by Gigi Blume
“I don’t.” I go for cool as a cucumber but I’m such a liar.
“Really? Because this game of twenty questions you’re playing sure seems like you do.”
His chest heaves under the thin fabric of his dress shirt and I try with all my might not to let my eyes dawdle there. He frees the top button and tugs at his tie. Clearly I’m making him uncomfortable. Good. But there’s a storm in his eyes and the forecast predicts thunder all up in my business. I brace myself but his next words surprise me.
“You know what? I’m glad we’re getting all this out in the open. Tell me, Rose. Why does it bother you? You don’t give a fig about me. You made that perfectly clear when I came back home from college.”
“Oh did I? Surprised you noticed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re a homewrecker and I’m done with this conversation.”
He narrows his gaze in a thoughtful way. A thinking way? Anyway, something I said gives him pause.
“Backdoor man.”
“Ummm... what?”
“Backdoor man is probably more accurate than saying homewrecker. Just in that it’s more widely used when it comes to men.”
“Whatever you call it doesn’t make the act any less deplorable.”
“I agree.”
Grrr! I have to get away from him—even if that makes me a horror flick cliché. I storm off, bringing my heels down on the floor with hard clicks. I imagine they’re bullets coming out of my feet. Pew pew pew. If there really is a psycho killer hiding in the shadows, he doesn’t stand a chance.
“Hold up. Wait.” Ingram catches up to me and takes hold of my wrist. I recoil from him, grossed out by his touch.
“You do you. It’s none of my business. Just don’t touch me.”
“Touch you?” He half laughs. “I wouldn’t presume. But maybe it’s time I started to.”
He’s all up in my space now—practically stepping on my toes. I back away but he’s right on me, never giving me an inch of reprieve. My back runs into a dough proofing rack and Ingram’s hands hit the glass on either side of me, caging me between his strong arms. I could easily slip under or give him the knee but I’m paralyzed by whatever venom radiates from his skin. There’s a charge between us and I hate how much I want him. I blame the sultry red lighting.
“Tell me what this is...” he rumbles, “...Rosemary.”
My name is a whisper on his lips laced with sandpaper. It hangs in the air. A challenge.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know what this is. Jealousy? Naïveté? Self-inflicted torment?
“Survival,” I say and when I open my eyes there’s a shift in his expression. I can’t quite place it. He seems softer now, even with his face half in shadow. He drops his arms but doesn’t back away. His mere presence locks me in place. The horror moviegoers are throwing popcorn at me right about now. “Just run,” they say. “He’s the killer.”
Yes, yes movie watchers. We already established that.
“The woman I’m supposed to meet tonight...” His hands go to rest on his waist and he lowers his eyes to look at my shoes.
That’s right. They are lethal weapons. Please continue.
“It’s not what you think.”
Oh, do tell.
He lifts his gaze to meet mine and suddenly I’m reminded of the star football player, slash homecoming king, slash lead in all the high school musicals. Basically the most popular guy in school. Now I know he’s laying it on extra thick. So smooth. A tiny grin tugs at his mouth and amusement coats his words when he says, “She’s my grandmother.”
4
INGRAM
Did I tell her I’m having relations with a married woman? No.
Did I let her jump to conclusions about it? Possibly.
Did I get a small thrill from her jealous line of questioning? Yes, oh yes.
A rainbow of emotions crosses her features. She goes from complete surprise to confusion, then from relief to anger in the blink of an eye. If this was a 1950’s romance film, she’d have slapped me by now. I take her hand before she gets any ideas.
“Come on. Let’s see if there’s an employee lounge in this place.”
I tug her to me, guiding her along. Surprisingly, she falls into step with ease. I want to lace my fingers through hers but I don’t dare shift my tender hold on her hand. We make our way through a maze of enormous mixing machines, conveyor belts, and ovens. I consider leaving a trail of pita bread crumbs so we can find our way back.
We’re a couple of minutes along when Eugene’s voice stops us in our tracks. There’s a speaker on the ceiling and he’s shouting through it.
“Ne? Akúi?”
Rosemary perks up. “Yes! Eugene. We can hear you. We’re saved!”
“Ne? Den íne energopiiméno. Hello you.”
“Eugene?”
Radio silence for twenty seconds but it feels like twenty minutes. Then there’s some shuffling on Eugene’s end.
“Why this malakia doesn’t work?”
Rosemary calls back. “It works. I can hear you. Eugene. We’re locked inside.”
“Ne? Alexis?”
“No it’s me... Rosemary. And Ingram.”
“Alexis?” he says again.
Rosemary cries out louder. “ROSEMARY!”
“Alexis. Péxe ti lísta anaparagogís ee-oot-zeen.”
There’s a computerized beep, then the distinctive voice of Alexis responds, “I can’t find the answer to the question I heard.”
It occurs to me right away he’s trying to work his artificial intelligence speaker and can’t figure it out.
He repeats himself, “Alexis. Péxe ti lísta anaparagogís ee-oot-zeen.”
Alexis answers back, “Sorry, I’m having trouble understanding you right now.”
Eugene’s not speaking to us. Obviously. But Rosemary keeps trying to communicate with him anyway. She’s a bloodhound not giving up.
“The system he has in the factory must be connected to his Alexis device at home,” I say. I know this because I have an Alexis smart speaker.
I once spooked my mom when she was watering my plants for me. I was on a business trip in Vegas and bored out of my mind—and I knew what time she’d be there, judging my life choices. So I had a little fun. My neighbors later told me she screamed bloody murder thinking my apartment was haunted until she figured out I could control Alexis with my phone. We still laugh about it at family gatherings. And when I say we, I mean me.
Here at Eugene’s factory, he’s got his smart speakers in every corner. But I don’t think he realizes he’s connected. Old guys, am I right?
“Gamóto. Ilíthia mihaní.”
“What’s he saying?”
I shrug. “It’s Greek to me.”
She is not amused.
“Eugene! Eugene! Can you hear me? It’s Rosemary.” She’s waving her arms like a madwoman.
“Do you think he can see you?” In the dark.
“Don’t these things have cameras? Maybe he checks up on his factory workers.”
“Why would he need to do that? To make sure his employees aren’t pushing his pita bread on the black market?”
Eugene’s voice echoes, “Alexis. You e-speak Eliniká?”
“Shuffling songs by Metallica.”
I hear Eugene mumble something and even in Greek I know he’s cursing.
Meanwhile, Rosemary’s looking for the cameras.
“Maybe he’ll see us if we find the security camera,” she says.
If there are cameras, we’ll look like blurry red blobs. But I suppose it’s worth a shot.
Before I know it, we’re both running down the aisles and corridors screaming and waving our arms to the dulcet sounds of Metallica’s Whiplash. We shout out, “We’re here, we’re here!” while Eugene’s calling his device every name in the book.
“She no listen, because she’s a woman. Ti diáolo? Tzába leftá.”
Metalli
ca stops abruptly while Alexis deciphers Eugene’s accent.
“Here’s a station you might like. Playing Katy Perry.”
Rosemary and I cry in unison, “Nooooo!”
Eugene must have done the same because Katy Perry is short lived. Then I guess he called over his ten-year-old grandson because a kid’s voice comes over the speakers.
“Alexis. Play Eugene’s playlist.”
Ohhhh. That’s what he was trying to say.
Then this music comes on and I can’t even. Whatever Eugene’s playlist is, it’s some freaky stuff. It’s pretty much edgy electric guitars and a guy screaming at the top of his lungs into a microphone. In Greek, I suppose.
Rosemary’s about to lose it right there in the bagging aisle. “Oh heavens. Make it stop.”
“Alexis, stop,” I say.
The music silences for about 30 seconds then comes back on even louder. This time it’s a Credence Clearwater Revival knock-off. Also in Greek. And, admittedly, a vast improvement from the last song.
I command it to stop again. Again the music comes back in full force. We could be at this all night.
“What is this anyway?” she asks like I have all the answers. Her guess is as good as mine but I take a stab at it.
“Sounds like classic rock in Greek.”
“It’s horrendous yet strangely danceable.” She’s tapping her toes now.
I could just picture a wild party at Eugene’s house with a bunch of old Greek guys rockin’ out to this stuff. I give up.
“I don’t think he could hear us,” I say.
She nods, staring off into the distance. She’s a trooper, but I can tell her confidence is wearing down.
I cradle her chin. “Hey. We’ll get out of here. Don’t worry.”
She raises her big, doleful eyes to meet my gaze. My heart bangs wildly but I need to keep it together for her. I try to lighten the mood.
“We can make the most of it while we’re here. What do you want to do?”
“I want my bed and my fuzzy blankets.”
I place my arm around her. “How about dinner?”
“Dinner?” Her eyes sparkle. It’s killing me softly.
“Sure. Maybe one of the factory workers left his turkey sandwich behind.”
She chuckles. Like we’d actually eat an old sandwich. Or maybe we would. “Heck yeah. Bonus if there’s stale pizza,” she says. I love the way she takes a thought and runs with it. She’s fun to be around. I could get used to this.
We scope out the whole place. We don’t find anything we haven’t seen before when we were looking for a way out. I feel like we’re just going in circles. Everything looks the same. Then a shiny door catches my eye. I know we’ve passed it earlier but since it doesn’t lead to the outside, it didn’t interest me before. I figure maybe it’s a storage room—until I feel the cold handle and crank it open. A flood of white light escapes along with a gust of chill. I didn’t notice a walk-in refrigerator on Eugene’s list of assets. I’d have remembered a detail like that. They’re worth a small fortune. Most of the equipment here is. If we had to do an asset sale, a walk-in would carry a pretty price tag.
Rosemary hovers at the threshold. “Why does a pita bread factory need a fridge? None of the ingredients are perishable.”
I incline my chin toward large bins on the shelves. “Flour stays fresher when it’s kept cold.”
I walk in, hoping to find that turkey sandwich. Or maybe a bottle of red wine. I’m not so lucky, but I do find little pint-sized tubs of something. “Come here. Take a look at this.”
She shakes her head, holding the door wide open. “No way. I’m not getting locked in there.”
I worked in a restaurant one summer. I consider telling Rosemary that walk-ins have safety latches to prevent exactly what she fears, but after our experience tonight, nothing would surprise me.
I peek at the plastic pints. They’re dated with sharpie scribbles and some other chicken scratch I can’t read. I grab a couple and bring them to Rosemary.
“Yesterday’s date,” I say. “Whatever it is, it’s fresh.”
She opens a lid and sniffs. Her expression brightens. “It’s hummus.”
I sniff, too. Not that I don’t believe her, More like I want to experience it with her. I know I’m being ridiculous, but when it comes to her, I’ve got a serious case of FOMO.
She dips a finger and I about come undone when she brings it to her mouth and takes a taste. There’s a smudge of hummus on her bottom lip. I want to wipe it off with my thumb and lock my eyes on hers while I have my own taste test. See how she likes them apples. I doubt she’s doing this to me on purpose, but tell that to my... apples. I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.
She sucks in her lips and the hummus is a memory only to be replaced by a silky dew upon her lips. With a wave of awareness I realize: we may have arrived today as adversaries, but I’ll eat my hat if we leave that way.
The two tubs of hummus are still in my hands but I’ll drop them in a flash if it means I could press her against me. She draws me in with her glazed eyes and parting lips. Despite the cold on my back, I feel heat wash through my blood, originating behind my navel and flooding to my chest, my arms, my legs, and... I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s prose... any other part belonging to a man. I know, I know. I didn’t pursue theatre as a career but I’ll always be a tad dramatic. And right here, right now, in the doorway of the walk-in refrigerator, I plan to seal our love with a righteous kiss. Thank you, Willie Shakespeare.
I’m half a second away from tossing the hummus over my shoulder to free my hands when a beep beep beep sounds over our heads.
Freaking refrigerator door alarm.
I don’t want to let it bother me but Rosemary jolts back, startled out of the steamy-times stupor and blinks like she’s coming to from my evil spell. The moment is gone. It’s not how I pictured our first kiss anyhow.
Her cheeks are blazing, I can tell she’s trying to regain her composure. Yeah. I did that. She’s into me and doesn’t want to admit it.
“I’ll go get a bag of bread,” she says and hurries off.
I give myself a minute to take a calming breath, letting my blood cool. Back on the shelf I find five more varieties of hummus. I stack them in my arms and go to meet Rosemary. She’s at one of the stainless steel prep tables twisting her hair up in a bun. She’d brought over four packages of pita bread. Either she thinks I eat like a pig or she’s got a carb addiction.
We don’t speak. We don’t address the elephant in the room. We don’t pass GO. For the next ten or fifteen minutes we test every variety of hummus with the oddest selection of dinner music imaginable. Most of it is similar sounding Greek rock songs, but every now and then a top ten hit from the seventies sneaks in there. We’re nibbling away to the Bee Gees when I decide someone’s got to say something, anything at all. So I address the obvious.
“This one must be pesto hummus.”
She smiles with her eyes, mouth full of pita. She’s more relaxed now that she’s fed. If I’d known her hunger was the source of her saltiness all these years I’d have carried a Snickers bar in my pocket.
“I like the sun-dried tomato,” she says, dipping another triangle of pita in the tub. I like watching her eat. She’s not shy about it. When a dollop of hummus falls on her blouse, she doesn’t miss a beat and wipes it right off with a piece of pita.
“Waste not, want not,” she says with a wink. I’m reminded of the sweet girl I once knew and how she grew into the most alluring woman. How I’d pine in my dorm room, waiting out the months until she graduated high school so I could ask her out. Does that make me seem like a creeper? Give a guy a break. She turned eighteen that May.
Now she’s opening up again—that hot moment in the walk-in forgotten. Her smile is contagious. The joy she gets from seven varieties of hummus is just a glimpse at her zeal for life. That’s the Rosemary I know.
We eat our way through the gastronomical tour of Eugene�
�s hummus, guessing all the flavors since neither one of us could decipher the sharpie scribblings on the plastic lids. There’s a spicy one, probably jalapeño, a smokey sweet potato, and one with so much roasted garlic I dare Dracula to just try his luck. The one I like the least is red, I’m guessing there’s beets in there. Rosemary likes them all and can’t decide on her favorite until she tries the brown one. I almost didn’t bring that one out because I thought it was black beans or something. And heaven knows it’s not a good idea to have beans if you’re trapped with an attractive woman all night. Then again... what’s hummus made out of? Oh yeah. Garbanzo beans. Wonderful.
She digs right into it. This woman has no fear. She moans the moment the dip hits her lips and her eyes almost roll back into her brain.
“Mmmm. This is amaaaazing.”
I want to tell her she’s amazing. Just the brave factor alone makes me want to get on my knee right now and ask her to have my babies. Too much? I did say I was dramatic.
She shovels more of it into her mouth. Yep. I’m a goner.
“You must really like black beans.”
She covers her mouth with her hand to hide a giggle, but I already saw her teeth covered in brown stuff.
“I do when they taste like chocolate,” she says and wags her brows.
“Chocolate?” I take a tentative taste. It’s surprisingly good. Who knew?
“Eugene’s been holding out on me,” she says. “This is a total game changer. It’s just what my plan needs to—“ Her eyes shoot to me and she stops cold.
“To what?” I bid.
“Never mind.”
There’s that guarded look again. She thinks I’m the devil in blue jeans. She doesn’t trust me. I’m the enemy who wants to steal her client. But nothing could be farther from the truth.
“I know you want to save this company. Believe it or not I do too. But we have to look at the data—”
“The data?” She snorts. “We don’t interpret data the same. You see black beans. I see chocolate. You don’t understand the heart and soul that goes into small businesses. You think you can waltz in here with your five-thousand-dollar suit and your daddy’s fancy firm behind you, but you don’t see the dream you’re about to rip apart.”