“I’m not taking that money unless you tell me your real name.” I just blurt it out. I have no idea why. His name shouldn’t be the question that I am asking. The more appropriate, productive question was, “Where the hell am I?” or “What are your vicious henchmen doing in the back of my father’s ice cream truck?”
Still, I ask it anyways, not even daring to touch the money in his outstretched hands until I get a real answer from him. To my surprise, he laughs, pushing the green and white bills towards my chest. “You already know my name, Alana.”
“Mr. Murphy is not your name. And Henry isn’t either. I want to know what it is. If you’re asking me to trust you, I think we can start with the basics.”
“You know what, you’re absolutely right. How rude of me to not introduce myself while I was hijacking your ice cream truck.” He puts down the cash next to me on the desk and grabs my hand to shake it. He’s too rough -- the motion rattles my body as he says jovially, “I am Liam. Liam Murphy. When I fight, all the ladies call me Mr. Murphy. No idea why, but it’s catchy, and it’s fun, so it sticks. I’ve even considered coming into the ring with a little top hat and bowtie.”
“Funny,” I say deadpan, but I have to admit that I do feel much better knowing something about this mystery man. Liam wasn’t the name I pegged down for him. He was more like a Rufus or a Chet by looks. All muscles, firm waist, towering height -- he is some Irish giant with bruised knuckles and bright pink lips.
“Now you,” he says, tearing me away from my long glances at the plethora of tattoos lining his pale skin. “I told you my real name, and now it is time to tell me yours. You know… for trust reasons.”
“What are you talking about? You know my name. It’s Alana. Like ‘Miss Alana’ on the ice cream truck. My dad used to call me ‘Little Miss’ and then when he bought the truck, he had that painted on the side. We used to be known as Bloom Ice Cream, but my dad likes Miss Alana’s Ice Cream better.”
“I agree. It adds a bit of sex appeal to it.” Liam winks at me again. This guy has no idea how NOT to charm a woman. “Now that you’re Alana Bloom and I’m Liam Murphy, can you please take this money from me before I take it back. I’m not a generous man, nor a kind one. I don’t do charity.”
That I could sense. He didn’t exactly look or act like a guy who volunteered at the Boys and Girls Club on his afternoons off. He was more like the kind of guy who drove his bike past a church playground at the highest speed and noise level possible. That little boy in the parking lot of the Beat Box gym had to be some kind of fluke of personality.
I ask cautiously, “So then why are you giving it to me? You told me that you’d pay me with what was left in your wallet. This has to be more than what you carry.” The image of a wad of cash held up to the dash light practically makes my mouth water.
“First of all, I have no clue how much money I have in my pocket. I don’t count it out, and in my line of business, I do a lot of cash-only transactions... if you know what I mean.” My stomach rolls as I think of the implication. Drugs, prostitutes, guns, black markets. I wouldn’t put it past a guy like him to do it all. That flight or fight instinct was kicking in again, and I am just about ready to bust out of here.
Liam continues, “Secondly, you earned your money for tonight, so here you go.” He reaches into his back pocket and fishes out the money. I take it willingly and shove it into the pockets of my jeans. I already feel about twenty pounds heavier knowing that I am packing that much cash. I am so distracted that I can barely register the second part of Liam’s explanation, “But, I want to also just throw something out there for you --”
“Liam! Boss!” We are interrupted by a knock on the door. Liam spins quickly, grabbing the money on the desk and shoving it down the back of his pant pocket. He uses his foot to shove the door of the safe closed. Whoever is on the other side, he doesn’t want to know what business he has going on in here.
Liam opens the door slowly and a man just about as tall as Liam, and dressed in the same black outfit as the rest of his employees, barges in. He glances at me for only a second before he starts, “Liam, man. We got a problem. There’s something wrong with the burners. They’re flicking again, and you know how bad a time it is for something to break like that.”
Burners? What the hell was that? Was it some nickname for a deranged serial arsonist? Maybe it’s a drug thing. I only get more heated when Liam slams his fist angrily into the wooden desk and then storms off, following the employee step by step. A little hesitant to get any more involved in this, I reluctantly stick my head out of the open office door just in time to see Liam leaning over a long black and white stove while the man frustratedly points to the flameless stovetop.
“Who the fuck messed this up this time?” Liam roars wildly, turning towards the group of chefs all paused in place. No one dares to look at him as he throws a towel to the ground and kicks it dramatically away from him. “What the fuck did we talk about last night? Do not turn off the burner until I get the repair guy in! You turn it off, and it doesn’t come on for dinner service! Jesus. What fucking idiots did I get stuck with in this kitchen?!”
“We’re sorry boss,” the same man offers meekly. “We just forgot in the rush. We’ll get it fixed. Tony did it last night. I bet he can get it up and running if we give him a call.”
“You better fucking hope he can or all those lost checks out there are coming out of your pay.” Liam raises his hands and walks back towards the office. I scurry inside, afraid he may see me acting interested in his drama. I sit back up on the desk just in time for him to slam the door behind him and take a seat on the one rickety desk chair.
“So... “ I say, trying to break the ice, “What the hell was going on out there?”
“Hacks! Fucking hacks!” Liam rages on, clearly not caring about me knowing. “I hire these inexperienced little punks to run my kitchen, and they fuck it up each and every single night. It’s no wonder why turnout is down.”
“Wait. Your kitchen? This is your restaurant?” He’s really not made that clear to me. Sure, he walked us in like he’s the owner and the guys around him have basically bowed down at his feet, but I thought this was like a mafia thing where he knows the owner, and in exchange for protection or from some blackmail, he gets a meeting space in return.
“No. It’s not mine. It’s my grandma’s. I just run it for her since she’s not up to doing it herself anymore. It’s been in my family for three generations now.” He looks a bit calmer now as he gestures with his eyes towards a picture of an older couple leaned up against an open sign. This man was way more complex than I could even give him credit for.
“So, let me get this straight,” I say, “You’re a criminal of some sort, a leader of a gang, a restaurant manager, and a professional boxer?”
“Amateur boxer,” he says, a small smile crossing his lips. “I haven’t made it up to the pros yet, though my manager, Lucky, thinks it’s going to happen any day now.” He leans back in the seat, obviously enjoying teasing me.
I shrug. “I don’t understand a guy like you,” I reply, smirking.
“You don’t have to, honey. No one asked you to understand me.” Liam stands up and walks towards me, placing his hands on both sides of my body. His breath brushes up against my neck and the curve of my throat. Two green eyes peer down at me as he says slowly and firmly, “All I ask you to do is just obey every single one of my orders. No matter what.”
Oh goodness. I don’t even know how to respond to that command. While I’m speechless, my body is practically crying out to him. The space between my legs warms and rises while the pit in my stomach fills with tiny dancing butterflies trying desperately to escape. One of my legs hitches slightly upwards, rubbing up against his jeans. I can’t control it. I don’t want to control it.
I lick my lips, searching for a voice. When it comes, it doesn’t even belong to me. It belongs to an alternative side of me I’ve suppressed inside for far too long. “So, Liam Murphy… what are you ordering me to do then?”
My lips part, expecting another one of those knee-weakening kisses. But instead of ducking to meet mine, his lips touch my earlobe, brushing a few strands of my messy blonde hair out of his way with his nose. His cheek presses against mine, and I can feel the muscles of his strong jaw flex as he whispers both playfully and seductively, “I am ordering you, Alana Bloom, to have dinner with me tonight.”
Why that sends chills up my spine and makes my hands go numb, I’ll probably never know, but I barely notice him pull away from me and laugh. He holds out a hand, and I take hold, not exactly sure what other choice I have. Despite all my frustrations and conflicted feelings, I know that I can’t say no to Liam.
He brings me back through the kitchen, which is still frantically trying to deal with the burner and then towards the swinging doors to the main dining area. It’s decorated like an authentic Irish bar -- all dark wood from floor to ceiling with soccer scarves and antique emerald green glass everywhere. The bar itself is wood and glass lit up from underneath. Liam lifts his hand towards the bartender who shouts back, “What you drinking, boss?”
He eyes me with a wide, toothy smile, and then announces loud enough so that the rest of the bar and restaurant can hear, “A bottle of champagne and two glasses, Wondo. We’re celebrating tonight.”
Liam points to a table nearby, the chef’s table, closest to the door, and I take the seat across from him. The bartender Wondo follows behind with his order, along with a basket of warm, fresh bread and a handful of menus. Liam pours the bubbly gold champagne as I browse through the offerings. While I feel insanely hungry, I’m not sure if I could eat a bite around Liam. I settle on a summer salad hoping that it will be light enough for me to much on.
We’re not far into our meals, Liam chomping down on some Irish version of a brisket sandwich and me delicately picking at the strawberries in my salad, when the man from outside, the one with the impossibly dark skin, charges towards our table. I try to gesture towards Liam to get his attention, but he’s chowing down too heartily to notice. The man has to actually grab him by his shoulder to gain his attention.
“What the fuck!” Liam shouts over the pounding music. “What do you need that you have to bother me while I’m eating?”
“It’s the truck, boss. We can’t find it.” He points towards the back window towards a truck -- my ice cream truck. My face turns a hot beat red as I try to put everything together. I look back at Liam who is swallowing hard and purposefully looking away from me. Something is up. Something wrong is up.
Liam finally replies, his voice lowered, and his head turned clear from me, “What do you mean you can’t find it? Didn’t I make it clear where to look?” He practically snarls it. This wasn’t part of his plan. I wasn’t supposed to be a factor here. My stomach is turning just watching him seethe in frustration.
Outside, there are at least four or five men dressed in black hovering around my truck. Some are leaning up against the sides, eating wrapped ice cream treats carelessly. One is standing on the back entrance, his head fully hidden in the body of the truck. He has boxes in his hands -- boxes that belong on the inside.
In the meantime, someone inside is tossing things at him or towards the ground. I watch in total helplessness as I see my pristine clean ice cream scoopers and mixers, thermometers, and storage containers being tossed out. The boxes explode when they hit the ground with a crash I was too deaf to hear earlier. Now they sound like little bombs detonating all around me. My eyes actually wince just watching it.
Liam follows my silent, wide mouth. He glares out through the windows and towards the parking lot and then back up to his man. This time he whispers, and it sounds even worse than when he was actually yelling, “What the fuck is going on out there? What are those dumb assholes doing?”
While the two men argue, I reach down into my pants pocket and pull out my cell phone. They’re too blind to see me search through my contacts and find my best friend’s Jana’s name on my favorite’s list. In a fury, I type: Can’t explain what’s going on right now. But I’m at Emerald Pub on Main and 4th with a guy named Liam Murphy. Something’s happening to my ice cream truck. Don’t call the police. But if I don’t call or text you back in one hour, something is wrong. Ok?
With the whoosh sound of the text being sent, I set out to do probably what is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done in my entire life. I slide myself back out of the booth and past Liam and the perpetually angry man, through the pub (which, thankfully, has become more crowded since we first sat down), and out towards the door. Behind me, I can hear Liam throw himself out of the booth and charge out after me, but I’m too far gone.
I run straight towards the ice cream truck and with my hands clasped around my mouth, I shout, “What the fuck are you doing to my ice cream truck?!” The man standing in the back with the boxes drops all of my gear to the ground with a large crash. He joins the two out front as they slowly walk towards me, each eyeing me like men on a hunting trip marking their prey.
“Who the hell are you?” the largest man asks. His black leather gloved hands are pounding together as if they are warming up. I try to remind myself that I am a five foot three inches tall woman that weighs just about 110 pounds. No way would they hurt me. But as they form a circle around me, I start to doubt everything I know about chivalry. After all, their boss did technically kidnap me at gunpoint.
“I’m -- I’m --” I know that I am stuttering, but I am struggling to find my voice in all the tension. With every second I waste, they take another step towards me. I gulp down the fear and let out a yell, “I am Alana, and that’s my damn ice cream truck you’re tearing through! Now give me my keys and get the hell out of here before I call the cops.” I hold up my phone for emphasis.
However, my threat doesn’t exactly get the reaction I expect. Behind me, one of the men grabs the phone out of my hands and throws it to the ground. His other hand holds tight to my raised wrist, locking me in place. The largest man walks up towards me, pushing his body up against mine. I can smell his sweat and the hint of mint ice cream on his smoky, boozy breath. “There are no po-po here to help you, ice cream princess. And when we want to mess with your truck… or you… we will.”
I watch him grab hold of something in his pocket and pull it out. It briefly shines in the light of the parking lot before the cold blade is pressed up against my neck. The other men stare at me with laughing, light eyes. This is a joke to them -- just another Monday night. My death would be simply a work shift for them.
I close my eyes and concentrate on everything else but the man with the knife and his gang behind him. I just breathe hoping that whatever comes next happens quickly and that Jana will know where to find me when it is.