by Nella Tyler
The waiter came and I tore my attention away from Natalie and her client long enough to figure out what I wanted to order: pan-fried trout with roasted potatoes and sautéed green beans, with a mixed vegetable salad to start, and a glass of wine to go with it all. The waiter left the table, and I tried to occupy myself with my phone, but I couldn’t help glancing at Natalie every few moments, wondering how she was doing.
As her date with her new client went on, I could tell it wasn’t going nearly as well as my first meeting had been. She was seated just far enough away that I couldn’t hear most of what was happening, but I caught the sight of frustration on her face, along with a few expressions that looked pretty dismayed. I started to wonder if I shouldn’t intervene, but for all I knew, the guy she was coaching, her new client, was just saying some particularly terrible things about women in general.
My salad and wine came and I tried to make myself mind my own business. I doubted that Natalie would want me to interfere with her work—even if it didn’t seem like a very pleasant meeting for her. She told you she’s used to handling clients, and she’s been doing it for months now—I’m sure she’s figured out ways to deal with even irritating or terrible people. I couldn’t help glancing her way as I heard her date’s voice beginning to rise over the muted murmur of the dining room though. I caught a fragment of a sentence from him here and there: “…it’s not like you have any authority over me…” “…You’re just someone the agency hired…” “We both know that you’re just…”
I glanced at Natalie’s face—she was looking more and more upset the longer the date went on, and I was starting to get angry for her sake. It was pretty obvious to me why the man she was meeting with would need a matchmaker to find a girlfriend or wife: I couldn’t imagine anyone who would treat someone who was supposed to be helping him so poorly would have much luck with women in general. How many of her clients are assholes like this guy?
In spite of how hard I could tell Natalie was working to maintain her composure, as the date continued, and her client started to get louder, I started to hear her speaking to him as she pitched her voice to be heard over his ranting. “Mr. Giles, I need to insist that you remain professional right now…” “Then yes, I will absolutely be making a report about your current inability to work with a coach…” “I would really rather we came to an accord in terms of how we’re going to proceed, but if you insist…”
My main dish came, but even though it smelled amazing, I couldn’t quite make myself eat it. I was too wrapped up in the unfolding drama of Natalie’s date with her new client. It seemed impossible to me that she should—or would—put up with the kind of comments I could hear him making. If it had been me in her shoes, I was sure I would have already left the restaurant, but somehow she managed to mostly keep her composure and keep going through the date. The rest of the dining room started to get quieter and quieter as the man that Natalie was with became more and more obstreperous.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Baxter?” I looked away from the couple a few tables down and glanced at the waiter.
“Isn’t there something you can do about the man at that table?” I nodded in the direction of Natalie and her client.
“I think one of the waiters has asked him to keep his voice down, but unfortunately…” The waiter shrugged, indicating his helplessness. “He’s an investor in this restaurant, so he’s a little more difficult to kick out than the average customer.” My stomach twisted with disgust at the sight of the man.
“Since I’ve paid for you, you might as well come home with me,” the man said. My heart beat faster in my chest at the loudly spoken words.
“Excuse me?” Any pretense that Natalie had shown of being calm and collected evaporated. “I think you have a really, really mistaken idea of the services that my agency provides.”
“I’m not mistaken,” the man said, and I could hear the sneer in his voice. “Don’t worry, sweetie—I’ll pay you a generous tip.”
“You won’t, because that’s not what this is about,” Natalie said firmly. I couldn’t help but smile slightly at the strident tone of her voice. “Not only am I not going home with you—now or ever—but I am going to contact the agency right now and make sure that you’re barred from our services, as well as the services of any other agency in the state and as many of the other agencies in the country as we can reach out to.”
“You bitch!” I saw the man stand up, towering over her. “You wouldn’t dare, you fucking whore.”
“This meeting is over,” she said, standing up herself. “I’m calling the agency as soon as I walk out of the door.” She started to move away from the table, and the man grabbed her.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I heard him say, cocking a fist. The sight of it made my blood boil, and before I knew it, I was on my feet, as well. I barely had time to watch as the client started punching and kicking at Natalie, throwing her onto the table, screaming and shouting obscenities about her being a slut and a whore and good for nothing but a cheap, easy lay.
In an instant, I was at the table. I grabbed the man’s hand and pulled it around to his back, using the leverage to shove him away from Natalie. I threw him against the chair he’d gotten out of and held him there while I looked around—everything had turned to chaos. The Maître d’ appeared out of nowhere and hurried over to where I stood. “Okay, asshole,” I told Natalie’s client. “You’re done. If the management here won’t call the cops, I will.”
“My deepest apologies,” the Maître d’ began, looking as if he’d swallowed a few dozen thumbtacks. “We’re calling the police right now, sir.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll restrain this…” I shook my head. “Person, until they arrive. I don’t want him to attempt an escape.”
“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Baxter,” the Maître d’ said, nodding enthusiastically. “I apologize again that your evening has been interrupted.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” I told the man, irritated. “There’s a woman a few feet away from me who’s probably had a much harder time of it than I have right now.” I looked over to where Natalie had fallen onto the floor. She was conscious, but I could see the bruises beginning to form on her face, some blood spotting the tablecloth, the carpet, and her clothes.
“Of course!” The Maître d’ looked around and the hostess came over as if on cue, kneeling down next to Natalie and beginning to quietly ask how injured she was, whether she would need an ambulance, all of the standard questions. The client I’d manhandled began to struggle underneath me, and I had to focus on him, keeping him pinned against the chair, arm held against his back so he wouldn’t be able to get away from me without dislocating his shoulder.
It seemed to take an hour for the police to arrive, but I found out later it was only fifteen minutes. They hurried into the restaurant, and I let the man go as soon as they told me I could. I knelt down on the floor next to Natalie, who looked dazed and injured, but not seriously. “How are you?”
“I didn’t even notice you come in,” Natalie said, smiling and then wincing at the pain from a split lip. “God, I hope they actually charge him with something.”
“I am going to raise so much hell that they’ll charge him with whatever they possibly can,” I told her. One of the clients I had worked with in the past had helped to organize the annual Police Ball, and through that client, I had managed to forge a few relationships within the Union, as well as an acquaintance with the District Attorney. I made a mental list of people I needed to call, and told myself to take care of it as soon as I left the restaurant.
In the meantime, the police took Natalie’s statement, as well as mine. I explained that I had come on my own, just to have dinner, and had noticed the client that Natalie was with acting strangely throughout their date. I backed Natalie up on every detail, even the ones I had missed, and they led the man away in cuffs. “You’ll want to go to the hospital, make sure you aren’t more injured than you think,” the officer to
ld her.
“I think I’m mostly fine—just very sore,” she told her man, giving him a half-smile.
“I can drive you, if you want,” I told her, taking in the sight of her bloodstained clothes and the bruises on her face and wrists.
“No, really, I’ll go to the doctor in the morning, and if I feel really bad tonight, I’ll have someone take me. I’d really rather just get home and get cleaned up right now,” she said, shaking her head at my offer.
“Would you like an escort? Just to make sure…if you’re more injured than you think…” The police officer was an older guy—maybe in his mid-fifties—and it was obvious to me that he’d seen too many people refuse help, only to end up more injured when they tried to drive home with a concussion or something else wrong with them.
“I’ll accept that,” Natalie said. She looked at me and gave me a wry smile. “Sorry I ruined your dinner,” she told me.
“Oh shut up,” I said, shaking my head. “If anyone ruined it, it was that asshole. Go home and get cleaned up.” I watched the police officer guide Natalie out of the restaurant and wished that I had had the moral courage to insist on her letting me help instead. I went back to my table to see the check was lying there, marked paid, and my leftovers had been carefully boxed up.
“Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Baxter,” my waiter said, coming to my table as soon as I sat down. “I hope you’ll see us again soon—I hope this incident hasn’t put you off.”
“No,” I told the man, gathering up my food and my receipt. “I’ll be back in soon, I’m sure.” I stood up, feeling old and angry, and left the restaurant.
Chapter Twenty Five
Natalie
I checked the time on my phone. Brady should be up from his nap in about twenty minutes. It had been a day since my disastrous first meeting with Nathan Giles, and I had canceled the session I had with another client. I was free for the entire day. I sighed, tugging my favorite, worn blanket tighter around me. I didn’t want to take the full dose of the pain medication, especially if Brady was going to be awake and playing, but the half-dose I allowed myself to take didn’t completely dull the aches and pains and twinges from the injuries that Giles had given me.
At that, I had to remind myself that it could have been much, much worse. According to the doctor I ended up going to see, I had two bruised ribs, a sprained knee and wrist, and of course, the various bruises on my face, arms, and legs, along with the split lip I’d gotten, but I hadn’t broken anything, and I hadn’t needed any stitches. I had two weeks’ worth of Vicodin and prescription-strength Aleve, a brace for my knee and wrist, and instructions to ice the worst of the injuries every few hours and keep them elevated as much as possible. Of course, I couldn’t rest as much as the doctor wanted me to—Brady, at three, couldn’t understand the extent of my injuries and wasn’t about to change his normal activity level to accommodate me—but I was glad that he slept well at night and took a nap regularly during the day, and that for at least some of the time, I could sit on the couch and watch him from there.
I’d called Katie as soon as I could, informing her about Nathan Giles’ horrific behavior, and she’d immediately sprung into action: he would, as I’d told him, be banned from any of the matchmaking services that we had any kind of relationship with, and the company would be filing civil charges against him to go along with my criminal charges. He might be rich, but as long as we could push the matter, he wasn’t going to get away with what he’d done.
I shifted on the couch to try and get into a more comfortable position and winced as the movement sent new pain through my body. It could have been a lot worse, I reminded myself for the tenth time. In fact, if Zeke hadn’t been there, it probably would have been a lot worse. I shivered, remembering the feeling of dread that had washed through me when Giles had come after me. Normally, I’m fairly good at defending myself, and I did manage to get one or two hits in. But I was so shocked that someone would actually get so physical in a public place like a restaurant that I hadn’t been as quick as I normally would be.
I remembered Zeke’s sudden appearance at the table, remembered the sight of him hitting Nathan Giles, twisting the man’s arm behind his back, and pinning him to the chair. He had looked amazing: strong, capable, and fierce. Almost unwillingly, I compared him to my ex in my mind. While I was sure that at some point in his life, Alex had loved me very dearly indeed, I didn’t think that he would have been even half as capable as Zeke had been in protecting me. The thought made me feel a little ashamed; I knew I shouldn’t compare my ex-husband with a man I wasn’t even romantically involved with, but I couldn’t help it.
And, Zeke had stayed with me even when the cops arrived. He had offered to take me to the hospital to get checked out. If I hadn’t been feeling so angry, so shaken up and determined to call Katie and get the ball rolling on making sure that Nathan Giles got what he deserved, I might have actually taken Zeke up on his offer. I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the fact that he had been there, in that restaurant, at that particular moment in time. I had no idea at all what had brought him to the place where I was meeting with Nathan for the first time, but I had to admit that if anyone else had been there instead of him, I would probably had come out of the meeting with more than one broken bone.
My timer went off, and I got off of the couch as slowly and carefully as possible, turning the buzzer off. It was time to wake Brady up from his nap; hopefully he would be able to get himself out of bed without help from me—because between my wrist and my knee, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to drag him out from under the covers. I limped through the house and down the hall to his little bedroom. “Hey, little bug,” I called in through the door quietly. “Time to get up.” Brady wriggled and squirmed under the blankets, murmuring something sleepily. “If you get up, we can get a snack!” I grinned to myself as he sat bolt upright in his bed.
“Snack?” his eyes were bright, no sign of any sleepiness at all in him.
“Come on, little man. Let’s get you a snack and get something fun on TV.” Brady followed me into the kitchen like I was the pied piper, and I managed to get a bowl of cut-up fruit out of the fridge, along with a jar of almond butter. He toddled back into the living room to wait for me while I wrestled with his snack, scooping out a few spoonfuls of banana slices, apple chunks, and grapes onto a plate and then adding a dollop of almond butter on the side for him to dip them into. I fixed myself a bowl of the fruit as well, and limped back into the living room where my son was already seated on the floor next to the coffee table, rummaging through his box of toys for what he wanted. I put on an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba and sat back, propping my injured leg on the coffee table.
“Mama,” Brady said, dipping a banana slice into his almond butter and quickly devouring it.
“What’s up, little boy?” I munched an apple slice.
“Who hurted you?” I snorted.
“One of my clients,” I explained. “I just met him for the first time. He was a bad man.”
“Not Mr. Zeke.” He made the statement not quite a question.
“No, not Mr. Zeke,” I confirmed. “Mr. Zeke actually helped me.” Brady selected a grape and ate it thoughtfully.
“You see Mr. Zeke soon?” I shrugged.
“I’m not sure.”
“I wanna see him,” he told me. “He’s nice.”
“He’s very nice,” I agreed. “Why don’t you watch your show? I think it’s your favorite episode.” Brady turned his attention halfway onto the TV, continuing to meditatively consume his snack. I slipped my phone out of my pocket as I decided that dinner—three hours in the future—would be leftovers of the spaghetti sauce I’d made earlier in the week, along with some pasta. I pulled up Zeke’s contact information and opened up a text message to him. I wanted to thank you again—if I remembered to thank you the first time—for what you did for me, I wrote. I’m a bit worse for the wear, but nothing that won’t heal. I set my phone aside and gathered up my em
pty bowl and Brady’s empty plate.
By the time I managed to limp back into the living room, I heard my phone ringing; a quick look at the screen told me that it was Zeke. “Hey,” I said as soon as the line connected.
“How bad are the injuries?”
I laughed. “Nothing broken,” I said first. “A couple of bruised ribs, a sprained knee and wrist, bruises here and there. Nothing needed stitches. I think that’s probably the best outcome I could have expected.”
“I should have gotten up sooner,” he said. “But there’s no sense in rehashing it, I guess; is there?”
“None at all,” I agreed. “I’ve got the next few days off on Katie’s orders, but I wanted to schedule our next date as soon as I could.” My heart was beating faster in my chest, for some reason I couldn’t fathom. There was nothing strange or unusual or nervous-making about going on another practice date with Zeke.
“I will actually have to get back to you on that,” eh said, sounding excited. “I finally got a woman to agree to go out with me—can you believe it?” My heart stuttered in my chest, not quite stopping.
“Oh, that’s great,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as cheerful as possible. “That’s…that’s really good!”
“It was a woman from the coffee shop I usually go to in the mornings,” he explained. “You have no idea how thrilled I was. It was amazing.” I forced myself to smile—both because I knew Zeke would be able to hear it in my voice and because Brady kept glancing at me.