Page 2 of The Biker and the Baker
Nonetheless, I kept applying because I knew Cookie’s Treat is where I was meant to be. Especially since their kitchen staff never lasted more than a few months on account of Cookie being too “particular” and Onyx being “a micro-manager.”
Of course, he had to micromanage them. His dumb ass hired them for their looks rather than their skills. No wondering there. I knew I’d be the best match for the job, I just knew it. So I never gave up.
A little over a year ago, when I didn’t even know they were hiring, I got a call from Cookie herself. Turns out Onyx was on vacation and traveling, so she was doing the hiring this time around. She never bothered to put out a notice for new applicants. She’d quietly fired the Pastry Chef and decided to peruse past applications with her silent partner, Toni Blume, who also owns the wine cream parlor, Tipsy Scoop, directly across the street. That’s when she noticed I’d applied over a dozen times in the past two years.
Half-way through the interview with her and Toni, I knew the job was mine.
“You’re always gassy about something,” I snipe at Onyx. “Someone needs to get your colic ass some gripe water.”
“And you’re always on my dick about something,” he shoots back. “Someone needs to get your lonely ass a dildo.”
“Why would I need a dildo if I’m always on your dick?” I cock my head. “Are you saying you’re sotinyand inconsequential that I have to get help from a toy?”
He glares at me.
I glare right back.
Suffice it to say, Onyx and I donotget along. Why? I’m guessing because Cookie hired me behind his back. Not only did she hire me, but she also gave me control of the kitchen staff. I fired two of his lazy, inept workers then went ahead and—gasp!—brought in amalekitchen hand. How dare I hire someone who’s not a gorgeous, skinny, long-legged woman. I came and shook things up and he didn’t like it. That’s my guess. But he can do nothing about it because Cookie freakingloves us. By her admittance, things have gotten ten times better.
He flicks his half-smoked blunt to the sidewalk and grinds it with the heel of his boot. “Your days here are numbered, Pia.”
“Dream on, Ginger Boy.”
His scowl deepens at the nickname, though I have no idea why he hates it so much. Heisa ginger. A ginger who’s half-black. Therefore, ahella hotginger. And as if it isn’t hot enough that he’s a half-black ginger, he’s also a shitkicker, leather-wearing biker with a face covered in freckles, a full copper beard, and textured hair that he usually keeps stylishly cornrowed.
It irks me that I find myself checking him out from time to time. The tautness of his muscles and the artistic tattoos inked over them. His broad shoulders and sturdy build. His lips…oh heavens, those lips…
Those lips part, ready to spew some insult at me, but Eloise tugs on my arm, pulling me along and leaving Onyx glaring after us.
“Must you always poke the bear?” she chides.
“He wants me to be afraid of him and I’m not,” I lobby. “He’s a fatphobic douche. I can’t stand his stupid freckled face.”
Eloise slides me a glance and sighs as we trek to the parking lot. “Oh, Pia…”
Oh me indeed.
~
I’m surprised to see my parent’s hatchback parked in the front driveway when I get home. It’s mere minutes to eight and they aren’t usually home from the deli until ten or eleven at night. When I circle to the side driveway, Ramesh, my little brother, is washing down the ‘Saxena Deli’ delivery van. This particular driveway was dug and paved for me, because, well, I live in my parent's basement.
I park behind the van and get out, slinging my work bag over my shoulder. Walking up behind Ramesh, I yank his earphones out. “Did the Deli close early tonight? What’s going on?”
My parents own and operate a pretty successful Indian deli in Capitol Hill. It’s where I, along with my two older sisters, started. Until I decided I wanted more and left for France to attend culinary school. When I returned, instead of going back to the deli, I worked at various bakeries before landing my dream job at Cookie’s Treat. Suffice it to say, my parents have been sour about it. Like the rest of my siblings, they believe I, too, should be wielding my culinary skills in the family business. But I’ve forever been the rebellious middle child, always ready to step out and do her own thing.
Ramesh shoots me an annoyed look. “Yeah. Because of the mundan ceremony for Vivaan’s son this evening. Did you forget?”
Of course, I forgot. Why?Because I don’t careabout these things.
Let me explain. My parents are from Tamil Nadu, Southern India. Both their parents were close friends who migrated to the US together. They grew up almost as siblings. Considering they were barely teenagers when they moved here, it was only a matter of time before they began struggling with traditions.
By the time they fell in love, got married, and had us, their traditions were heavily adulterated. As a result, my siblings and I were brought up with little to no Indian traditions. We were complete coconuts—brown on the outside, white on the inside.
Until around eight years ago when we moved to Southeast Aurora into a developing area populated with Indian families. Families who are patriotic about their native country and uncompromising about their traditions and culture. Only then did my parents began forcing tradition on us. But the train had already left the station. By that time, we were more Americans than Indians.
While Ramesh and my oldest sister, Preeti, have been showing an increasing interest in the culture over the years, my second sister, Mira, and I have given up. Mira's an atheist and I’m agnostic, but they’ve been trying to thrust religion on us, forcing us to chant mantras and discuss Hinduism.
Trust me, I tried. I tried to get behind the culture and traditions. I spent over a year fully immersed, learning what I thought I needed to be “more Indian.” But the more I tried, the more I forced it, the more confused and out of place I became. And there weresomany things I didn’t like about the traditions I was expected to keep. I couldn’t deal with the hypocrisy. The “this way is right and that way is wrong” mentality. Some of the outrageous beliefs. So, I quit forcing it and went back to living how I did before—as a red-bloodedhumanwho embraces everyone’s cultures and beliefs and doesn’t want to be put in a box.
