THREE

 

Ida

 

“Excuse me,” I stutter. “Excuse me. Pardon me. Sorry.”

My apologies are half-hearted at best. It seems like every person in this city is walking in the opposite direction down the same street as me, and nobody is in the mood to yield to let me through. I’m late. Pissed off. And a little hurt from Marta’s little quip as I left.

It doesn’t make for the best start to the day. My mood sours further when I remember that I’m probably only rushing to get sacked anyhow. The untimely reminder makes my heart lurch and my intestines twist in a knot. Nothing like the spectre of poverty hovering over you to drive home how tenuous your position in the world is. It’s frightening, but it also gives you a little bit of bitch in your step. When you have nothing to lose, manners become overrated.

“Head down, ass up.” I state with ice in my tone. As pep talks go, it’s not much. It is, however, what my mother says when she’s about to get down to business and break someone’s balls.

I have instant success. It appears that the crowd will yield when you glare at them with your head held high and clear indication in your eyes that you will mow them down if they don’t get out your way. My determined almost jog through the throngs becomes so smooth that if it wouldn’t impede the traction I was gaining, I’d stop and kick myself for being such a freaking walkover.

“Live and learn, Ida. Live and learn,” I mutter, with the little breath I can spare. Shaking my head at my own ridiculousness, I kick up my pace a notch. It’s not because I’m especially interested in facing my borderline-psychotic boss sooner, the increased speed in my step is so I can outrun memories of my mum. Apparently, every time I open my mouth this morning, one of her trite motivational quotes are going to fall out of it.

The journey to my office is usually completed well before the rush hour. Most days, I take my time, grabbing a cheap cup of coffee on the way, and taking my time to appreciate the slower pace of the city as the early risers make it their own before the usual chaos reigns. Unfortunately, my second job at the bar across town—the one that’s meant to supplement the meagre income from my day job—is making my life harder and not easier like I expected.

Once upon a time, I could burn the candle at both ends. Nowadays, I’m lucky if I manage to make it through the day in a zombie-like fashion that wouldn’t be out of place on an episode of The Walking Dead. Oversleeping this morning is simply an exacerbation of my symptoms.

The inability to cope is real folks.

My step falters when my attention drifts. Oomf. My breath rushes from me when, first one person shoulder checks me, then another follows suit. Before I know it, I’ve been knocked off balance. I teeter to the left, barely righting myself at the last second. I’m not so lucky the third time. This hit sends me staggering like a drunk, arms windmilling, high heels slipping. My mind screams at me that I’m going to fall. I can see it happening, but I can’t stop it. And, when it does occur, it’s at the worst possible time. The man I fall in front of isn’t watching where he’s going so he barrels straight into me—taking the situation from bad to worse.

My right ankle is the first casualty, followed by my tailbone when it collides with the hard cement of the sidewalk. The impact sends shards of pain straight up my spine. It makes my eyes water, the need to cry getting stronger when my ankle starts to throb uncontrollably.

“Hey? Are you all right?”  A strikingly good-looking man squats in front of me. Worry makes his dark eyes appear nearly black. The whites surrounding his dark irises stand out against the light tan on his skin. I’m mesmerised by his beauty, momentarily forgetting the pain while I stare at his impossibly handsome and symmetrical face with wide-eyed awe. It’s when the dusky pink lips that create his perfect cupid’s bow of a mouth move again, that I realise that I never answered his question. “Tell me where you’re hurt, Liebling?”

His slight accent matches his exotic looks. Part of me wants to delay answering him so that I can here him speak again. The worried frown that creases the skin between his eyebrows is the only thing that stops me.

“I’m ok—ay,” my voices cracks when I speak. Licking my lips, I try to work some saliva into my mouth before I complete my answer. “My tailbone smarts a little, but it’s my ankle that’s really giving me trouble.”

I’ve barely got the words out, before he’s leaned close and wrapped his arms around me. One arm supports me below my shoulder blades while the other is tucked into the groove behind my knees. He lifts me with ease, cradling me high in the air as he stands in one swift motion.

With a surprised squeal, I sit up higher in his arms and wrap my arms around his neck. This movement basically buries his face into my chest, my clutching hands pressing his nose between my breasts where my cleavage is slightly exposed by the button-up, dress shirt I’m wearing.

“Hmm hmm mmm,” he tries to speak. My rack literally muffles the words as he says them.

Mortification turns my face red. I let go of him, throwing my arms out wide and raising my hands like I’m surrendering. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry.”

The man holding me lowers my body until my face is more in-line with his. Twisting, I drop my gaze to his lips, preferring to stare at their lush beauty instead of meeting his eyes.

“If I get to choose how I die, suffocating in your ample bosom would be top of the list,” the man drawls. His voice is dripping with good-natured humour, so I force myself to lift my eyes to his. “However, I feel it would be safer for you if I was able to take you somewhere that I can look at your ankle before I drop dead.”

His teasing helps lessens my embarrassment. The way he takes hold of my closest hand and pulls it around his neck makes the small amount of residual blush evaporate from my cheeks. Holding tight and nodding my agreement with his matter-of-fact assessment, I look at our surroundings to try to get my bearings on our location. I’m less than half a block from my office so I figure it would be best to have him take me there. The foyer of the office building that houses my offices is dotted with seats that he can leave me on until I can get Marta to come and get me.

“Um.” I bite my lip when he looks at me with compassionate expectation in his expression. “My office building is about half a block that way, do you think you could take me there?”

His gaze follows my arm when I point in the direction of a building about five hundred metres away. 

“I’m happy to try to walk if you don’t think you can carry me that far?”

“Seriously?” The word ends on a higher pitch, making it sound like a question. “You weigh nothing. I could carry you twice that distance and not break a sweat.”

His indignation is cute. I want to laugh at him, but I don’t. My ankle isn’t up to the trip and I would hate to lose his help just because I couldn’t resist the urge to antagonise him.

Without waiting for an answer, he stomps off in the direction of my building. I hold tight to my handbag and enjoy the ride.

The crowds have thinned a little while we’ve been stopped, and the people who remain are very quick to oblige my saviour by giving him right of way. We make our way, unimpeded and with more speed than I thought possible considering he’s literally carrying another person, to my office building.

As he pauses to wait for the automatic doors to open far enough, he looks at me with a glimmer of humour in his eye and says, “Not bad for an unexperienced Crown Prince.”

“Not bad at all,” I reply. “Although, I wouldn’t go as far as naming you my prince. You’re more of a Knight in Shining Armour to me.”

A low chuckle is the only response I receive.

Once he’s deposited me on one of the out-of-the-way leather couches that the building supplies, he steps back and affects a perfect bow. A giggle erupts from my throat, an unusual sound for me—I’m not know as “Little Miss Serious” for no reason—and I quickly rummage through my handbag for a something to give him.

“For you, dear Knight,” I say as I hold out the tiny piece of cellophane wrapped candy that I found in my bag. “A small token of my appreciation.”

“Why thank you,” he bows once again as he accepts my offering.

My cheeks are beginning to hurt from smiling so much. It’s a small, and rather sad, reminder of how little enjoyment I’ve been finding in life lately. I run my eyes over the man in front of me and wonder what it is about him that makes me feel so at ease, and, yes, almost happy in his company.

The perfectly pressed black slacks that his wearing, paired with the simple, but obviously expensive cashmere coat that shields him from the city’s cold morning, and the gold Rolex that adorns his wrist creates a picture of casual elegance that isn’t usually seen in this part of the city. Most of the people who I work with are struggling to make ends meet, and while we dress as nicely as we can, the cold hard fact is that we can’t afford the type of clothing he’s wearing.

I’m about to ask him wear he’s from, and, more importantly what his name is, when two men approach him at speed. The first man to reach him taps him on the shoulder. He eyes are wide with worry that seems to melt away the second the man who carried me here turns to face him.

 “Good God, Felix,” he splutters the second he has his full attention. The man’s accent sounds the same as the one who helped me, but he doesn’t have the same seductive, indulgent tone. Which is really a blessing because two men with that voice would be too much to handle. “Why would you just leave without telling us where you were going? Surely, you understand how dangerous that is?

My saviour—well, I guess I now know his name is Felix—seems to immediately shrink down into himself. The swagger that was present during our encounter disappears in an instant. He holds himself with less assurance, and the good humour I’ve come to associate with him is no longer present.

“Look,” he addresses both men quickly. “I needed some time to myself.”

“Well, you’ve had it now.” The second man, a huge monstrosity of a human, wraps his paw around the top of Felix’s arm and begins to tug him toward the door. “It’s time for you to head back to the penthouse. You have that meeting to get ready for. We’re going to be late if we don’t leave now.”

Felix shrugs his arm free. He turns back to me, twin spots of red colouring his cheeks when he sees that I’ve been watching their exchange.

Dropping to his knees in front of me, he takes my hand in his. “It would appear that my fun is over. Do you have someone to come help you?”

I incline my head with obvious reluctance. It’s stupid, but I don’t want him to go.

“That’s good,” he says. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and wrack my brain for a reason to make him stay. Nothing has come to mind by the time he speaks again. “Listen, I find you very attractive and I’d like to get to know you better. I’m sorry to rush out on you, but I’d love to get your name and number, so I could give you a call to organise a proper date.”

He’s very straightforward, which I appreciate. Most people in this city are too busy looking over the shoulder of the person in front of them to make sure that something better isn’t about to appear to actually lay their thoughts out honestly. The way Felix doesn’t beat around the bush is refreshing, and the only reason why I reach into my bag and take out my trusty felt-tip pen and hold my hand out for his.

“My name is Ida,” I say as I write my name and number on the back of his hand.

“I work two jobs, so I can’t promise that I’ll have much time for you, but I can promise that I’ll take your call if it comes… Felix?” I rail off with a question in my voice, a not so subtle fishing expedition to learn his last name.

A wide smile is his first reaction, followed by a rueful glance behind him in the direction of his two associates. When his attention returns to me, he lifts my hand and kisses the back of it. “You can call me Felix King.”

He stands and moves as if to leave. I watch him look at the back of his hand before he starts to walk away. I pray that he’ll turn back to me. Just as my hopes begin to drop, I sense his hesitation, and the stutter in his step gives him away a moment before he turns back to me.

“And it’s not a matter of if that phone call comes, but when. You have my word, Ida Montoya.”