Chapter 3: The Empress
Leo pushed through the swinging double doors.
The kitchen was ten degrees hotter than the bar. It smelled intensely of hot peanut oil, bleach, and charred onions. A battered boombox balanced on a metal prep table blasted Chaka Khan, barely cutting through the violent hiss of a flat top grill.
Standing over that grill was a man built like a linebacker, wearing a grease-stained apron over a vintage Dolly Parton t-shirt. He had cheekbones that could cut glass and a set of sharp acrylic nails painted a neon, aggressive pink.
He turned, brandishing a pair of metal tongs like a royal scepter.
"Kitchen's closed," he boomed. The voice was rich, loud, and entirely unapologetic.
Leo froze, keeping one hand on the swinging door. "Sorry. The woman out there—"
The cook squinted at him. The aggressive posture melted instantly. He dropped the tongs, wiped his hands on a towel, and crossed the tiny kitchen in two massive strides. Up close, Leo noticed the faded remnants of heavy stage makeup. A smudge of gold glitter on the temple. Eyeliner that refused to quit.
"Honey, you look like a stiff breeze would snap you in half," he said. He grabbed Leo by the shoulders and physically marched him toward a plastic milk crate in the corner. "Sit down before you pass out on my floor and I have to fill out the paperwork."
Leo sat. The plastic grid dug into his thighs.
"I'm Roxy," he said, turning back to the fryers. "And you are experiencing a massive blood sugar crash. Don't speak. Just breathe."
Roxy moved with terrifying, beautiful efficiency. A wire basket plunged into the boiling oil. A heavy stainless steel bowl hit the counter with a loud clang. A massive pinch of coarse sea salt. A squeeze of half a lemon. Roxy was a complete force of nature, dominating the cramped, chaotic space through sheer physical presence.
Less than sixty seconds later, a red plastic basket landed on Leo's knees.
It was a mountain of thick-cut fries, glistening with fat and radiating heat. Right next to it, Roxy slammed down a plastic deli cup filled with ice water.
"Eat," Roxy ordered. He put his hands on his hips. "The salt stops the shaking. The fat coats the stomach. The water reminds you that you have a physical body."
Leo picked up a fry. It burned his fingers. He shoved it in his mouth anyway. It was the best thing he had tasted in five years. The sheer, overwhelming sensation of it—the crunch, the hot grease, the sharp sting of the salt—yanked him completely out of his spiraling anxiety and slammed him right back into his flesh and blood.
Roxy watched him inhale the food. A soft, immensely satisfied smile broke through his formidable exterior.
"Everyone comes in here trying to fix their heads," Roxy said. He pulled a rag from his apron and started aggressively wiping down a spotless steel counter. "They forget the head is attached to a body. You can't figure out who you want to be if your meat suit is starving to death. You need substance. You need to be grounded."
Leo swallowed hard, washing down the salt with a massive gulp of the freezing water. He leaned back against the tile wall. The heat of the kitchen felt good now. Safe. Like a heavy blanket.
"I feel like I'm actually waking up," Leo said.
"You're just finally getting fed," Roxy corrected. He reached over and tapped the side of Leo's plastic water cup with a hot pink fingernail. "Finish that. Then grab your bag and go find Arthur at the front door. He sets the rules around here, and you can't stay if you don't check in with him."
