by Judith Tewes
A waitress started in our direction only to be commandeered by a blue-haired woman at another table. Grace shifted, her chair scrapping against the ceramic tile in an embarrassing restaurant faux pas.
People stared.
I poked my tongue out at them.
“So, why can’t we talk about boobs?” Grace tipped my menu down and leered at my happy-face T-shirt. “Are you sporting a third nipple I don’t know about?”
“Don’t. Just don’t, okay?” I jerked the menu back into position.
“Wow, Charlie.” She laughed. “What’s the big deal?”
“Let’s just say I had a rotten brassiere day and it’s not nice to keep reminding me.” I scanned the menu, drooling a little. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I think this is the extract same menu as before, but with stupider names. The Heebie Jeebee Platter. See? It doesn’t even make sense. I have no taste bud reference for a Heebie Jeebee. Isn’t that supposed to be something scary? It’s not even Italian.”
“A rose by any other name…” Distracted, Grace began to check over the goods, making unnecessary and annoying grunts of approval. Grace was like my second mother; she’d known our dysfunctional family since the dawn of time and was one of the few who could give as well as take our constant sarcasm.
My stomach growled. I was so freaking hungry. I’d probably gain five pounds this week and it was all Ty’s fault. I eat when I’m stressed.
“Ready to order?” Grace asked. “I’m ready. You’re ready. We’re ready, hello, does anyone work here...oh, screw this…” She let out a two-fingered wolf whistle. Coincidentally, a harried looking waitress stopped at our table.
“What was that for? I was getting to you.”
“I’ll have the special,” Grace announced as if the waitress had politely asked for our order. “That’s the chicken breast, right?”
I groaned behind my menu.
The woman frowned, and then examined the sandwich board near the entrance. “No chicken breast special tonight. Will shrimp do?”
“Shrimp breasts?” Grace asked, blinking innocently.
“What?” the waitress snapped.
“You said you have shrimp breasts on special?”
“Shrimp breasts?” she repeated. “Not that I know of, but I’ll ask.”
“Oh, please don’t…” I said, but the waitress was suddenly an eager beaver.
“We’re all pretty new,” she explained, bringing forth a cell phone from the front pouch of her apron. “We only opened a week ago.” She dialed a number.
Not three tables over, another waitress answered.
“Hey, how’s things? I know, it’s insane tonight.” Our waitress laughed. “Yeah, but he’s totally married. I saw him pocket his ring when he came in. Listen, this lady at my table wants to know if we have shrimp breasts.”
In disbelief, Grace and I watched the other waitress excuse herself from a bewildered table of hungry folk, their orders obviously unfinished. When she arrived, she asked, “I don’t think shrimp have breasts, do they?”
A heated debate ensued.
Grace shot me a gleeful look.
I’d had enough. “Put me down for a plate of spaghetti,” I told them and went to the ladies room.
When I returned, Grace was alone and all apologetic.
“Let’s make a clean….” Grace inhaled, smothering her amusement with extra oxygen, “…breast of the evening.”
“You are so evil.”
“Because I want to make the breast of our time together?”
“Can you stop now?”
“Okay,” Grace said, using an edge of the tablecloth to wipe away tears. “Oh, God, that was good.”
“I thought you milked it a bit much,” I said.
“Seriously, kiddo.” Grace tilted her head, assessing me with a knowing look. “All shits and giggles aside. How are things with you and Monty?”
I shrugged. “It could be worse.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the truth.” I met her gaze with a level one of my own. “Really. I’m sort of stunned that we get along. He’s crotchety, sure. Opinionated. Sarcastic. But, you know, it has to be said – Monty’s a lot like Mom.”
Grace snorted. “Don’t ever let her hear you say that. She’d eat you alive.”
“I know.” I laughed, because, yeah, my mother could level a person with just a look. If she was giving you a good tongue lashing, you’d feel the sting for weeks. “It’s weird how strong Mom is about certain things and then with Dad, she just,” I sucked in a breath, “shattered.” I stared at Grace, always so confident, so true to herself, even if she was a total drama queen. “You wouldn’t have. You’re stronger than she is.”
“I’m stronger than her?” Grace echoed. “Where did that come from?” A heavy frown pulled her blonde brows into a solid V.
“Well, you’ve had a lot of nasty stuff happen in your life.” My throat tightened. “But you’re not the one in rehab.”
“That’s not fair.” Grace slapped her hand on the table. “I didn’t have the man I love die, only to find out he’d been betraying me for years. Your mother’s a hell of a lot stronger than I could ever be. She’s practically an amazon, Charlie. She’s doing whatever it takes to get herself, and both you guys, back to a happier, healthier place.” Grace gave me a sad smile. “Can’t you see that?”
I shrugged, avoiding her gaze. How had we gone from making boob jokes to dissecting my life? I needed to change the subject. Quick. My attention fixed on three handsome men who strutted into the restaurant, finding them to be a great way to cleanse my mental palette.
Very, very, very nice.
“Oh…oh…oh shit.” Grace squealed.
I spun around to see what her deal was, but she’d gone AWOL. I half stood, craning my head this way and that to see where the hell she went. Had I upset her that much with my talk of Mom and rehab? Something dug into my ankle. I peered under the cloth, saw Grace’s panicked face and joined her under the table.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Wrong?” Grace hissed. “Get your head out of your ass, Charlie. I’m under a fucking table.” She grabbed me and shook my shoulders. “You need to create a diversion before he sees me.”
“He who?”
“Blake!”
“Oh,” I said, getting the lay of the land. Blake was the one guy Grace couldn’t get over. Sure, she was married now and everything, but she’d always told us if Blake walked into her life again – she’d be toast. Spontaneous adultery. Grace was strong, but we all had our kryptonite. “What kind of diversion? Usually diversion means you blow something up.”
“Just a diversion, okay? Anything, whatever – I need to find the back way out of this limp noodle.”
“I never noticed one before.”
“There’s always a back door – don’t you watch movies?”
Together we spilled from our cave and scooted past curious eyes. We stood behind a hundred-gallon fish tank. We didn’t have to worry about Blake seeing us through the water - it was foggy and slightly green. One lone goldfish gasped for breath at the surface.
Grace grimaced. “They really should clean that.”
“Which one is Blake?” I asked, just noticing the men were triplets, identical except for their clothes. Apparently one copy of those perfectly chiseled features wasn’t enough.
“How do I know? They’re too far away. Besides, they need to be naked for me to be sure.” Grace grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the swinging kitchen door. “This way.”
We navigated the narrow rows of stainless steel appliances and counter space. Cooks waved their spatulas at us, scowling through steam and cussing in Italian. It smelled amazing. I was truly starving.
I grabbed a fresh bun from a cooling rack.
“Where’s the back door?” Grace yelled.
Concentrating on eating and not on our speedy exit, my heel slid along a fallen strand of l
inguini. I pitched forward, launched the bun in the air, and I fell…into someone’s arms. Strong, warm, muscular arms. A tingle of awareness crept up the back of my neck.
“I’ve got you,” an eerily familiar voice said in my ear.
I scrambled out of his grip, and stared up into his face. Neither of us moved. I don’t know what his excuse was, but I was too stunned to do much more than stand there and gape. A rush of wants, all unwelcome, all too much, too fast, washed over me. I wanted to reach out and touch the strong line of his jaw, or slap him across the face, or pull him into a passionate, angry kiss and see where the hell that took us.
Damn with the feels and this guy.
“No way.” I pivoted sharply and followed the cursing and shaking fists that marked Grace’s route.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I know you from somewhere. Dimwoods?” He named a biker bar.
All that yearning and he didn’t even remember me? That hurt. I should have slapped him the second it flashed through my mind. Note to self - always go for the slap. “Shit, you’re a biker?” I tossed back at him. “Do you have assless chaps, too?”
He grabbed my arm. “Wait. You’re her. From the elevator.”
Finally. But I didn’t like his tone, and I really didn’t like it when he asked, “How the hell did you find me?”
I put on the emergency brake, whirled around and smacked his hand away. Jesus, I thought Ty had an ego. “Look asshole, I’m not here for you. In fact, I’m looking for a way out of this joint.”
I spotted Grace chatting up a busboy. I grabbed a ladle and banged it furiously against a pot of simmering tomato sauce. Grace saw me and waved.
Mr. Urgent urgently pulled the ladle from my grip. “I don’t have time to make another batch if you beat this one to death.”
I let myself look at him, taking in his white coat and dorky chef hat. “You work here?”
“No, I dress like this all the time. It’s a sex thing.”
I snorted.
“Is he helping?” Grace appeared beside us. “Because the cute guy I found didn’t. He sure was sweet though.” She eyed the boy from afar, tilting her head like a dog eyeing an eminently-humpable leg. “Ian’s never that sweet to me.”
“Down, cougar.” The last thing I needed tonight was for Grace to get her groove back. I leaned into Mr. U. “Where’s the back exit? We’re avoiding an ex-boyfriend and could use some assistance.”
Mr. U frowned. “Your ex-boyfriend?”
“Mine,” Grace said.
“Eric!” A man’s voice echoed through the kitchen. “Get those girls out of my kitchen. How many times do I have to tell you, don’t shit where you sleep.”
Mr. U pushed us ahead of him. “On it, Dad. I’m on it.”
I nudged Grace. “Did his dad just compare us to shit? I’m kind of offended here.”
“Forget him.” Grace spoke in a reckless stage whisper. “Who’s this Eric? He’s a bit whipped by the misogynistic father, but looks-wise, he’s amazing,”
I had to downplay Mr. U’s importance in case he could hear our conversation. Which I was pretty sure he could, since he grinned when Grace said “amazing” – the eavesdropping jerk.
“He’s just some loser.” I tried for bored and uninterested, but my voice was all breathy and made “loser” sound like the cat’s meow. I wondered if I’d crossed his mind. I wondered if he was eyeing my ass.
We arrived at a set of double doors.
“This is it,” Mr. U/Eric – finally, a name - said, holding one open.
Grace went out and into the alley behind the restaurant. “Hurry, Charlie! Let’s go already.”
I moved forward, edging away from his body, pushing the door open so I didn’t have to get too close. A blast of winter air stole my breath and a shiver worked its way up my inner core. Warmth radiated from Eric’s shoulders, his solid chest, tempting me to lean in and steal some of that heat for myself. We don’t snuggle up to strangers, I told my traitorous hormones.
Well, not anymore.
“Charlie,” Eric said my name with a hint of smugness, “someday you won’t be running away from me.”
“You wish,” I huffed, but the doors closed on his grin. The urge to bolt back inside and see him again was immediate. And strong.
“Shit. I don’t need this right now,” I mumbled under my breath.
“I’m sorry, brat,” Grace said, hopping in place to keep warm, “this is all my fault. I wanted to treat you to a good meal, get in some bonding time…and now we’re starving and coatless…”
At her words, I sighed, shook my head and wrapped my knuckles against the cold metal doors.
“Yeah?” Eric’s voice said, although he didn’t open the door, not even a smidge.
“We need our coats,” I yelled, “we left them at our table.”
“Unless you go and get them yourself, you’re out of luck, Princess. I’ve got a job to do. Come back tomorrow.”
We were on our own.
“How perfect.” Grace linked arms with me as she navigated patches of black ice in high heels. “Too bad we didn’t leave a glass slipper behind, that would have been more romantic than down-filled jackets.”
“No glass slippers here.” I wagged a leg, showing off my army surplus finds – steel-toed military boots I bought the day after my spill on Roach’s stairs.
“Lovely,” Grace said on a laugh.
“Don’t knock ’em. They’re the only things holding us upright.”
“We’re fine,” Grace said, really leaning on me now that I bragged about my no-slip grip. “I have my car keys, my purse, we’re parked right over there…it’s all good.”
“But I’m still hungry.”
“I know it’s a grease pit, but there’s a burger joint on the way home –”
“You had me at grease.”
Chapter Ten
Monty’s front door was unlocked. I barely leaned on it as I padded all my pockets, looking for my keys. When it swung wide, I fell into the house. I half expected to find Monty laughing as I stumbled on my feet, but the hall was empty.
Though I’d eaten my fill of toxic burger, the hollow feeling settling in my stomach wasn’t totally related to the poor food choice. Coming home to an empty house was just wrong. My breath hitched in my throat. Had I really thought of Monty’s as home? That had to stop. Like now. Seemed like I was giving up on Mom or befriending the enemy. No matter how Monty had begun to grow on me.
This wasn’t home.
And it never could be.
I flicked on the light and scanned the living room. An utter disaster. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought someone broke in and trashed the place, but this was how Monty lived.
Shabby chic with a side of slob.
It appeared Monty’s little shack had been overlooked by the unscrupulous, but there would be a face-smacking lecture on home security when he got in. Really, in this day and age you couldn’t go around leaving your front door open, especially on a Saturday night in the dead of February.
I slammed the door and flipped the lock, rolling my shoulders against the tension threatening to setup shop in my neck. The old bastard was way too trusting, or oblivious to the slow decline of the neighborhood. Mom would never have been able to afford a house anywhere else in town. One of her proudest moments was buying our bungalow, tarnished only by Monty’s close proximity.
And now I was living with the old coot.
I pushed aside heavy velvet drapes, and waved to Grace from the large window. I was inside. Safe. She honked her horn and drove away. Good thing she hadn’t known or Grace would have insisted on doing a sweep through all the rooms.
Which I did, my pulse racing ever so slightly as I locked the back door.
I headed down to my basement hideout. Thankfully, no one skulked in the shadows. The house was clear. This time.
Who would make sure Monty’s was safe when I left? I probably wouldn’t see him again after Mom was back on her feet and I went hom
e.
The idea of some future lack of Monty made that hollowness in my gut expand into a deep pit of angst. Or maybe I was getting an ulcer. How superfantastic.
I kicked off my boots and made for my bed. At least things were in order down here. Things were in their place. My things. My place. Since the basement was unfinished, I had sectioned off a room-sized area by stapling tie-dyed sheets to the exposed wood beams in the ceiling. An old fridge served as my dresser, clothes folded neatly on the wire racks. Stacked milk crates of all colors formed makeshift bookshelves, loaded with a combination of schoolbooks and trashy romance novels I bought at a garage sale.
I dive-bombed my bed, a bouncy pull-out couch, and instantly regretted it. The mattress was thinner than a panty liner and my hip connected with the bar that spanned the width of the couch. I rolled around until the pain faded, springs poking willy-nilly into my body despite the buffer of several comforters.
I turned on one of a dozen or so old boomboxes lining the floor. Monty kept finding them in his garage. “I know how you young people like your music,” he’d say and hand me another.
He had no concept of iPods and their strange smallness. To him, the bigger the better – the easier to fix. Monty used to be an electrician with his own shop. He had loads of appliances and God-knows-what kicking around.
I tried to stay awake until Monty showed, but the radio static lulled me to sleep.
The next morning I walked into the living room, ready to give Monty a piece of my mind, but all thoughts of lecturing him about stranger danger and keeping the house locked up fled when I stood in the entranceway. I asked, “Who’s the bitch?”
The female in question scrambled from her somewhat compromising position – flat on her back on the brown shag carpet, legs spread wide – to face me on all fours.
Monty sat on the couch watching TV; he’d been rubbing her bare belly with his foot. He put on his slipper and introduced us. “This here’s Mona.” The fingers he ran down her sleek neck had a slight tremor. “I was hoping you two would get acquainted. She’s been hiding in my room, too scared to show herself until today.”