Twenty
ASH
I think about telling the prick that I don’t speak snob. I also think about slamming my fist into his bushy eyebrows.
I wipe down the bar top, pretending to focus on a really deep stain, when the guy slams his beefy fist down next to my rag. “I’m talking to you, you little shit. Do you know who I am?”
And just like that, my last nerve snaps in two.
I secretly love when that happens.
My fist closes over the rag, and I slowly raise my head. Every muscle in my face constricts so tight that I feel like Bruce Banner seconds before he turns into the hulk.
Unfortunately, I don’t look good in green.
By the subtle shift of his shoulders, I can tell asswipe has noticed the break in my self-control.
My lips drift up into a tight smile while my voice sounds condescending as hell. “Yes. I know who you are, Mr. Westin. You made your one and only million in the stock market five years ago. You’ve been blowing through it at such a steady pace you don’t have enough money to pay your dinner bill.”
The guy turns a moldy green color and stutters around a mouthful of saliva. “Why you little piece of shit. I’ll have your fucking ass for this.”
I slam the rag onto the bar. “Let me hand it to you.”
The words are out before I can take them back. Shit. Now what? How the hell do I hand someone my ass? Do I moon the guy? With my luck, someone will film the exchange, and the video will make tonight’s eleven o’clock news. At the very least, the headline will pull me out of the rock I’ve been hiding under. Ruined Millionaire Moons Ruined Thousand-aire.
Sighing, I pick up the rag and turn away from the douche. “I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy your meal. Please make sure to cross our restaurant off of your list of places to try to screw over. But your wife? The girl you brought in here last night? She’s always welcome.” I close my eyes briefly and shake my head, licking the seam of my lips. “Those lips of hers…I could watch her licking our calamari every night of the week.”
The man’s date stiffens in her seat and looks around like she’s counting how many people are enjoying her humiliation. I feel bad because she seems like double digits trip her up. Grabbing her bag, blondie scoots out of the bench and storms out of the restaurant.
“I will destroy you,” he says, his face and neck turning a nice shade of merlot. “Let me speak to your manager.”
“I’ll do you one better. How about I let you speak to the owner?” I turn around and pick up the black house phone. “Boss, he wants to speak with you.”
I hang up the phone and turn around. Picking up the rag, I throw it, and it goes straight into the laundry bin. Unable to keep the triumphant smile off of my face, I pat the bar a few times. “He’ll be right up.”
Walking down the length of the bar, I squat down lower and lower, pretending to be walking down a set of stairs. Turning on the balls of my feet, I take my tie out of my back pocket and tighten it around my neck. I walk back, straightening my legs.
I smile, but the professional façade feels stiff since I haven’t worn it in so long. “Hi. I’m Ash Sanders, the owner. Is there a problem?”
To his credit, Mr. Westin looks confused at first. He looks up and down the bar like he’s trying to find the bartender who offered him his ass. Fortunately, his pride prevents him from embarrassing himself further. “The food and the service at this restaurant are atrocious. My date’s food was cold…”
I put a finger up to my mouth and hum pensively. “She ordered a salad.”
He makes a strange gurgling sound and spit lands on the bar between us. “My food was bland.”
Pressing my palms together, I nod again. “You told the waiter to make sure my chef didn’t put any seasoning on the steak. You threatened him with your steak knife and told him that you quote wanted the chef to throw our best cut down on a sanitary grill so that you wouldn’t have a single speck of spice on your meat. Unquote. I know this because you had him repeat it back to you.”
He puffs out his chest and inhales so loud that I think about giving him my allergist’s number. “And your bartender is a jackass.”
I cringe, hating that I have to give him partial credit. Nodding, I hang my head in shame. “You threatened to have his ass. He was a bit concerned that you were a serial killer who slices off asses like a butcher might a rump roast. I admit that he probably should’ve handled the confrontation differently.”
I drop my shoulders and take in a long breath, losing the professional mask and feeling free from its confines. I put my elbows on the bar and lean in, gesturing for him to move in closer. I can see the question in his expression. He’s wondering if it’s safe to get so close to the Sanders across from him. He’s no doubt heard about me and my family. He’s no doubt questioning my sanity like the rest of the world. But his greed drives him forward.
“Other than that, you’re going to pay every single cent of your bill. If you don’t,” I lean in even closer and whisper directly into his hairy ear, “I am going to ruin you.”
He pulls back, his expression shifting from indignation to a healthy dose of fear. He eyes the other customers, the ones curious by our whispered conversation, and I watch him mentally plan out his next move. I can tell the minute he makes his decision because he pulls back, looking less like a guilty little boy and more like a little boy trying to find his big boy voice. Too bad he still looks like an idiot.
His bushy eyebrows arch, and his brows look like a strip of lint from my dryer. With a quick glance up and down the bar, he projects his voice “You think I don’t know who you are? Who your family is, Ashton Sanders?” He leans over the bar like we’re best friends. “How’s it feel, huh? You thought you guys were above it all. Thought you could get away with anything, but karma’s a bitch, my friend. We all get what’s coming to us.” He gestures to the restaurant with a dismissive hand. “Kind of nice to watch when it all comes falling down on top of people like you.”
Grabbing a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, I set down two shot glasses and fill them with a steady hand. I slide one of the shot glasses over to him and lift my own, staring down into the curved bottom. Nowadays, I hate being the focus of anyone’s attention, but I can’t exactly blame my patrons for their curiosity. Dickface is right. Watching karma play out has a strong magnetic pull. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone offers to buy the entire bar drinks after this.
Chances are it’ll be me.
My reputation seems to precede me since he’s eyeing his shot glass like it may be laced with poison. While the media has repeatedly speculated why I’ve moved out of the public eye, I rather like the idea that this guy questions my morals. He’s definitely not the only one.
Knocking back the shot, I slam the glass onto the bar and the sound echoes around the wood paneled room. Heads shoot up and my wait staff stills, surprised to see their boss drinking on the job.
Tapping the bottom of the shot glass on the bar a few times, I call out to the early dinner crew. “Listen up, ya’ll! Listen up.”
I pause like I’m waiting for the hushed conversation to lower even though it’s so quiet I can hear the rotation of the fans from the ceiling. “We got ourselves a Good Samaritan here at Tiana’s. Mr. Westin here enjoyed our food so much that he’s offered to pay each of your bills.”
A round of gasps and a spattering of applause warm me from head to toe as I slowly turn back to my customer. His face is fifty shades of red and he looks very close to popping. I smile at him, feeling so much actual joy from the pits of my soul that I don’t even cringe when I pat him on the shoulder. He flinches, but doesn’t say a word.
“They don’t make men like this anymore, huh? Feel free to pop over and give your thanks. The man is as humble as he is kind.”
Like clockwork two of my favorite customers push out of their booth in the back corner of the room, coming over with their smiles wide and their uniforms crisp.
I wave them over with crazy enthusiasm. “Sergeant Thomas, Andrews! Come! Come! I was going to introduce you to this man a few minutes ago. Looks like I don’t have to now that you’re here.”
The accolades soon die down and once Mr. Westin is finally breathing again, he’s open to discussion. While I wind up eating the price of most of the meals, I don’t mind the cost. My family has suffered enough loss these last few months, both in reputation and in our bank accounts, but this is the one loss I won’t miss.
A few minutes after dickface leaves, my phone vibrates and my stomach contracts like it’s preparing itself for another incoming blow. When I see the name on my display, I let out a delayed breath.
Jacob: She’s back.
I’ve become accustomed to the pendulum of my mood swings. There’s an almost hypnotic quality to the ebb and flow of my temper, and I’ve learned to just ride the wave instead of trying to steer through the unpredictable nature of my moods. But I am surprised by the unnatural stillness I feel knowing Calla Kennedy is back.
I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I’ve been at the church—over a year since I thought about what I left behind—who I left behind. Visions flash through my mind of a girl I once met at a gala back before my world turned upside down. I remember the slope of her long neck and the feel of her knuckles skimming over my crotch. While that sort of greeting definitely tends to make a great first impression, Calla was more than that. Even though I saw her only a handful of times, she was quite possibly one of the only women I will ever remember in great detail.
Unlike the women before her, Calla saw so far past my charisma, she didn’t think I was charming at all. Most of the time, I felt like a dried piece of gum on the bottom of her banged-up sneakers. I can’t help but wonder whether my inadequacies were a warning of the storm that was about to erupt in the Sanders family. Maybe they were my mind’s way of saying, you’re blind as a fucking bat, asshole. Open your eyes.
Staring down at my phone again, I decide that Calla coming back is a good thing, but not something that should affect me at all. I pick up the two shot glasses from the bar and turn to wash them out. I forget about the whole cleaning thing and accidentally drop them in the trash can as I slip out from behind the bar. At first, my gait is casual, and I stop to chat with some of my regular patrons. I listen to their compliments of the food with both ears and then move on to the next table. My patience wears a bit thin when the couple tries to engage in conversation about their meal, but I’m able to grind out a fake smile and then slip off to the next table. They smile wide at my approach, but I just wave as I speed walk past them.
By the time I clear the first section of tables, I’m in a sprint, not even acknowledging the other sections of the restaurant. I take the back stairs three at a time. One of the security guards has the audacity to turn the corner, and I practically knock him flat on his ass.
A second later, I slam into my office door with my shoulder and mentally scream at the douchemonger who locked my office. Since the douchemonger was me, the message is delivered quickly. Unlocking the door, I pull out my phone and stub my dick on one of the chairs. He howls out in pain while I hop around, trying to type out a text.
Me: Where?
I comfort Ash Junior as quickly as possible, but he seems resistant to stop throbbing—melodramatic little shit that he is. Hobbling over to my desk, I pull out the top drawer to grab my things when Jacob writes back.
Jacob: Could probably even give you the address, but that will cost you.
Groaning, I tap my phone hard against my head—the head on top of my body, not the one already in pain. I’m not a sadist, for god’s sake.
Me: How steep?
Slamming the office door behind me, I don’t even look down at the display when my phone rings.
I can practically hear the smile in Jacob’s voice when he sets his demands. “Cover the office when I take Mom to Aruba in December.”
“Tell me.”
For some reason, the fierce pitch in my voice doesn’t put a dent in his mocking tone. “You have to say the words first,” he sings like a ten-year-old taunting his little sister.
I pause at the top of the stairs, staring down at the empty hallway below. The dim sound of conversation grounds me, pulling me back into my body. Questions chip away at my confidence as I grab hold of the railing. “Does she know?”
He lets out a stiff breath into his phone. “How many times do we have to go over this? Cal and I aren’t like those hoity toity fucks who dropped you the minute your name got dragged through the mud. That’s not us. Never will be.”
The last thing Jacob gave me was a concussion when he walked into the restaurant a few months ago and punched me in the face. While I like to think my ego protected me from any permanent damage, I didn’t recover quickly. The next few days I sat in my dark apartment with a bottle of scotch and a sort of numbness lingering over my entire body. By the third day, my body couldn’t hold back Jacob’s words anymore.
“Rethers made the fucking videos!”
With blood dripping out of my nose, I had grabbed Jacob by the front of his T-shirt and told him he was lying. Jacob had shoved me off of him like I was nothing more than dog shit.
He’d been silent for several seconds, staring at me with a mix of revulsion and fury. “Did you know?”
For weeks I asked myself, “Did I know?” Was it possible that I spent years hyper-aware of every symptom, every twinge in my body, and blind to the people I thought I knew? I convinced myself that I was good at reading people, but it turns out I never really read them at all. I let my mind separate people based on how thoroughly they stroked my ego and relied on the opinion of others to tell me who to trust.
Now I have no one because I trust no one. While Dad’s lawyer has tried to pay off the media to take us out of the spotlight, there isn’t enough money in the world to pay off the whispers that follow me everywhere I go.
Luckily, I don’t go anywhere anymore. Work, home, gym, repeat. My brother won’t look me in the eye. My father forgot all about me, and I try like hell to avoid mirrors, hating the empty reflection staring back at me.
I stare down at the white of my knuckles as my fingers grip the railing. “Thought you said you’d cut off my balls and feed them to your mother’s chickens if I ever so much as said her name again.”
Jacob cackles, sounding like a little kid. “Shoot. When I took out those hedge clippers…” I can picture him on the other end of the line, wiping fake tears from under his eyes. “Didn’t know white people could go that white.”
“You’re hilarious.” I deadpan.
“Didn’t trust you then. Didn’t really know what you were made of. Now I do. So yeah, you want the address, happy to give it to you….but no way am I doing it for free. Two weeks. You behind the desk at Helping Hands. Means suit, tie, and a whole lot of ass kissing.”
I walk down the stairs, taking one step at a time, slowly flipping through the mental images of his best friend, Cal. While Jacob probably wouldn’t appreciate some of the images I’ve stored in my mind, I don’t hesitate when I answer, “Done.”
Waving goodbye to my staff, I tell them something’s come up but don’t detail what that something might be. I don’t want to be crude since we finally have a Zagat rating.
Deciding to skip the valet, I jog to my car with my extra set of keys, trying to look cool and composed. By the number of people who veer off the sidewalk to get out of my way, I think I’m a few miles from cool. My phone buzzes with her new address, and I take a second to pull the directions up.
“Twenty blocks,” I whisper while the roof goes down on the convertible.
I back out of the spot going about ninety, and reach the exit gate of the garage in five seconds flat. The fucking thing is taking so fucking long to go up that I accidentally slam on my horn five times. I barely clear the gate when I speed to the exit ramp twenty feet away. Slamming on my brakes, I feel the initial twinge of whip lash as a dog walker steps across the ramp with five dogs pulling him along. Two or three leashes are wrapped around his knees so that he’s stumbling and tripping every time a dog tries to sniff something on the sidewalk. I resist the urge to lay on the horn and smile tightly when he apologizes with a stiff wave of his hand.
Just as the last tail goes by, I inch out onto the one-way street and try to convince myself I’m not overreacting. A few seconds later, I have to remind myself that I’m not zipping in and out of city traffic because I’m desperate to see Calla.
“I’m just curious,” I say to the empty car, putting on my signal after I already make the turn.
I don’t have a plan which is probably a good thing since I’m operating on auto pilot. The fact that I just used three empty parking spaces to pass a slow driver is evidence of that fact. If I catch sight of Calla out front, maybe I’ll stop—casually say hello. Or maybe I’ll just duck down behind the steering wheel and drive really fast so that she doesn’t see me stalking her.
Once I turn down her narrow one-way street, I follow the descending numbers etched on the front of the row homes and try to ignore how fast my fingers drum on the steering wheel. When a motorcycle pulls out from a parking spot, I parallel park with my bumper and fender kissing the cars around me. My driver’s ed instructor would be proud.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back and release my grip on the leather steering wheel. Rubbing my sweaty palms up and down my dress pants, I take in five deep breaths and wait for my heart to return to normal. Once I feel a modicum of sanity, I shift my car into park and nod at my reflection in my rearview mirror.
“Just curious.”
I fidget with my keys a few times before gathering up enough courage to step out onto the tree-lined sidewalk and walk down her quiet street. The setting sun casts strange shadows across the sidewalk, giving me a mental distraction. For some reason, the beast-like shapes are friendlier than the descending numbers above the front doors.
I realize I’ve been counting the cobblestone steps out of the corner of my eye and have stopped right in front of her house number. Turning slowly, I stare up at her red front door and lace curtain-lined windows. I smile at the dog water bowl sitting next to her “Wipe Your Paws” doormat and feel my entire body relax.
A silhouette moves in front of one of the first floor windows, and a breath catches in my throat. I step closer to the front steps and then stop to trace the curves of the figure. The person is definitely a woman, but the only familiar part of the hazy outline is the bulge growing in my pants. I’m a fucking grown man growing hard over a shadow. I’ve been celibate for so long that I’m ready to hump a house number plaque.
Disgusted with myself, I decide to press pause on this whole stalking thing. I need a plan. I’ll sit in the car and work through a killer script.
Just as I’m about to turn away, another silhouette appears in her window.
This one is shorter.
Broader.
More angular.
This shadow definitely belongs to a man—a man standing too close to my silhouette.
I stumble back a half step. I suppose the shadow could belong to her asshole father or a long-lost brother she didn’t know about.
I try to brush off the strange mix of anger and regret tightening my jaw. The truth is I prayed that she’d be safe. I prayed that she’d come back to Maryland. And she did. Just in the arms of another man.
I probably should’ve been more specific.