The Restaurateur

by Aubrey Parker

  I stop. I click on the first photo then zoom in.

  I’m strangely fascinated. It’s not like before when Taylor showed me these snaps. His angle was, “Wow, check it out, tits.” But now I’m alone, and I don’t have Taylor’s presence or reaction to consider. I realize that I’ve sought these photos out not to ogle, but because I’m curious.

  Elizabeth Frasier still vexes me, but she does it in a different way from before. I think of how I’ve watched her run the room today. It’s hard to think of her as an airhead spoiled brat quite as easily. And I think of the way we’ve met eyes from across the room three times: first in hatred, then frustration. Then confusion, or maybe guilt.

  It dawns on me that from the moment I sat in this back room, I meant to find these photos. I haven’t zoomed in on her chest. I’ve zoomed in on her face. I’m trying to picture the lighthearted, carefree smile from these photos on the woman in the other room. It’s strange, but no longer impossible. There’s another facet to Miss Bitch. I’ve seen it more and more as the day has worn on — as fatigue from this marathon of brainpower has chipped at her armor.

  A text rolls down from the top of my screen. It apologizes, telling me that they’ve had trouble locating a car and that it might be just a bit longer.

  Fifteen minutes later, I get another update: still no car.

  My fists clench. I close my eyes and exhale slowly to stifle my annoyance. I’m tired of being here. Of hiding in this back room, for fear more dreary nerds assault me with their banal ideas. I’ve done my duty here. I’m ready to get the hell out.

  The next time, it’s almost a half-hour before a new text, alerting me that my wait will continue.

  It’s nearly sunset before I finally hear the good news. By then my phone has single-digit battery life left, and I’m having a hard time keeping my chin up. I annoy easily. And also, fuck being here at all.

  There’s a second exit at the end of my small privacy hallway, so I take it. I find two cars waiting with their lights on. One is my rental, and not terribly impressive.

  The rental agent, standing by the second, idling car with his ride back inside, greets me with an oversized smile. He’s all teeth under a light fixed to the building. But he wants me to fill out a stack of papers, despite Jean’s promise that it would just be a signature. Ten minutes in, he seems to notice that some inconsequential piece of paperwork is missing and calls the office. Only then does he inspect the vehicle pre-rental to find that someone at HQ has entered the VIN wrong.

  I wait. And wait. Maybe I should have just ordered the fucking Uber after all. I had fantasies of driving around under my own power for a half-hour or so before heading to my plane, seeing as I get to take the wheel myself so seldom these days. But it’s just not worth it. Not now. The second this guy gives me the keys, I’m hauling ass to the airstrip. It would have been faster to steal a bike.

  He finally gives me the keys. The sun is gone. He should leave now, because I'm about to kill someone.

  I’m sure, the second the Enterprise guys pull away, that it’ll turn out they gave me the wrong keys. Or that the car won’t start. Thankfully I’m wrong. It turns over, and the radio blares something from the hick station the rental agent must’ve been listening to on the way over. Too keyed up to pay it any mind, I jam the transmission into reverse. Tires squeal as I back out, to an eardrum-bursting Garth, I think.

  I reach for the Off button. This shit is torture.

  I don’t reach it before some other asshole’s car rams right into me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ELIZABETH

  THE CRUNCH JOLTS ME, BOUNCING my head off the headrest. The airbags don’t go off, maybe because I’m in reverse. That’s the least of my problems.

  I’m tired as all hell, with a stack of stuff for the hackathon on my passenger seat to process and make notes about, and I need to eat dinner. I didn’t have time for lunch, and breakfast was two donuts and bitter coffee.

  “Dammit,” I say before I even look back.

  I move my neck. No, I don’t think I’m hurt. It was a tiny bump, just enough to knock the bumper askew (I can see it in the side mirror) and break open the trunk (obvious in my rearview). Thank God, I’m not driving my car. This is a stupid little rental, and I got the insurance.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the other driver shouts. I can see his feet, coming at me. A man, with an infuriating, entitled-sounding voice.

  One that I know.

  I get out of the car. Mateo stops ten feet from me, his hand raised for a lecture.

  “You,” he says. But he doesn’t hiss it; it’s not the accusation I’d expect. It’s just recognition.

  “What are you doing here?” My words come out harsh. I’m so, so tired.

  “I couldn’t get a ride.”

  “There are these things called taxis.”

  “They were booked up for almost an hour.”

  I look down at my watch — the pretty little silver thing my father bought me to take my mind off Mom, two weeks after she passed. “It’s been a lot more than an hour.”

  “I called for a rental.”

  “Why? Weren’t you just here for the day?”

  “I thought it’d be faster.”

  “And five times more expensive.”

  He laughs at that — even where we are, right now, with what’s just happened. I can’t say why, but that superior little snicker sets a fire inside me. It’s like he’s spit in my face. There’s no reason for my bolt of anger; it’s just that I’m on my last nerve. I need food. And sleep. Instead, I have a collision and a dickhead who thinks this is funny.

  “Oh, that’s right,” I say. “No big deal if it costs a lot of money. Not for you.”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Because you’re Mateo Saint. You’ve got a gazillion dollars.”

  “Three billion.”

  That pisses me off even more. My face works, and for a few long seconds, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Am I going to shout him down? Am I going to take something out of my car and throw it at him? There’s even a part of me that thinks I might cry, just because I’m so incredibly exhausted.

  I spin on my heel and get back in the car.

  I slam the door and key the stalled engine.

  “Woah. Elizabeth. Wait.”

  I hear him through the glass, then through the closed door. He trots around the car. I need to move faster because the only way out of this day is to drive off into the departed sunset. I do not have the energy for Mateo Saint.

  But the car isn’t starting. I’m turning the key, but all I get is a clicking.

  “Hey! Elizabeth!”

  With my hand on the key, my head ticks to the side. He’s been calling me Liz all day, just to piss me off. Why this sudden change?

  But I’ve thought too long. Now he’s around to my driver’s side, opening the door.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Going home. Back to my hotel.”

  “We have to … I don’t know, fill out a police report?”

  “No.” I turn the key. Still nothing.

  “Hey!”

  He reaches for my hands. I slap him away.

  “Give me the keys!”

  “No!”

  But he pushes past me, grabbing my wrist, and eventually shoves me aside. His arm slides past me and ratchets something, then he has his hand over mine, turning the keys back to home position, pulling them out.

  He gets out of the car, then slips them into his pocket.

  “Give those back to me,” I say.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks.

  I bolt out of the car, then stand to face him.

  “Fine. Have it. It won’t start anyway.”

  He’s struggling not to laugh at me. He thinks I’m some dumb woman in hysterics, which I guess isn’t far from the truth. The last hour has been rough. The attendees left, then I had to clean up. Tonight, because someone else needs t
he hall in the morning. And alone, because my volunteers left with the crowd. Mateo’s presence is infuriating in so many ways. He could have helped! Yet he was just waiting out here to—

  “Calm down.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “You couldn’t start the car because it was in neutral. It’s fine. Relax, will you?”

  I can’t deal with this right now. I have the hall keys in my pocket, planning to return them early tomorrow. I can go back inside and lock him out.

  I start to walk away. He grabs my arm, holding me in place.

  “Get your hands off me!”

  He lets go immediately, now raising both hands in surrender. “We need to file an accident report. For the insurance.”

  There’s a wall of emotion inside me — something I’m only now feeling, now that my defenses are down. A confused stew of anger at Mateo, sadness over the loss of my father’s mountain and my mother’s grave on its slopes, frustration about The Pike, and a red-hot, percolating fury at the way this has all unfolded. My father made the deal without me. Just shucked our family property off without a thought, knowing how I’d feel.

  I stare at his stupid, superior face. There’s a confusion of emotions there, too.

  “Insurance,” I say. Or maybe hiss.

  “Yes, insurance You must need a lot, the way you drive.”

  “I guess you don’t need insurance. Why don’t you just save us the time and buy these cars? Be a gentleman and take them both off our hands.”

  “What? Where do you think you’re going?”

  Goddammit. I feel warmth on my cheek as I march away and realize that I’ve finally started to cry.

  “Just buy whatever you want!” I shout back at him. “Buy whatever the hell you want, even if it’s not for sale!”

  “Get back here!”

  “Fuck you! Fuck you and your money!”

  “Elizabeth!”

  He grabs me. This time, I about knock him down.

  He steps back. There’s a look in his eyes that I can’t read. Just like I can’t read the feeling in my chest. I want to hate his cocky face, but he doesn’t look cocky right now. I want to loathe him for the way he talks down to everyone, but if anything, his expression is conciliatory. Like he is trying to resolve this rather than fight. Like he would buy both cars if that’s what I asked him to do.

  “Who do you think you are?” I spit.

  “Look, I want to get out of here as much as you do. I can have my assistant call around and get this fixed. But I’m telling you, I don’t think we can leave without—”

  “You sat inside all damn day, arms crossed and pouting. Wouldn’t speak unless someone talked right to you, and even then, you were too good to give anyone real advice. I guess you think anyone who’s not you is dumb. No good ideas left out there. Nobody’s brilliant except the great Mateo Saint.”

  He squints. “What?”

  I advance on him. I want to rip out his heart.

  “What did you tell Alvin Lee?”

  “Alvin …”

  “The Asian kid. The one you met outside.”

  “I know who you mean. But how did you—?”

  “The people you told him to call. Are they just going to steal his idea?”

  “Steal his … what? Of course not!”

  “Then why did you tell him to call them?”

  “Because they can help him! Were you—?”

  “Lies.” I shake my head, advancing on Mateo. “You’re a selfish bastard. Only looking out for yourself. Only interested in what you want, what’s best for you. You lied to him, didn’t you?”

  “No!”

  Why am I doing this? It’s like I’m trying to convince myself. I heard the exchange; I know the truth when I hear it. So why am I shouting him down?

  My lips firm. I don’t know who I am right now. Normally, I feel such an even keel. These past few days, I’ve been a bubbling cauldron — life lived balancing atop a teeter-totter’s long arm. I thought I had it together even after my father said he’d sold the mountain out from under me, but I’ve been breaking beneath the surface, and my confused thoughts about Mateo have polluted everything.

  He’s watching me now, while I try to find words. There’s an intensity in his eyes, just like I’ve seen all day.

  The same intensity I feel when my thoughts turn to him, and how much I despise him. When I remember how smug he was when we met. The dismissive things he said.

  Once more, I turn away. Again, he grabs my arm — harder this time, like he senses the electric hum in the evening air. But this time, when he wrenches me around, I don’t fight. I follow momentum and slam into him, mashing my lips against his.

  Horrified, I push myself away.

  “What was that?” he says.

  “Forget it.”

  “Will you stop walking away from me?”

  Reels me in. Holds me very close. I won’t look up at him, but I can feel him staring down as our chests press together. The heat of his breath, the brush of his chin against my hair.

  “Look at me.”

  I shake my head.

  “Elizabeth. Look up at me.”

  I look up. Slowly, he brushes a strand of hair away from my face. His hands go to my cheeks, and he peers directly into my soul.

  He kisses me. Hard and fast.

  I push him back. Slap his face. He barely registers the impact and pulls me in again. Revulsion and passion mix as his lips grind mine, as our mouths open and tongues touch. It’s not just him doing this. I’m doing it right back.

  I summon my strength for one last push.

  “Get the fuck away from me!”

  There’s a moment as the gap between us grows, and the world falls silent.

  But an invisible magnet draws me right back. I ram him with my body, shoving him backward, his back slapping the side of my damaged car. We kiss like murder; our hands are everywhere. We part for just long enough to meet each other’s eyes, then the dam breaks and it’s no longer just kissing.

  He’s pulled both jeans and panties down to my ankles. His hands go up, under my shirt, fingers rough as they push at my bra and cup my breasts, pawing like an animal.

  I rip his pants open, practically snarling as the zipper sticks. Then they’re on the ground too, his proud cock hard and hot against my hip. My hand gropes for it unseeing as Mateo tips my head to the side, devouring my naked neck like a thirsty vampire.

  My hand finds him and grips him, stroking in a frenzy, fingers playing a warm drop of pre-cum around the head.

  Mateo growls against my neck as I stroke him, as I rub the sensitive spot with my thumb. My other hand finds his balls as Mateo makes his way around to the front, where my collarbones meet, then lifts my shirt so he can dip beneath the fabric and take my nipple into his mouth.

  I come, buckling against his firm arms, mouth open, a sigh escaping.

  My legs buckle as my pussy clenches hard. The need is insane. Mateo must feel it. A half-second later his fingers are sliding inside my drenched heat as the orgasm descends, as I squeeze him through the final twitches.

  I rub him faster. Harder. He’s not flesh-hard right now; this is more like stone. More and more pre-cum drizzles from his hole, so I spread it around, making my palm slick. Now he’s having trouble standing, and if I keep this up, he’s going to come all over me.

  He stops me. Our eyes meet. We don’t speak.

  Then Mateo spins me around, pushing my bare tits up against the windows of my rental. The glass is cold; Mateo, as he circles behind me, is hot.

  His hands palm my ass like meat. I can feel his harsh breath on my neck as he moves closer, as his slick, hot cock brushes my ass.

  His hand moves down to grab it, then he manhandles it against me as his opposite hand circles me, reaching between my legs to tickle my clit.

  The movement of his shaft is hot and clumsy as it paints my pussy from behind. He’s working it up and down between my wet lips, pushing my ass open for access, probing just slightly.<
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  And then he’s inside me. All at once. The intense fullness comes on like a hammer, and I whimper. My legs shake and part; my back arches as Mateo’s hot cock batters its way inside my wet slit.

  I can barely breathe. I shake and rattle against the car’s cool side, while heat wages its war from behind. His cock feels giant inside me, but each time he withdraws I only want more and more, deeper and deeper.

  My breath fogs the glass. Mateo grunts and thrusts behind me. I come, then come again thirty seconds later. I want all of him. In all of me. I never want this to end.

  He moves faster and faster as I float in ecstasy. As I lose track of time. Just as he’s about to come, I grip his cock hard with my pussy, increasing the friction. And then he slams one final time against my ass, and he unloads inside me. He lingers for a moment, then pulls away.

  Our eyes meet. I’m weak, and so is he. We have scant moments before regret sets in, but in those few moments, Mateo pulls me back enough to open my rear door.

  We spill inside together.

  “I still don’t like you,” I say.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MATEO

  I WON’T CALL HER. I refuse to call her.

  I don’t know what that was the other night, outside her dumb little assembly in Dallas. I suppose I was frustrated and angry. She was tired and confused. But even that’s wrong, the more I think about it. If my weakness was frustration and hers was confusion, that makes me look like the aggressor.

  But I didn’t take advantage. I’d been having conflicted thoughts about Elizabeth for some time — thoughts that mixed desire in with annoyance. But I didn’t start that parking lot encounter.

  She wouldn’t want me to call. Dallas is for the memory vault. Maybe for the shame pile, definitely for the spank bank. It’s not something that anyone wants becoming part of conscious awareness because lust like that is irrational. It contradicts the people we believe we are and the things we want to believe. Nobody wants to think they’d abandon all their beliefs and hook up with someone they hate just because passion gives them the order.