Free Bite by Jenny Lyn

 
     
     
     
    Bite
     
    I blamed my best friend, Heather, for my current predicament. She always harped on the sad fact that I didn’t know a thing about cooking. I found it an unnecessary talent to have when you lived in a city the size of Atlanta, where decent restaurants were a dime a dozen. Besides, my lack of culinary skills kept me in pity cupcakes from her. The woman could bake Martha Stewart’s stuffy ass under her antique, flour-dusted table.
    “Elle, you’ll never get a guy to stick around if you can’t cook him a halfway decent meal once in awhile.” She sounded entirely too much like my mother.
    “I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose,” I retorted.
    She rolled her eyes. “You can’t boil water.”
    “Can too,” I said, then under my breath added, “in the microwave.”
    “There’s no nutritional value in a cup of Ramen noodles.”
    When I opened my mouth to dispute that, because I could—sodium is a nutrient, she slid a chocolate-brown envelope embossed with elegant, gold script across the counter. I should’ve recognized it as trouble in clever packaging. “I got you an early birthday present.”
    Once I opened the envelope, I stared at the contents in disbelief. “Cooking school? Are you out of your freaking mind? You just said I couldn’t boil water! The people who take cooking classes at least have some basic knowledge of how a stove works, Heather.” I pointed toward mine, which hadn’t been turned on since I’d moved into the apartment. “Are you trying to make me hate you? ’Cause if you are, it’s working.”
    She waved off my empty threat. “You’ll be fine. Did you see who the teacher is?”
    I studied the paper more closely, and my stomach dropped into my toes. “Kevin Lattimore? The Kevin Lattimore who’s on Wake Up Atlanta every Wednesday morning? The same one who owns Bite—currently the hottest restaurant in the city?”
    “The same Kevin Lattimore you DVR so you can drool over him later?” She nodded. “Yeah, same one.”
    That wasn’t all I did over him.
    “But…but he’s… Why would he want to teach a bunch of amateurs how to cook? He certainly can’t need the money.”
    “It’s something he does once a year for charity. The spots are auctioned off online through some foundation of his. I put in a bid on one of the ten spots and voila! I won. Or you did, because I’m giving it to you for your birthday present.” I shook my head but she was shaking hers right back at me. “Don’t say it’s too expensive or any of that bullshit. It’s done. The spot is yours. I’ve already registered it in your name, and it’s too late to change it. The first class is tomorrow night. You’ll thank me later.”
    Well, the clever bitch had left me no way out. I hated her. OK, I loved her, but I wanted to strangle her.
     
    * * *
     
    Three classes in and I was pretty sure I was the most despised person in Atlanta. No, I was positive my classmates hated me. Not surprisingly, they were all women, all dressed to the nines in their designer labels beneath the custom white aprons we’d all been given on the first night of class. A few of them even wore pearls and pumps like some June Cleaver wannabes.
    Whether they’d caught on or not, I’d started to subtly mock them, beginning with the second class. Instead of the ripped jeans and Doc Martens I’d worn the first night, I wore a leather mini and a Metallica tank top, just so I could watch in amazement as their jaws dropped and their noses tipped toward the ceiling. Tonight, I’d dug through my closet until I found a vintage-y, low-cut dress, then paired it with peep-toe stilettos. The icing on my attire cake? A candy necklace—cheap sugar pearls.
    I could care less if they liked me. I wasn’t here to make friends or try to impress. To be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure why I was here, other than to humor Heather and get a lifetime’s worth of masturbatory material from the teacher.
    Kevin Lattimore was