Infestation
The next morning, I went for a run and then headed to the tennis club to cover the early shift at the smoothie bar. I picked up all the hours I could get and saved every penny. Kiki and I were moving into our own apartment in June. I hadn’t laid the news on Dad yet because he would come up with a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t do it.
The crime rate in Clifton, the dangers of two young ladies living alone, you should save your money…ugh. The idea of Dad’s thought process gave me a migraine. When he’d asked why I was working so much, I said I was saving for a car.
I jogged up the sidewalk and noticed a shiny black Range Rover with bright red leather seats parked in the lot. A small metal badge on the back of the truck read ‘Autobiography.’ That must mean extra expensive in car speak. Maybe someone famous was there to visit the club owner Mr. Cusimano, an Italian tennis god with connections to all the important people in town.
Rumors had been swirling he associated with the mafia, but that seemed ridiculous. Well, he did gamble a lot—and it’s illegal. Maybe the rumors weren’t that far-fetched.
I walked to the bar, tied on an apron, and yelped when I turned around and spotted Vladimir reading over the menu board. His muscular, sweaty bod was covered in a black and blue Lacoste ensemble complete with coordinating shoes with little green gators on each side. In my shabby sweats and a craptastic t-shirt from little sibs weekend, I felt like a miss-matched athletic hobo compared to him.
“Dobroye utro. Good morning, Miss Cook.” His soft, blond waves were curled up into tight sweaty ringlets above his shoulders.
Sexy. “What are you doing here? I mean, I’ve never seen you here before.” I laughed at my awkwardness.
He dabbed his forehead with a gym towel. “I only play weekends. Just finished up a match with Anthony.”
“Mr. Cusimano? You must be special. He usually only hits with pros.”
He gave me an arrogant wink and asked me what to order. I told him I would make him something healthy. My stomach did flip-flops as the Vitamix annihilated the greens. I pushed the stop button and poured the thick sludge into a plastic cup.
When the veggie bile hit his taste buds, he winced.
Way to go. Give the guy who can have anything liquefied spinach. “You don’t like it?”
“Tastes like sewage.” He set it down and waved his hand over it.
I laughed and poured him a glass of water to chase down the slime. “I said it was healthy, not that it tasted good. By the way, the spread at your house was awesome last night.”
My tennis coach, a stocky dude who carried himself like a badass, steely-eyed pit bull, stalked past the counter and flashed me ‘the look.’ He glanced up at Vladimir, then back to me.
Had I sounded flirty? Louder than necessary I said, “So, my dad had a lot of nice things to say about you after the party.”
Perhaps also catching Coach’s admonishing glare, Vladimir smiled. “Your papa is a smart man. With a beautiful family.”
“Are you going to hire him?” As soon as I said it, I knew I’d crossed the line. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
He made a tsk sound to forgive my forwardness. “I called him this morning. He’s going over the contract.”
“That’s great.” I put my hand on my heart. The stress of him not having a job had weighed on all of us. “Oh, let me make you something else. Do you like peanut butter?”
“You have tortured me enough. Let me take you out to breakfast.”
My mouth gaped. Did he just ask me out? It was fun to fantasize about him, but the invitation felt awkward. This was my dad’s new boss. “I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Ivanov.”
He paused like I had given him the wrong answer, and he was waiting patiently for me to correct my faux pas.
“I mean, not now. I just started my shift. Another time?”
He inhaled sharply and set a bill on the counter. “Keep the change.” He headed to the locker room.
I picked up the money and stumbled to the register—it was a hundred dollar bill. My stomach felt queasy. An important guy like Vladimir probably wasn’t used to being turned down. Should I have been more receptive to his invitation?
Between customers I kept myself busy re-stocking the grab-n-go items and sports drinks, and then a red-faced Mr. Cusimano appeared at my counter, rubbing the back of his neck like he had a termite infestation under his skin. The guy could be a crank, but the last time I’d seen him that stressed out, he’d lost a couple stacks on a boxing match.
“Good morning, Mr. Cusimano. Can I make you something?”
He didn’t answer. His body was tense and his face so agitated, it appeared he was being burned alive from the inside out.
“Are you okay? Can I get you some water?” I reached for a cup.
He handed me a sheet of paper. “Go over these numbers and let me know where accounting has made an error.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. It was a record of all my extra court time. Whenever I wasn’t working, the pros let me join their group lessons. They loved it when I jumped in because I picked up all the balls in between drills so the members could keep playing. I hadn’t realized the pros turned in the numbers upstairs. “There’s no mistake, Mr. Cusimano.”
He rubbed his hands together. “When I said you could have some extra lessons, I didn’t mean this.” He slapped the paper. “You’re taking advantage of me.”
“Mr. Cusimano, it’s not like that—”
“I can’t have this happening. I’m running a business.”
“But I just—”
“No I just. It’s unacceptable, Carter. I let one employee walk all over me, and then it’s anarchy. No. I’m going to have to let you go, effective immediately.”
I steadied myself on the bar. “Please, I need this job. I’ll never play outside of my team practice again, and I’ll work every shift you’ll give me. I can run the beginner clinics, help out in the nursery, work the front desk—”
“My decision is final, capisce?”
“But you encouraged me to play. You said I’m good for the club’s image.”
He chuckled, but his eyes looked hard. “I meant you’re an attractive young lady. Your pretty face is good for business.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Listen, I’ll be straight.” He seemed less agitated now, like objectifying me was lowering his blood pressure. “You broke your winning streak last week. I was counting on you to go undefeated this season. Would’ve been great publicity for the interclub program.” He lifted the comp sheet. “Worth all I pay to watch your cute little figure prance around in a miniskirt—”
“It’s a tennis skirt, asshole.” I clinched my fists at my side.
Mr. Cusimano’s lips tightened.
My adrenaline was pumping bad ideas into my head. I snatched the paper out of his hand and shook it in front of his face. “I’m paying you back for every single gratis minute I spent on the court. I don’t ‘prance’ for play, capisce?”
His nostrils flared. “You’re through here. Never bring that disrespectful mouth inside my club again.”
I snagged my tennis bag and stomped away before my hubris tipped over into self-destruct mode. The temperature had dropped since I’d been inside, and a steady stream of icy rain fell from the overcast sky. I lifted the hood of my windbreaker over my head and zipped it up to my chin, encasing myself in a mini body bag. My cell vibrated in my pocket. I had a couple missed texts.
Dad: I got the job!
Dad: With a signing bonus!
Dad: Olive Garden tonight?
Finally, after months of uncertainty, Dad had a reason to celebrate, and predictably, I would torch his fifteen seconds of happiness. If I wasn’t allowed back in the club, that meant I was off the team. Dad bragged about my records and wins to anyone who would listen. Tennis and a straight A report card were the only two things I had to make him proud of me.
The aftershocks stemming from my big, disrespectful mouth were settling into my nervous system. I couldn’t go home without a game plan. I changed course and headed toward the park where I could camp out and think in solitude. The wind picked up and whipped icy rain across my face, making my blustery commute almost unbearable. I trudged on and owned the biting winter air, as if enduring the conditions would somehow right my unremitting wrongs.
By the time I reached the park, I was shivering like a strung out Chihuahua and sought refuge from the rain under a picnic shelter. While I marinated in self-hatred, I pulled out the invoice and stared at the long line of numbers. Even if I got another job, it would take months to pay off the balance. I could forget about moving out with Kiki in June.
The fancy Range Rover I’d seen at the club earlier rolled onto the lot in front of my little sinner’s sanctuary. I squinted to make out the driver: Vladimir. Oh, God. Before I could untangle my legs and scamper off into the woods like a spooked raccoon, the car door opened. “Carter.” He rushed over to me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I crammed the invoice in my pocket.
He removed his Burberry trench coat, wrapped it around my shoulders, and led me inside his warm, clean SUV. I sat there, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his cologne that lingered on his raincoat, and tried to come up with a non-humiliating reason for succumbing to the elements in a deserted park that was only a ten-minute walk from my house.
He turned on the seat warmer, cranked up the heat, and cruised out of the parking lot.
“Where are you taking me?” I stuttered, unable to keep my teeth from chattering.
“Home. You’ll catch the death.”
“Please, don’t.” I touched his arm. “I can’t face Dad right now.”
“As you wish, Carter.” He made a call, spoke in Russian, and drove down the winding road that led to his luxurious, secluded hideaway in the woods.