Dinner Party, Part 1

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sinead muttered to herself, rushing around in her apartment as she danced from the kitchen to the table to her bedroom, trying to get everything ready at once.

She’d taken the afternoon off, not that anyone seemed to care. Part of her wondered if she could even consider the dinner as working hours since she was liaising on a case. It was weird, not having a Captain breathing down her neck about cases, not caring how she dressed or what she was doing. It was like she’d fallen down the cracks of the Toronto police **** and could just… do nothing, if she wanted.

This dinner was the opposite.

“Why the fuck didn’t I just make a fucking stew or something?” she growled to herself as she threw another outfit back into her closet and tried to figure out what else she could wear. She’d had people over for dinner before, and if it was just Jules then she wouldn’t care what she was wearing, but this felt more like a dinner party with Marc coming too and so she cared.

Shirtless, she darted back into the kitchen and slid across the linoleum in her socks to douse the slowly simmering steaks with more butter from the pan. They weren’t the amazing cuts of meat that she imagined Marc would get, but she was damn sure she was going to wow the both of them.

Back to the table, she straightened the third place setting, making sure the steak knives were clean before setting them out, then she went back into the bedroom when she heard the knock at the door.

“Shit!” Sinead grunted, pulling a simple black knit sweater down from a hanger and pulling it on. Black was fancy-ish, right?

Sinead went to the door, peeking through the little peephole to see it was Jules, and she opened the door as she was still straightening her sweater. “Hey, come on in,” she said.

“Hey, babe,” Jules said. She must have gone home after work and changed since she wasn’t in her slacks and button down blouse. Instead, she was wearing a long T-shirt with a pop art graphic face on the front and a pair of leggings.

Fuck, Sinead thought. She hadn’t exactly given Jules the heads up that it wasn’t going to be the two of them either, so she was dressed down.

“Whoa, what’s that smell?” Jules asked as she shrugged off her coat and started taking off her boots.

“Steak, roasted potatoes. Bacon-wrapped asparagus,” Sinead grunted, heading back into the kitchen.

“You’re making me steak?” Jules asked. “Damn, and here I was expecting some Pad Thai tonight or something.”

“Yeah, well, I can be domestic when I feel like it,” Sinead said, spooning more butter onto the steaks before peeking into the oven to check on the potatoes.

“I can see that,” Jules said, coming into the kitchen and leaning against the counter. “I think this is the cleanest I’ve seen your place since you moved in.”

“Hmm, so funny,” Sinead shot at Jules with a smarmy grin.

“What’s with the third place setting?” Jules asked.

There was a knock at the door.

“Please tell me you’re not getting me back by setting me up with someone,” Jules said.

“Nope, this is business,” Sinead grunted. “Here, keep spooning the butter onto the meat.” She left Jules to it and went to the door, stopping out of her friend’s view and quickly touching up her hair and straightening her sweater again in the little mirror in the front vestibule area. She bit her lip and adjusted the silver necklace. The one that Marc had given her. She never got to wear it, and in the middle of trying on outfits, she’d put it on and hadn’t taken it off. Now she wondered if it was going to send the wrong message or something.

Sinead opened the door. “Come in,” she said.

“Bonsoir, Detective,” Marc said with that fucking smile of his, handing Sinead a small bouquet of three orchids and showing he had a bag with a couple of bottles of wine in his other hand. “Merci de ton invitation.”

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Jules asked from behind Sinead.

Sinead turned, gritting her teeth in an awkward, toothy smile, as she turned to Jules. “I can explain.”

Jules was gesturing with the spoon, staring down Sinead and Marc. “I fucking hope you can,” she said.

Sinead took the wine from Marc, and the spoon from Jules, and ushered them both over to the table before rushing back into the kitchen and pulling the steaks from the pan, and turning down the oven to keep the potatoes and asparagus warm.

“OK, the meat just needs to rest,” she said, coming back to the table.

“Really?” Jules asked. “The meat needs to rest? That’s all that’s going on?”

“I’m explaining, I’m explaining,” Sinead said, shooting a glance at Marc and hoping he went along with things. She’d rehearsed this in her head a thousand times since the night before, and she still felt like Jules was going to poke holes in it and guess what was really going on. “In the course of my investigations into Le Français, I ran up against some walls in terms of analytical know-how. And since the case led me to Mr Fornier at one point, I realised that his particular expertise would be helpful. But the chances of me being able to bring him on as a contractor were super low, considering his hourly rates, so I sort of… asked him for a favour. Pro bono. He’s broken open some complex files for me, and then he kind of went undercover with me when I was staking out Victor Berisha.”

Jules was staring daggers at her. Marc, on the other hand, had a hint of that fucking smile on his lips.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Sinead?” Jules asked, looking from her to Marc. “You took a civilian, a former person-of-interest, undercover and off the books? Is this why he showed up on our radar?”

“Almost definitely?” Sinead squeaked, smiling apologetically.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Jules grunted. Then she exhaled heavily and stared at Sinead again. “Well? That better be a damn good steak because we’ve got some shit to talk about.”

Breakthebar erotica is powered by Patreon, where early chapters are released ahead for all of my series. Le Francais is a Commissioned Work. PM if interested in helping fund the series, or if you are looking to commission a story of your own!