Project Produce

by Kari Lee Harmon

  I shoved my notebook into my backpack and headed outside, running late again. With a shrill whistle, I hailed the cab flying by me. It screeched to a sudden halt, making me a bit leery about riding with a driver like that, but I needed a lift. I opened the door, and then a gagging noise caught my attention.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I gasped. Thermometer Woman stood four feet behind me, choking on her ridiculous thermometer.

  “Great.” So much for steering clear of wackos. I tossed my backpack into the cab. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back,” I told the cabbie.

  “It’s your dime, lady.”

  I ignored the cab driver and wrapped my arms around the woman, clenching my hands tight, then yanking them in. “Come on, work with me. In and up, in and up, in and...”

  Whoosh!

  The thermometer sailed from the woman’s mouth and landed in a snow-bank. She gasped for breath and then dove after it as though it were made of gold. Scrambling to her feet, she marched back and glared at me. “What’s your problem?” she demanded, lifting her nose and dusting the snow off her expensive-looking suit.

  “M-Me?” The woman had to be joking. “I was just trying to help.”

  “Really? I should sue you for attacking me like that.”

  “Attacking you?” I gaped at her. Forget mentally ill and delirious, she was downright insane. “I was saving you. Without me, you wouldn’t--”

  “I wouldn’t be late for my meeting. Why, I ought to...” She glanced at the thermometer and frowned. “Great, now my thermometer is broken. How am I supposed to know when my temperature is perfect?”

  “Uh, I don’t know.” I stared until the woman jumped into the cab and tossed my backpack into the snow. “Hey, wait, that’s my cab.”

  Thermometer Woman didn’t say anything, just punched a number into her pager. Her purse buzzed and then said, “Brat three.”

  “What did your purse just say?” I couldn’t believe my ears. I reached for her purse.

  “Hey, watch it, lady.” She tucked it under her arm. “My purse didn’t say anything.” She stuck her hand in the large bag and muffled a beep as she slammed the door. “You really should be careful who you try to help. I could have been some sicko.” She rolled up the window and the cab sped away from the curb.

  I stared after them, wondering what had just happened. The woman had said careful, and there was that word brat again. “There’s a bizarre conspiracy going on,” I grumbled to myself. “A conspiracy of loony nutcases, completely paranoid about being careful. And apparently, there are brats everywhere.”

  Seeing another cab pull around the corner, I whistled again, but the music blaring from his radio drowned me out. The cabbie’s head bee-bopped to the beat like an out-of-control bobblehead, not paying a bit of attention to his surroundings. He couldn’t possibly make much money driving a cab like that, but I couldn’t afford to waste any more time. I lunged into the road and waved my arms. The cabbie slammed on his brakes, screeching to a stop right in front of me, his eyes bugging out of their sockets.

  I grabbed the door handle and did a double-take as Dylan’s car cruised by. “What the hell?” He didn’t even look my way. I was supposed to meet him at the gym for a boxing lesson during my lunch break. The only reason I had agreed was to find out what made him tick, what drove him. And it wouldn’t hurt to learn to protect myself a little better. Besides, we were supposed to be friends. I shrugged and shook my head. Maybe it hadn’t been him. “Face it, Cal, you’re losing your mind.”

  “You say your shoes need shine?” the cabbie asked as I climbed in.

  “No, I need--”

  “You need shine. No worries, lady, Nikko know perfect place.” He pulled away from the curb.

  “But I don’t--”

  “You don’t know the way. I take you.” He merged into traffic, heading... the wrong flipping way!

  “But I have to--”

  “You have to hurry. Nikko no mind. We get there fast.” The cab roared down the street, narrowly missing a bus, and the bus driver blared the horn. Nikko leaned out the window and spewed a stream of angry-sounding Greek, as if the near-accident wasn’t his fault. I gripped the back of his seat for dear life and gave up on trying to talk to him.

  But I sure as heck wasn’t paying him for taking me to the wrong place.

  ***

  I stumbled through the gym doors, breathing loud and heavy. Forget the Twilight Zone. Getting to the gym had turned out to be Mission Impossible. Good grief, I was on the verge of collapse and our workout hadn’t even begun. Pausing to catch my breath, I spotted Dylan by the boxing ring.

  He looked at the clock on the wall, probably wondering where I was. No problem, Zuc, just having a near-death experience with the country’s biggest NASCAR wannabe.

  Dylan lifted his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, and bounced from foot to foot, jabbing his fists at the air. Whatever he was doing, he looked really good doing it.

  Glancing around the old gym, I liked what I saw. Nothing new or fancy about it, just a whole lot of heart and soul. And sweat. The people who came here obviously did so because they loved the sport, not putting on a show just to hit on the opposite sex.

  Dylan caught my eye and smiled. Well, shoot. That meant I had to move. I wove my way through the mostly-male population until I reached the ring.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  I stuck out my gleaming Snow Flurry. “Let’s just say these boots are no longer made for walking, since Nikko’s cousin, Marco, got done plastering a pint of grease on them. Or maybe it was pomade, judging by his slicked-back hair. In either case, I fell three times just trying to walk through the gym door.”

  Dylan’s brows knitted, then he shook his head. “You’re too nice, Mac, that’s why you need my help.”

  “Some help you are. You didn’t even offer me a ride back there. And don’t deny you drove right past me. I saw Big Betty. There’s only one of those beasts in this town.”

  “Honey, I offered you a ride yesterday. If my memory hasn’t failed, you tossed my ass curbside.”

  I glared. “You know what? Even if you had offered me a ride--in Big Betty--I wouldn’t have taken it.”

  “What makes you think I’d want to offer again?” He arched a brow.

  “Let’s get this straight. Friends don’t ride each other.”

  “Really. From where I was laying last night, you wanted that ride, friend or no friend.”

  “I knocked you off the couch, remember?” I shook my head. “Looks like Harry, from When Harry Met Sally, was right when he said men and women can never be friends because the sex thing always gets in the way.”

  “Does that mean you fake your orgasms, too?” He smirked.

  I gasped, then smacked him.

  Rubbing his arm, he chuckled. “You’re gonna have to do better than that if you want to defend yourself against someone like the Midnight Molester.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? Bring it on, Dukeypoo.” I tried to mimic his bob and weave move.

  “Well, all right, then.” He grinned. “Get on in there and change out of your Eskimo gear. We’re not dog sledding.” He pointed to the locker room. “And we only have the ring for another thirty minutes.”

  “Not funny.” I stormed off to the locker room, my huge insecurity wiggling all the way, and I didn’t even care. I had a few moves of my own that I didn’t plan to change one bit, and if he didn’t like it, he could lump it.

  Five minutes later, I marched back through the doors with my head high, and his grin died. “Still haven’t done laundry,” I said, standing before him in my purple Spandex biker shorts, feeling completely vulnerable. “And I haven’t owned gym clothes in years.”

  “Th-Those’ll do.” He cleared his throat.

  Maybe I didn’t look too bad after all. “So what now?” I asked and stepped into the ring.

  “Now, you put these on.” He handed me a pair of boxing gloves. After I slipped them on, he tied th
e laces. “We don’t need mouth guards or helmets, because we’re not going to spar for real. I’m just going to show you some moves to protect yourself.”

  “Well, that’s good, because I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” I grinned. The verbal sparring was even more fun than the prospect of clobbering him in the ring.

  “Yeah?” He smiled back. “Let’s see what you got, Mac.” He kept the weight on the balls of his feet and circled me with his fists up.

  “I can hold my own if I have to.” I raised my fists. “You don’t stock shelves all your life and not gain a certain amount of strength and agility.” I swung my right arm, but he blocked it.

  “Drop your left arm like that, and you’ll leave yourself wide open.” He tapped my cheek with his glove and winked.

  I shoved his glove away and threw my left arm.

  “Watch the right arm.” He tapped my right cheek this time.

  “Darn it.” I grunted. “This isn’t as easy as it looks.”

  “You’re doing fine. Find your rhythm, and do what comes natural. I see you’re right-handed.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Focus your power on that. Jab twice with your left to throw your opponent off, and then swing hard with your right. Left, left, right. Left, left, right.” He demonstrated with his own hands. “Got it?”

  “I think so. Left, left, right. Left, left, right.” I smiled as I swung my fists, getting into it.

  “Good, now move your feet. Never stay in the same place. Confuse your opponent.”

  I danced around the ring, throwing punches and laughing. “This is fun.” Narrowing my eyes, I danced in his direction and sent him a devilish grin. “Let’s see what you got, Dukeypoo.”

  He fended off several of my punches. “Watch it. I don’t want to hurt you.” He bobbed and weaved around the ring, perspiration soaking his T-shirt, and his breathing picking up.

  “What’s the matter, scared?” I bounced from side to side.

  “Of you? Never.” He jabbed my gloves, then danced around behind me and tapped my bottom, and I wished for an insane second that he didn’t have a pair of two-inch thick gloves on.

  “Hey, watch it.” I spun around, trying to at least sound decent, even if my thoughts weren’t. Blood surged through my veins, and my chest heaved from exertion, but I felt alive. More alive than I had in years.

  “What’s the matter, scared?” He winked.

  “Of you? You wish.” I threw a few jabs with my left hand, and--

  “Yo, Cabrizzi, time’s up,” the gym manager shouted.

  Dylan looked up.

  Crack!

  --and there came my right. Right across his left eye, knocking him flat on his back. “Oh, no. Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. You okay?” I flew to him and dropped by his side, untying my gloves with my teeth.

  “I’ll live, if I could just get these damn lambs to stop circling my head.”

  Yanking off my gloves, I cradled his cheeks with my palms and inspected every inch of his face. “Oh, Lord, you’re bleeding.” I touched his eyebrow.

  “Ah, it’s a scratch. He’s had worse.” The gym manager leaned over my shoulder and stared at Dylan. He squinted, looking closer. “Damn, I think that might need a stitch.”

  “Yeah, well, if you hadn’t opened your big mouth in the middle of a match, I wouldn’t need stitches, you old geezer.”

  “Stitches?” I paled. “I scarred you?”

  “Boy’s too dang pretty. He needs a few marks to keep him from gettin’ cocky.”

  “Confident.” Dylan winked at me.

  Yeah, yeah, we both know cocky implies a pickle, confident implies a zucchini, and there’s nothing small about you, Zuc.

  “‘Sides,” the manager shook his head, “if he’d been payin’ attention to his fight instead of gawkin’ at you, he’d be fine.” He pulled Dylan to his feet and pressed a rag over the cut. “Hold this while I get my kit.” Then he waddled off.

  “He’s going to sew you up?” I grabbed onto Dylan when he swayed and he leaned on me, his arm looped over my shoulder. God, I liked the feel of all those hard muscles pressed close to my side. We stayed arm-in-arm as I helped him into the manager’s office. “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Gus is the best there is. Been sewing up his patrons for nearly forty years now. I’m more worried about how I’m going to explain this one to the guys.”

  “Explain what?”

  “How I got my ass whooped by a small-town girl.”

  “Just tell them I’m a knockout.” I tossed him a saucy wink. “Told ya I could hold my own.” Good Lord, I couldn’t believe I just said that. I was getting way too comfortable with this guy.

  Note to self: That’s your cue!

  I just kept my arm around him, smirking like an imbecile. Why couldn’t I make myself let go and leave?

  He shook his head, pressing the rag tighter to his forehead. “You’re a knockout, all right, but that was a lucky punch. I demand a rematch.”

  We stopped walking, still arm-in-arm. “Bring it on, Detective.”

  “Name the time and place, Mac.”

  “If you two are done verbally fornicatin’, I’d like to get this over with. I’ve got a business to run, ya know.”

  I shot Dylan a last smug smile. “Ding. Ding. Saved by the bell. And I’ve got to get to work.”

  He squeezed my side. “You let me know when you’re ready for round two.”

  I rolled my eyes and walked off to the locker room to change, giving him another glimpse of my jiggling insecurity that somehow didn’t feel so huge anymore.

  Why oh why did I say I wanted to be just friends?

  ***

  That afternoon, I sat in my apartment, feeling totally creeped out. After asking my boss what had happened to the undercover security guy, I’d found out he didn’t exist. So who in the world was Inspector Gadget?

  Then my boss gave me an unexpected afternoon off. He’d said things were slow, so he’d told me to head home and crack open the books. I hadn’t argued because I needed the extra time to prepare my progress report.

  The Angels had done an awesome job gathering research for me, but they still hadn’t interviewed a zucchini. So that meant I still had to, but I had enough of a start for a progress report. Now I just had to put it all together, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate anymore.

  Go figure. After a lunch break of sparring with Hot Britches, I had all the academic skills of an amoeba. I blew out a breath. Why had I ever suggested we just be friends? I asked myself once again. I knew exactly why. I didn’t need a man in my life right now. Didn’t trust men. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to sleep with him. I shivered. So not gonna happen.

  I glanced out the window to take my mind off of that. What a change from this morning’s snowstorm. The weather had turned bright and sunny, and the temperature had risen to forty degrees. I felt stir-crazy sitting there in the apartment, even though I was supposed to be working on my project. Maybe I just needed to clear my head. Ever since lunch, something had clicked inside me, a need to feel alive that only exercise could bring. I couldn’t afford to join a gym, so I’d stopped at Wal-Mart and spent the last of my mad money on a new, lime-green warm-up suit. That would sure as heck cure me of winter blahs.

  Back home, my life had been drab and boring. I’d fallen into a depression right before I’d met Bob, but my parents didn’t want the scandal of me going to see a shrink. Not even one in the big city. Syracuse had been the big city to them. We’d all thought Bob was a dream come true, the answer to my depression, but he’d made my life far worse. If they knew I’d gone as far as Queens, they’d be worried sick.

  I sighed. Who was I fooling? I’d once thought they were so stifling because they cared about me. It took them forever to have me. They were forty-seven, in fact. And they worried constantly. I’d never felt good enough for them, or anyone, but I had thought they would love me no matter how much I screwed up my life. That was what parents were supposed to do.

&nb
sp; Staring out my apartment window, I decided to put the past out of my mind. I changed my clothes, adding my hat and mittens but leaving my Eskimo parka behind. Too constricting for jogging. Then I hopped on the subway and headed for Central Park.

  Shortly thereafter, I stretched out and started my run. As pretty as Central Park was in winter, I could only imagine what it must look like in the summer--trees in full bloom, green grass, fragrant flowers, ponds. But even the weather now brightened my mood as I jogged along a footpath. The air was crisp and bright, and the snowy trees looked postcard-perfect.

  Several people milled about visiting the zoo, sitting around the fountain, walking dogs, pushing strollers, and jogging just like I was. Okay, they didn’t exactly look like me, but at least I was attempting to jog. It probably looked more like a bouncy walk, but hey, baby steps, right? I glanced around at the people, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. The last thing I wanted was more attention.

  I peeked over my shoulder, and a man lurked a few paces behind me, with hunched shoulders and shifty eyes. He averted his gaze and walked along the edge of the path. I turned back around, my heart now in my throat, and picked up the pace a little, then peeked back over my shoulder. He was power walking now, still looking into the trees. Even I knew people didn’t exercise in pressed khakis, loafers, and a suede jacket.

  At the fork in the path, I veered to the right. I checked behind me and saw the man do the same. At the next fork, I veered to the left. Again, the man did the same. For God’s sake, not another stalker. I pulled off my mitten and flipped open my cell to call Dylan.

  “Ready for round two?” Dylan answered his phone.

  “Not quite, but I could use your expertise.”

  “About what?”

  “How to handle a power-walking stalker.”

  “Not again, Mac.”

  “I know, believe me. My life has become a circus. Either I smell like money, or I’ve got a follow me sign stuck to my behind.” I kept a close eye on Khaki Man, and prayed that he’d go away.