Page 17 of Brutal King

Kat

THE SIX-YEAR-OLD IN me wanted to go hide behind my mother’s skirt, or crawl under the covers and never come out. I didn’t have the excess energy needed to fight off a bully and put him in his place.

But then again, I hated the thought of squirming every time Kobe looked my way. I hated the thought of looking over my shoulder every time I left my dorm room. And damn if I was going to neglect my classes for fear of running into that childhood friend who’d turned into a fiend.

The scene between Layla and Axel played over and over in my head. I wouldn’t believe it had I not seen it with my own eyes. Damn, where did that girl get the guts to stand up to Axel like that?

You have guts, Kat, a little voice in my head whispered, though with a lack of conviction.

No, really. Kobe is nothing. He is less than nothing. He’s a daddy’s boy who is shaking in his expensive Berlutti shoes... that daddy bought.

Look who’s talking. What had I obtained without the help of my parents? I looked down at my Prada dress, my Prada satin sliders and my Hermès bag. I had paid nearly all of the two thousand dollars for the dress, more than three hundred dollars on the shoes and... well the Hermès bag was a gift. But still, over all I’d paid a good portion of my wardrobe from working at my parents’ restaurants over the years, helping my father out.

That meant something... didn’t it?

I tried to lay low, to let whatever had gotten into Kobe blow over. I did my best to avoid him, but I knew it was pointless. One of these days I would run into him. Then what?

Feeling cute in my pink Prada, I hurried to my Restaurant Business class. I entered the class and looked at the heavy-set woman standing at the front. I knew her... or at least I knew of her. I’d seen her face before... somewhere... where...?

Then it hit me; the stiff upper lip, the black hair streaked with pewter gray pulled into a tight bun and the big black eyes that lacked any warmth.

It was no other than Marsha Manley... Mr. Errol King’s tough, no-nonsense right-hand person.

“Settle down, class,” Ms. Manley barked with a loud clap of her hands. “Settle down. We don’t have all day.”

I’d heard she’d been a drill sergeant prior to entering the culinary world and she’d brought that talent with her. She didn’t disappoint. Her bark had the class settled down in no time.

“Well, well, well,” she said with another heavy-handed clap. “Look at all you bright-eyed cooks.” She crossed her large arms over her chest and looked at us with a touch of disdain. “Don’t you all look so professional and eager to learn.”

She stomped one foot forward then proceeded to march up and down the aisles, glaring down at every student.

When she reached a pretty blond with gorgeous curls, she tugged on a lock. The curl quickly sprung back to place. “Nice hair.”

“Thank you,” the girl said, all smiles. She flipped her curls back, pleased with the praise.

“Smells nice, too.”

“Thank you.”

“How long does it take to get ready?”

“Almost an hour.”

“An hour. Interesting.” She was silent for a moment. “You will see that this semester is going to be quite busy, quite demanding.”

The pretty girl smiled up at her with confusion in her eyes.

“Oh, and by the way, I hate nice hair,” Ms. Manley said flatly. “Did you think you were going out on a date?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Did you hope to impress me with these luscious locks?”

“Um, no, ma’am.”

“Good. I would hate for you to waste an hour on your hair every day only to have me criticize it. Do we understand one another.”

“Yes, ma’am.”