out to Ian and see if he needs anything else? I ask the server who plated up the dessert. Okay, that’s it. Go feed the people of Hell’s Kitchen. I end the quick daily meeting and dismiss everyone.

There’s no need for me to be a bitch in my kitchen. I need to maintain my professionalism, but if I try to address the new girl right now, that’s exactly what I’ll be. Because with the way she was blushing and bouncing her overly colored-in eyebrows, I don’t doubt she’d offer herself up as Ian’s dessert.

Would he take her up on that? Given the opportunity, would he push her up against the bar and kiss her? Take her back to his apartment and—

I don’t want to think about it.

I know Ian isn’t a saint. I’m protective of him and I’ve just never had to deal with any of his sins face to face.

Thank God.

But standing here imagining sixteen different ways to kill an employee and make her body disappear is absolutely not professional. So, I make my way back behind the line and close my eyes, taking just a moment to prepare myself for the coming rush. And come, it does.

In the blink of an eye, the calm has become a full-blown storm with wave after wave of orders to fill and diners to dazzle. And we do exactly that.

The night runs smoothly—no hiccups—which is a rare kind of thing. Usually there’s at least one major incident and a handful of ass-kissing desserts comped to make up for mistakes here and there. They happen, it’s part of the service industry.

We strive to eliminate that kind of thing,