The Best of Forevers

by Hargrove, A. M.

  She sets a plate in front of me and it smells fantastic. I start eating. Her acerbic tongue halts my progress mid-bite.

  “Where I come from, it’s impolite not to thank the chef, or cook, as it may be. It’s also rude not to wait for everyone to be seated before digging in.”

  Her admonishment has me setting my fork down. “Thank you for this. It’s very kind of you, and I really do appreciate it. Forgive my terrible manners.”

  “They are at that,” she mumbles. “You act like I’m your servant.”

  Embarrassingly enough, she’s right. I did act that way. It doesn’t set well with me. “I apologize. That was wrong of me.”

  She lasers me with those incredible dark chocolate irises and doesn’t speak a word. My stomach rumbles until she says, “Eat before it gets cold.” She doesn’t have to tell me twice. My plate is polished clean in a shamefully short amount of time. While I ate, all she did was watch me.

  Eventually, she gets up to fold clothes. Her place is small. One bedroom, one bath, a living area, and kitchen with a laundry room right off it, but I suppose she thinks it’s fine. I would get claustrophobic living here, although today, I’m not feeling closed in. In fact, I’m pretty comfortable.

  “Are you doing any more laundry?” I ask.

  With a narrowed gaze, she asks, “Why?”

  “I was wondering if you could wash my shirt. I don’t usually wear things two days in a row.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Yes. It’s sort of a thing with me. I like to put on a clean shirt when I get out of the shower.”

  “You’re a fucking diva. No, I will not wash your shirt. Now, get dressed and leave. I expected you to be out of here as soon you woke up.”

  “I am not a diva. Just because I like to be clean does not constitute being a diva. Are you always in a bad mood in the morning?”

  “No! I’m not in a bad mood. I took you in last night, saved your life, gave you a safe place to sleep, and now you want me to wash your fucking clothes? Wasn’t that and breakfast enough?” She stands there with a hand on her hip, then mutters, “Unbelievable.”

  “No, I asked. I didn’t demand. And you didn’t save my life.”

  She’s unjustifiably angry over something so minor.

  “Yes, I did and it’s an imposition. Strangers don’t ask strangers to wash their clothes. Didn’t anyone teach you manners and etiquette?”

  “Yes. I went to etiquette school.” Now I’m nearly yelling at her.

  “You’ve got to be joking. You went to an etiquette school? They actually have those?” Her eyes are opened so wide, I’m afraid they might roll right out of her head.

  “Yes, they have those. And what’s wrong with that? Everyone goes to etiquette school. They taught me all kinds of things, such as proper manners and how to dance,” I huff.

  “Oh, my God. You went to dancing school too?” She laughs so hard she snorts.

  “That’s not what I said. I said I went to etiquette school where I learned to dance. You should work in the media. You sure do know how to spin things.”

  “I didn’t spin anything. I only repeated what you said.”

  “Yeah, with your spin on it. Never mind the shirt. Forget I asked.”

  “I already did.” Her nostrils flare when she’s angry. It’s pretty damn sexy when I think about it.

  “What?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You had a shit-eating grin on your face.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did too.”

  Sick of her bickering, I grab her and kiss her again, telling myself it’s to shut her up. Only that’s not the real reason. The reason is, in all her anger, she’s glorious. Her black, messy-as-hell bedhead sways with her angry gestures, while her nearly black eyes spit out silvery sparks. She’s a fiery tempered woman, and I bet she’s explosive in bed. I palm her ass, pulling her into me, deepening the kiss. When her resistance eases, I hear soft moans. I’m ready to go in for the kill, though I doubt she’ll fall for it. This woman is not my usual type, so a tumble into her bed for a quick fuck is probably out of the question. My cock likes the idea though; it’s pitching a tent in my jeans.

  Lifting her shirt, I slide my hand underneath with a goal of slipping it down her pants. Only she fires into action.

  With two hands on my chest, she shoves me away and asks, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Kissing you.”

  “You were putting your hands down my pants.”

  “And?”

  “That’s not kissing. That’s pawing.”

  “Pawing?” My voice rises a few decibels. “I haven’t pawed a girl since before high school.”

  “Think again, dude, because you just pawed my ass.”

  “Okay, Spike, chill. That was a caress, and it’s obvious you can’t tell the difference between the two.”

  She points her finger at me. “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing. I work in a bar, remember? I get pawed on a daily basis. I should know what being pawed feels like.”

  Jealousy rears its head. Why in the hell do I feel like this all of a sudden? The thought of another man’s hands on her ass fills me with rage. “I can’t believe you allow those men to put their hands on you!”

  “What? It’s not like I ask them to.” She shakes her head and eyes me like I’m crazy as fuck. “Look, I think you’ve lost your mind. You must have alcohol toxicity or something. I’ve heard of that. Where people drink so much their brain cells die off. Yours sure aren’t functioning properly.”

  The fuck! “Mine are working just fine, thank you.”

  “I think you need to leave. Besides, I need to be somewhere,” she says, glancing at the clock on the wall.

  “Where do you need to be? Isn’t your bar closed on Sundays?”

  She’s washing up the breakfast dishes as I’m staring at her cute little ass. “That is none of your business.”

  “So, you don’t want to spend the day together then?” Her body whips around so fast, she drips water and soapsuds everywhere.

  “Whatever gave you that insane idea?” Her lips are curled in a most unusual way. I guess she has no interest in hanging out with me.

  “I was thinking maybe you’d want to go over to my place or something.”

  A thousand emotions flit across her face until it finally settles on one—distaste. Her mouth skews into a comical pucker, and I can’t stop the chuckle that erupts out of me.

  “I guess that’s a no then.”

  “Why the hell would I want to do that?” she asks, her voice rising.

  Shrugging, I say, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we could get to know each other better. Become friends or something.”

  Tossing the dishcloth into the sink, she wipes her hands off on a towel and answers, “You need to get something straight. I let you spend the night here because you passed out cold. You didn’t have any ID on you so we couldn’t even call a cab or Uber because we didn’t know where you lived. So we had to drag your dead ass all the way over here from the bar, and trust me, it wasn’t easy. I expected you would wake up and hightail it out of here, because most people I know, wouldn’t be proud of the fact they face-planted and blacked out in a bar. And now you want us to spend the day together.” She looks at me like I’m whacked. Perhaps I am.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  She nods once.

  “Have you ever made a mistake?”

  Her hands settle back on her hips. “That’s ridiculous. Of course, I have.” She waves one hand as though she’s swatting a fly. Her gestures make me want to laugh, but I don’t dare. She’d probably coldcock me.

  “That’s what happened last night. Something occurred earlier, and I ended up in your bar. It was unfortunate, but before I knew it, I’d had more than several too many. I didn’t know what I was doing, only that I wanted to drink through the pain, so to speak. Sorry you had to witness that side of my life.”

>   Her brows raise. “You do that a lot?”

  “No! I mean I’m sorry you had to see me in that state. I don’t do that a lot.” I rub the back of my neck. “It appears I’ve totally made myself look like a huge ass, so I’m going to say thank you, sorry for imposing, and I’ll get out of your hair.” I reach into my pocket, hand her five one hundred dollar bills to cover my stay, as well as the trouble I’ve caused, and go to leave.

  “You might need that.” She points to my dirty T-shirt that’s on the chair.

  “Thanks.” I put it on.

  “You might need these too.” She digs into her pocket and pulls out my watch and my American Express card.

  “What the hell!”

  “I took them as collateral. You know, in case you tried something.”

  Grabbing the items, I shake my head.

  “I told you I saved your life. If we’d left you outside, you’d have been robbed for sure,” she says.

  It’s difficult to argue with her. Nodding curtly, I drag my feet to the door. I really don’t want to leave, because even though she’s exasperating, I like her. When I open the door, to my right is a stairway, which leads to the street. “Um, where exactly am I?”

  “Atlanta. Virginia Highlands to be specific.”

  “Ah. That would make sense.” I was at dinner with my parents near here when we had an argument. That’s how I ended up in her bar.

  Looking back at her, I think again how uniquely beautiful she is. “What’s the name of your bar again?”

  “You’ll pass right by it when you leave.”

  It’s a question I hate asking, but I have to. “Would you by any chance know where my car is parked?”

  She mutters something, which I’m sure isn’t very complimentary, then adds, “How the hell would I know that? I was working my butt off when Jeb brought your sorry ass to my attention.”

  “Who’s Jeb?” I’m not sure I like the sound of Jeb, whoever he is.

  “Jeb is one of my employees, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Hmm. Well, can I ask another favor of you?”

  “Sure, why not?” She throws her hands up in the air.

  “Can you help me look for my car?”

  She starts mumbling, and I hear a fuck and a shit, something about being my personal Uber. Then she grabs her keys and stomps toward me. “Come on.” She locks her door behind us and we head to the street. The sun is bright, making my head clang again.

  “Fuck, this hurts,” I moan.

  “You should’ve thought about that before you liquored yourself up.”

  “Yeah, well, if you had gone through what I had, you would’ve done the same thing.”

  “How can you be so sure?” she asks as she walks.

  “Trust me.”

  She comes to a dead stop and I practically run her over. “It would help if I knew what kind of car I was looking for,” she huffs.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Jesus, you are irritating. Where are your keys?”

  “In my pocket. Why?”

  “Because, fool, you can press that little button that makes your car beep.” By now, she must be convinced I’m a moron.

  Why didn’t I think of that? Digging into my pocket, I pull out the key fob to press the alarm. Nothing. “We must be too far away.”

  She scratches her temple. “I need to get a jacket.”

  “What for?” It’s a little cool, but not cold.

  “Because we can’t walk the streets forever looking for your car. Come on.”

  We go back to her place, where she changes shoes and throws on a coat. Then we walk down a narrow street next to her building and go to the rear of her apartment where a red Vespa sits. She puts on a helmet, reaches into a compartment on the back, and pulls out another. “Here, put this on.”

  “You want me to ride on that with you?”

  “Shut up and put it on so we can go. I don’t have all day, and if you want me to help you find your car, then get your butt on here so we can get a move on.”

  Taking another look at the thing, I have serious doubts we’ll both fit. It’s nothing but a damn scooter. I pray no one sees me on the stupid thing.

  “Are you coming or not?” she asks, impatience edging her voice.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Cramming the helmet on my head, I climb on behind her. “Do you know how to operate this thing?”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve never driven it one single time.” She starts it up and turns back to say, “Don’t fight me on the turns.” Then we’re off. I’m surprised at how fast the little thing moves. She whips out into traffic and I want to scream like a pussy, but I don’t.

  “What color is your car?” she turns and yells.

  “Jesus! Watch where you’re going!”

  “Shut up! I know what I’m doing. Besides, I’m not your personal taxi. What color?”

  “Black. A sports car. Just drive and be careful for Christ’s sake! Let me do the hunting.”

  Her helmet twists from side to side. I can only imagine what she’s mumbling now. She turns up and down the side streets until I eventually locate my car about three quarters of a mile away. “There it is on the right.” She swings over and stops so I can get off the Vespa.

  “Fancy car there. What kind is it?”

  “Ferrari.” Then it hits me. I never did see her bar. “Hey, what’s the name of your place? I forgot all about it.”

  She’s still staring at my car. “You’ve got a lot of money, don’t you? Like a whole lot.”

  “That’s debatable. My family has money. Your place? The name?”

  “Oh. It’s called A Special Place.”

  “Fitting.”

  I never get the chance to thank her for the lift or say anything else before she gives me this funny little salute and drives off, leaving me standing and staring after her. I don’t consider it a problem, because now that I know where Special hangs, it won’t be an issue to find her again.

  Chapter 4

  Special

  My Vespa rumbles into the driveway of the old farmhouse. A dog barks, running up to me with her tail wagging. Actually, her entire butt wags. “Hey, Mokey, what’s going on, girl?” I scratch behind her ears, her favorite place. Her gray muzzle rubs my thigh and I mentally calculate her age. Fifteen. I was eight when we got her. She’s an old thing for a dog, but even though she moves a bit slow, she’s still going strong.

  Mokey follows me up to the front porch and into the house.

  “Spesh, did you let that smelly old hound inside?” It’s like my grandmother has a sixth sense when it comes to that dog.

  “She’s old, Mimi, and needs to rest inside.”

  “Mokey can’t tell the difference between the house and the barn. She’s a dumb old dog.”

  “Maybe, but she’s my dumb old dog.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s mine,” a squeaky voice yells from the back of the house.

  “Cody! How’s it going, my man?”

  “Good, but Mokey told me she was my dog now.” My heart squeezes at the sound of his tiny voice. I bend down to give him a tight hug, and his soft dark curls tickle my cheek. Cody is going on six years old, and the world belongs to him, or so he thinks. Every time I look at his caramel eyes, my ribs nearly break under the weight of my aching heart as I experience the loss of his mother all over again. Sasha would be so proud of him.

  “She did, huh?”

  His little head bobs up and down. “Yep. The other day by the barn. I want her to sleep with me too. So the monsters can’t get me.”

  “There aren’t any monsters in here, but Mokey sleeping with you is a good idea.”

  “Spesh, don’t you dare put those ideas into his head,” Mimi shouts from the kitchen. “Don’t you tell him it’s okay if Mokey sleeps inside.”

  Cody looks at me and we fist bump. Then I say, “Hey, big guy, why don’t you run outside and play for a little while? But don’t go far. Okay?”

  He tears out the front
door and I beeline into the kitchen.

  Mimi’s at the stove, as usual. I move in for a hug and a kiss. There’s nothing better than a Mimi hug, in my opinion.

  “You’re late, Honey Bear.” That’s her nickname for me, because she said I was sweet as honey. I used to come home from school, crying my eyes out when I was little, because I was teased unmercifully over my name. My idiot of a mother never once thought of the ramifications I would face being named Special. At school it was “Special T” or “Special of the Day” or “you really think you’re Special, don’t you?” Then they’d add, “Oh, that’s right, you are!” Then the cackles would begin.

  Mimi begged my mother to change it, but she refused, saying I was the most special thing she’d ever seen. What a dumb ass, is all I have to say about that.

  Finally when I was older, she agreed, only she was never around long enough to do anything about it. When I turned eighteen, I said fuck it all. The way I look at it is, I am special to have survived all the shit that was thrown at me. That’s how I got into ink. My first tattoo came on my eighteenth birthday, and it says, “I am Speshial,” in the most gorgeous script on the center of my back. I spelled it that way because those closest to me call me Spesh and that’s how Sasha would spell it in the notes we passed in school. Mimi wasn’t too happy about it at first, but understood why. When I kept getting more ink, I could see disappointment scored in her eyes. After I explained how the art was my expression of emotions, she finally accepted it. Now she asks about them and is more curious than anything.

  “Yeah, sorry for running behind. I had a little issue that needed to be taken care of.”

  “Issue?” Mimi asks.

  Waving my hand, I say, “It was nothing.”

  She squints at me and says, “It was more than nothing.”

  The woman is a psychic, I swear. So I tell her about drunk Weston. She slaps her leg and howls. “Oh my. I can just see your face when he asked you to wash his shirt.”

  “I know. Who does that?”

  “Rich boys, that’s who. Honey Bear, he’s probably been catered to his whole life.”

  “You think? He acted like he owned the place. I swear, Mimi, men are ridiculous.”