And she liked it.
“Girl, quit staring at yourself and get over here,” Gina called out, waving her over. Shay blew herself a kiss in the mirror and then obediently joined her aunt at the front desk.
“I know how to answer a phone,” Shay said. Then the phone rang suddenly and she looked at Gina, startled.
“Well answer it,” Gina said.
“You answer it. I'll take notes,” Shay said with a shy smile. Gina rolled her eyes and grabbed the receiver.
“Great Escape Salon,” Gina said, her voice oddly sing-songy. “Okay. I'll let her know, hon. Okay. Bye.” Gina hung up and then glanced pointedly at Shay. “See? Easy. Just be polite.” Shay nodded, glancing around the front desk. There were post-its all over and a scheduling book with all the appointments written down for the stylists. “They make their own appointments, but they're supposed to update the book. Then when people call for them, just take messages, let them know cancellations and whatever. Got it?”
“Yup,” Shay said, nodding. She smiled at her aunt, feeling grateful to have her for the millionth time since she'd gotten out. She was happy to have the job, even if it wasn't what she saw herself doing long-term. She had no idea what she wanted to do with herself, but having any job was a start. And she got to hang out with her aunt all day, which was another plus.
“Okay good,” Gina said, squeezing her arm. “You're up.” Shay nodded and her aunt walked off, leaving her on her own. She plopped her hands on her hips and surveyed the desk. It was a mess, so she decided a good place to start would be to tidy up. She got to work, cleaning up all of the pens and pencils and random pieces of paper. For awhile, she bopped along to the music and answered the phone when it rang. She found some suckers in the drawer of the desk and gave them to the kids. It was good, having something to do. It kept her mind off the envelope of money in her drawer at home. It kept her mind off of all the crap she had to figure out.
Around 4:00 p.m., the door opened and a tall, smiling, dark-skinned specimen in a UPS uniform walked in the door, whistling like he was having the best day in the world. He rolled in a dolly, piled high with five boxes.
“Hey, Andre!” Gina called from the back of the shop and Shay felt her heart skip a beat. She glanced up and inadvertently caught his eyes. He was attractive, that was for damn sure. With his straight white teeth, nice haircut, and kind eyes, he definitely seemed like the full package. If she had a type, he would probably fit the description to a tee.
“Hi, Gina,” he said, but didn't take his eyes off of Shay.
“This is my niece, Shay,” Gina said, making her away across the salon toward them. “She's going to be working the desk now.” Shay had to force herself not to roll her eyes. Her aunt was practically throwing her at him.
“Well, it's good to meet you,” Andre said, his smile getting wider. She felt herself smiling as well. He held out his hand and, after an awkward second, Shay shook it. His skin was cold, but his hand was big. Manly.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Shay murmured. “I see you brought me some packages.”
“That I did,” he said, winking at her like the flirt he obviously was. She wondered how many other shop girls up and down 125th street he flirted with.
“You can leave them right there,” she said, leaning over the desk and pointing to the floor in front of it.
“I like those nails,” he said, catching her hand again and holding it up. “Those are real pretty.”
“Thanks,” Shay said, feeling her ears warm up with a blush. She took her hand back, pulling it away slowly and brushing her fingers across his. “I just got them done today.”
“Benefits to working in a salon,” he said. She laughed a bit, careful to not laugh too much. Flirting used to come so easily to her. Smiling and giggling with a boy had never been difficult. She wondered how long it would take before she felt that comfortable with the opposite sex again. He stared at her for another second, then leaned back, hoisting and finagling until he slid the boxes off the dolly onto the floor, without unstacking them. She stepped around the desk, shooting another look at Gina, who was keeping her distance. “I just need you to sign here,” Andre said, holding out the stylus for her to sign his electronic pad. She took it and scribbled a messy signature.
“There,” she said, handing it back.
“What's your last name?” he asked, glancing down at her signature.
“Spears.”
“Spears,” he said, typing the name quickly onto the keypad. “Shay Spears. I like that. It's interesting.”
“Not that interesting,” she said with a shrug.
“Okay, if you say so,” he said with another bright smile. She liked his smile, she decided. She liked it a lot. He pulled his dolly back and glanced up over her head. “See ya tomorrow, Gina,” he said.
“See ya, Andre,” Gina said, her voice barely containing her smug glee. She must think she'd been a successful matchmaker. Well, that had yet to be seen. Still, Andre The Flirt had potential, that was for sure.
“I'll get the door for you,” Shay said, walking around him to the door, not waiting for his refusal. She swung it open, letting in a gust of cold air. He rolled the dolly out, not bothering to hide the fact that he checked her out on his way out the door. Despite the cold, she was burning up, she realized. She leaned out of the door and watched him go, smiling as he turned back to look at her.
Oh, he was definitely feeling her. She'd have to be blind to not see it. She threw up her hand and gave a little wave and then he stepped into the street on his way back to his truck, whistling as he went. She watched him go, her mind starting to play out little ridiculous romantic scenarios. For years, all she'd had was her fantasies, so she'd gotten to be a bit of a pro at having a strong imagination. And imagine Andre, she did. She imagined him with less clothes on. She imagined him in a number of positions as well. She was pretty shameless, but she didn't care. After all the shit she'd been through, she was allowed to be a little shameless.
Her eyes followed Andre's brown box truck as it started down the road. She already felt a prick of excitement at the possibility of flirting with him the next day and the next. She needed something to look forward to, and it seemed Andre wanted the job. Smiling brightly, she turned to go back into the salon and that's when her eyes caught on another man, a taller, whiter man that was on the next street corner. Just as quickly as happiness had bubbled up in her, it died.
A gust of wind hit her in the chest just as recognition dawned on her. The white guy was standing with a handful of other plain-clothes cops. She could spot the cops a mile away. First off, they didn't look like they belonged there, in the middle of Harlem. Secondly, recognizing plain-clothes cops was something her father had taught her practically since birth. They always wore dark, nondescript clothes and hats, anything to blend in with the crowd around them.
He stood out, though.
He was too tall, too big, too damn memorable to not stand out. The first time she'd met him, he'd been in NYPD blues and working a street beat, but at some point he must have been promoted. He was a detective now or higher, she guessed. He also seemed to carry himself with a different air. He was no longer the young cop who'd helped her out of a shoplifting charge. He seemed tougher, more hardened.
They cops began to move, as a pack, down the street toward her. She wondered if they were doing a raid or something. She wondered who was going to be on the unfortunate end of their investigation. For a minute, she stood there frozen as they got closer and closer. Then she stepped back into Gina's shop and let the door close hard behind her. Back in the warm shop, she hurried back behind the desk and rubbed her hands together, trying to get them warm. Her hands were shaking and her breathing was erratic and her heart was pounding.
She stepped behind the desk and opened the drawer, rooting around for something—she wasn't sure what. She just needed something to distract her from the infuriating and hated memory. It was mostly a blur, but some things were clear. For exam
ple, she remembered clearly how the cops had forced her to the ground and she felt like she was going to smother to death because she couldn't breathe. She remembered the cutting metal of the handcuffs as they snapped around her wrists. She remembered how rough their hands were when they hauled her up and dragged her to the cop car. And lastly, she remembered seeing him, standing back away from the fray, passively watching as they arrested her. He stood there and did nothing while they shoved her in the car and slammed the door behind her.
Finding a pair of scissors, Shay slammed the drawer shut. Then she went after the boxes that Andre had delivered, slicing the packing tape open to reveal the bottles of shampoo and hair dye. It felt good to attack the boxes, but it wasn't enough. She was angry, she realized. Actually, beyond angry.
She was furious.
Seeing him again had dredged up a deep, black anger that she had once forced down in herself. She'd forced it away so that she could live every day without exploding. But seeing him again had destroyed the tenuous hold she had on it. Maybe it had been naïve to think she would never see him again, but she was still furious because he wasn't supposed to be there. He was supposed to be long gone and nowhere near her or her beloved neighborhood. He was supposed to be a distant memory. In her mind, he was a traitor and a coward and a piece of shit and it was his fault she'd been locked up in the first place. And for that reason, after all these years, she'd never forgotten his name or his face.
His name was Tate Grayson and he was the only man she'd ever truly hated.
Chapter Four
Shay fumbled with her keys at the front door to Gina's apartment building, her mind elsewhere. She had been distracted ever since she'd seen Tate Grayson strolling around Harlem like he had every right to be there. Like he owned the streets, or something. There was nothing she could do about it, though, so she'd left the salon at the end of her shift and headed home. The rest of her night she had no plans, though. No distractions from her thoughts or her anger. Nothing. Gina had dinner plans with Thalia, so she wouldn't be home to distract her, either. It was depressing, to say the least.
Finally, she got the door open and got out of the cold. She stepped into the vestibule and immediately, she was struck by a distinct feeling that something was missing. For a long moment, she stood there, trying to figure out what it was. Gina's apartment had always been a second home to her, and now it was her full-time home. She didn't want to be anywhere else, and yet. Something was still missing.
She figured it out as she made her way up the first flight of stairs. It was the smell. She was used to the scent of baking cakes when she opened the door. All seasons, every morning, afternoon, and evening, the sweet scent was like a warm blanket to wrap herself in. It was familiar and lovely and, on that particular day, much-missed. She stopped in the middle of the steps as an idea came to her.
She could make a cake. And not some shitty, run of the mill box cake. She could make a real cake, from scratch, from some recipe she'd never tried before. Maybe it would be a terrible failure. Maybe it wouldn't rise and maybe the frosting would be runny or maybe it would be sloping and ugly. But at that moment, she didn't give a shit. Making a cake sounded like a perfectly good way to waste an otherwise empty evening.
She turned around and headed back down the stairs, pulling out her new cellphone and typing in her unlock code. She'd never had a smartphone before, but she was learning fast. She'd already gotten a new email address and learned to take pictures and upload them to something called 'the cloud'. Not that she had a lot of friends to take pictures of.
As she hurried back out into the cool night, she did a quick internet search for cake recipes. She flicked through page after page of ideas. She wanted something difficult enough to be a challenge, but not something too exotic that would require ingredients too difficult to purchase at 8:00 p.m. in the middle of Harlem. Halfway to the new grocery store two blocks away, she settled on a dark chocolate triple layer cake with a ganache frosting.
“Ganache,” she whispered to herself, liking the way the odd word felt on her tongue. For the last four years of her prison term, she'd worked in the kitchen. She in no way equated heated up industrial sized cans of peas and carrots and scooping slop onto plastic trays with real cooking, but she'd always found something relaxing and oddly productive about fixing meals for others. When she was younger, she'd often cook dinner for her father, otherwise neither of them would eat anything but Bessie's Soul Food or Chinese takeout. But she now was excited to return to the kitchen, especially with it being her choice and not a job that was forced upon her.
After buying almost thirty dollars worth of flour, eggs, vanilla, cream, sugar, block chocolate, and all the other ingredients she was sure her aunt didn't have in her tiny-ass neglected kitchen, Shay headed home with a spring in her step. She was excited to get her hands dirty and put her mind at ease. Despite the shock she'd gotten that day from seeing Tate Grayson, she was finally feeling calmer. As she spread out the ingredients on the small laminate countertop in Gina's kitchen, she actually almost felt calm, or something close to it. The empty hours didn't seem long when she was mixing batter and melting chocolate. The beautiful aroma all around her comforted her just as much as the smell of baking always had. She liked the simplicity of following a recipe, the order. She liked knowing that if she followed the recipe to the letter, the cake would no doubt turn out just as it should. She liked the certainty.
But even as she cracked eggs and measured ingredients, her mind drifted back to Tate Grayson. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach at the thought of him. She didn't like the idea that, any day, she could see him. It wasn't fair, really. He probably hadn't thought about her in years. He probably wouldn't even recognize her if he saw her. He probably had no idea how much she'd thought about him since she'd been incarcerated. In prison, all she'd had was time to think, time to ponder how she could've prevented ending up where she'd ended up. And somehow, it always came down to Tate Grayson.
She knew it was silly to hate him. It was silly to give him all of that power over her. She knew it, and yet, she still hated him. Her life had been stolen from her for so long and she needed someone to blame. The fact of the matter was that he had been the one that had set her up. After treating her so kindly, he'd fucked her over, just like a cop would. In a way, it was almost her own fault for trusting him. She should have known never to trust a cop. A white one, at that. She'd been a fool in so many ways, but she'd also been young and the system had not been kind. The odds had been stacked against her since birth.
When the cakes went into the oven, she crouched down and stared at them through the little glass window in the front. As she watched the batter start to bubble on top, a crazy urge came over her. An urge to know something about Tate Grayson. She barely knew anything about him, she realized. She only really knew his name and his face. Curiosity fired up in her. It wasn't fair that Tate Grayson got to walk around everyday, not caring about what he'd done to her. It wasn't fair that he got to have a normal life when hers was so stunted and forever tainted. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right.
She stood, sliding her phone out of her back pocket. Leaning against the counter, she swiped through to the home screen and she quickly typed his name into the search engine bar before she talked herself out of it. As the heavenly scent of vanilla and eggs and sugar began to fill the kitchen, she let herself fall down the rabbit hole of technology. It really was remarkably easy to have a person's entire life at your disposal, if you had just bothered to look.
She scrolled down, past articles about arrests and grand jury convictions until she found an odd little article about a boxing event held every year for charity. When she clicked on it, a picture of a smiling black man greeted her, surrounded by a group of muscular boxers. She scoured the faces, until she landed on one that looked familiar. Her heart jumped in her chest, like she'd discovered hidden treasure. There he was, on the right side of the picture. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all the black a
nd brown faces, but it was definitely him. She would know his unsmiling face anywhere. She ran her fingertip over his face, feeling like she'd won, somehow. She didn't know what she'd won, other than a little sliver of information about his personal life. But maybe that was enough. She scrolled down looking for the name of the place in the picture. She found it in the first line of the article and almost squealed with delight.
It was called Big Jimmy's House of Pain and, conveniently enough, it was located a quick train ride away.
***
Tate was feeling oddly good as he entered House of Pain, carrying his gym bag in one hand. It had been a long day, but he didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the fact that Leah had answered the phone when he called the day before. She'd agreed to another date. And she actually sounded happy about it. Usually, he'd be lucky to get a second call, let alone a second date. Life was looking like sunshine and roses from where Tate stood. A pretty woman had a way of making life seem a lot better than it was.
He saw Hector at the punching bag by the window and he tossed him a wave. Hector nodded at him, his face as glum as it usually was these days. He was working out more at House of Pain, instead of just working up in the office. He'd been in the ring as well, even though Hector usually wasn't much for sparring. He was frustrated, angry, and probably more than a little lovesick. The whole family knew it, but he didn't seem to want to acknowledge it. Tate felt for him, but for once, he was actually in a really good mood. Tate wasn't going to let his brother's troubles drag him down. Not that day.
Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) Page 4