Read Gora Park :: Ch. 2 - Part 2

—Hot Steel—

CH.2 Part 2

༺♛༻Callum༺♛༻

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Since I work at a high-end restaurant, we shut down for a week whenever the head chef decides to 'change the seasonal menu'.

My ass.

It’s just his excuse to disappear. My best mate, Lore, was seen by his bike mates in a cheap strip club way out past Central London so his wife won’t catch him.

Absolute animal.

The upside? I get a break. Time to breathe. Time to experiment with my own dishes.

This small fae who’s taken a liking to my herbs keeps showing up to take a few leaves. She leaves behind tiny droplets in return and the plants always come back a little more fragrant than normal.

I tie the apron around my waist, wiggle my hips like an excited cat, flex my arms preparing to handle the knife and step into my kitchen.

If there's one thing I'm proud of, it's clawing my way out of the poverty pit of Gora Park. After my grandad died, I begged Lore to come live with me in London. Share a flat. He's a hard worker, but just as unlucky as me.

If it weren't for his talent in freestyle motocross, the kind where maniacs launch themselves off ramps like suicidal birds and a few occasional races, he'd be eating dirt.

He refused to move in due to pride. I didn't push it since he always liked his own space, so I respect that. And since I have some complications of my own…I think it's for the best.

I run a hand through my dark hair, while standing in front of the stove, ready to experiment.

"Finally..."

Then it hits me: cold sweat trickling down my spine, my throat closing up like someone's pulling the strings tight from inside. My vision tilts, and suddenly I'm gripping the counter, my chest locking up.

Didn’t even get to pick a fucking ingredient.

Recently, every time I try to cook for myself, for real, not eat scraps or leftovers, something inside me misfires. My heart jackhammers, my ribs feel like they're splintering.

I hate it.

I hate how much it feels like punishment.

Like the universe doesn't want me to have something of my own.

My own-

RING.

"Oh good fuck."

The phone snaps me out of whatever the hell that was. I claw it up like it's a lifeline.

"Yeah?!"

"Wow man, no need to shout into my ear.”

I cringe a tad.

“Yeah…my bad.”

“So Cal, you coming over or what? Friendly race tomorrow. Don’t make me drag you down there." Lore confirms with a smug voice which managed to somehow make me smile.

I drag in a shaky breath, press a palm to my chest to make sure it's still moving.

I barely manage a chuckle.

“Yeah…yeah, sure, man.” I say, though the words wobble out like I’m still catching up with my own lungs.

“You need a break.”

Damn it.

The fucker clocks it instantly. Of course he does. We grew up together; you can’t fake it with someone who’s seen you puke on your own shoes, fall off a dirt bike trying to impress a girl, and insist you’re ‘fine’ right before face-planting into a kebab shop. Lore’s got enough receipts on me to fill a whole library.

“Yeah…I know.” I add quickly. “Meet me at the track, yeah? Got a few things to sort out here and there.”

I bite my lip, praying he doesn’t push it further.

He makes this low approving grunt, the kind that says good lad without wasting breath, and I hang up before he can dig any deeper.

Silence presses in again. My kitchen feels smaller than it did a minute ago, the walls leaning closer, the air thick with grease that isn't even there. My reflection in the oven door looks pale, hollow-eyed.

Fuck.

Was that…a panic attack? From cooking? From the one thing I thought was safe?!

My stomach flips. I lean on the counter, fingers digging into the edge hard enough to blanch my knuckles. I used to believe a good fire lived in me - that heat, that hunger, that need to create something worth swallowing.

But lately, every time I light a pan for myself, the flame recoils.

The fire has always listened to me. Ever since I was a kid. It danced when I needed it, flared when I pushed, answered when I called. It was the one thing that always felt mine.

Now it shies away.

Like it doesn't recognise me anymore.

Like it knows something I don't.

A horrible thought worms its way into my chest.

What if my fire isn't fading?

What if it's leaving?

Is my flame really going out?

Or is it building toward something worse?

Something final.

The thought lodges beneath my ribs like a splinter.

Worse than Chef's insults. Worse than the burns. Worse than the blood and sweat ground into the cracks of my hands.

Because if the fire dies...