by Hazel Parker
In such spots, I usually defaulted to how I always acted—I listened, remained on the sidelines, and acted only when I had the certainty of my convictions.
And here, I did not.
But I knew, even as I left and waved goodbye, that sooner or later, the convictions would come through.
Chapter 4: Carrie
If only you knew, Lane.
If only you knew why I helped you.
As I watched the once-fat kid walk out of my restaurant—and seriously, he had gone from overweight to one of the healthiest men I had ever seen—I couldn’t help but feel a little emotional at what he had said. Certainly, knowing I had played a big part in his life was one aspect of it, but there was another part that was not being mentioned so explicitly. It had to do with me. With my past.
Lane wasn’t the only victim of bullying and abuse. And while I never wanted to sound like I was comparing whose bullying was worse, there was a key difference between what Lane had gone through and what I had gone through.
Lane had suffered in school. I had suffered at home.
I didn’t know Lane’s parents that well, but from the sounds of it, he had a good, healthy relationship with them. I had no relationship with my mother, who had died giving birth to me. My father…
My father was a man I hadn’t spoken to since I left high school. He hadn’t done anything for me since, and all he did for me before was yell at me, call me worthless, and say that I was to blame for his spot in life. He would hit me, call me words far worse than “worthless,” and say that he wished I had never been born.
Up through fourth grade, those words bent me to the point of almost being broken. I felt sure, even in that restaurant, that there was lingering damage from my father’s words. Maybe it explained why I hated parties. Maybe it explained why I preferred small groups, since it would let me control the flow of conversation a little easier.
I just knew that when fifth grade came, I was determined to survive my father’s abuse and not let him affect me. I became the cheerleader at school, albeit not literally, and supported anyone who needed help or was getting hurt. Lane was just one of many, but it was very nice to see that Lane was taking his experience as a positive force for good.
But to have followed them as much as I had would have put me too close to the subject. It wasn’t like the bullying from my father stopped in fifth grade; the only thing that changed was that I got better at avoiding him and avoiding the triggering topics. It couldn’t have been a good childhood by any stretch of the imagination when the focus was less on having a healthy relationship and more on trying to say exactly the right thing.
I felt pretty certain, though, that it had made me a chef. I wasn’t lying to Lane when I said I loved to comfort others through food. That included myself; I was just lucky that said self-medication didn’t get me overweight, especially since the food that I served wasn’t exactly what most people would call traditionally healthy.
I went to the back of the restaurant, needing a moment to compose myself after the conversation triggered all of those tough memories. I was by no means on the verge of tears, but I wasn’t exactly in a state of mind to face customers. Aside from that, Lane was still making me feel all sorts of ways, none of which could be discussed with my employees.
I didn’t want to just sit in the back all day, though. I needed to run some numbers. I needed to see how the weekend surge had helped.
Sure enough, if the projected increase continued—even if it slowed down—we were still a lot further along than I had anticipated. We weren’t anywhere close to profitable, but this sudden surge of car mechanics coming to my restaurant was making me believe that if I could find the blue-collar workers in the area, I could market to them and help the business do much better. Maybe Brooklyn could support a BBQ joint like mine, after all.
I just had to find the people like Lane and the people I knew back in Georgia.
I spent the next several hours running the numbers and trying to brainstorm marketing ideas to ensure that we could continue to grow and reach the point of staying in business. I thought about putting flyers up at all of the car-related shops and businesses in the area. I thought about running specials with deals for local businesses. I thought about getting internet ads, although that didn’t seem to be as cost-effective as simple flyer production did.
I got so engrossed in my head that I completely lost track of time, being unaware of the fact that dinner was rolling around. In these hours, that didn’t matter much, as a single employee could easily take care of the meals and orders from what was left over at lunch.
But when Caroline had to poke her head in and advise me to come and see what she wanted to, I could scarcely believe my own eyes.
There were well over two dozen men in the restaurant, all of them wearing a black, sleeveless jacket with the words “Savage Saints” on them. I recognized many of them as the car mechanics from the days before, but to have so many of them in here at once…
“All hands on deck,” I announced. “We’ve got a big crew with a lot of big bellies that we’re going to have to take care of!”
We moved a little slower than usual. I even saw some of the would-be regulars walk up to the window, see the long line for food, and decide to go elsewhere. I didn’t blame them.
I could afford not to blame them because almost every single one of the men that came through ordered a pound of meat, two sides, and a cup of soda. I couldn’t believe I was thinking this, but I almost began to believe we’d run out of food for some of the items—an extraordinary rarity for the shop.
And about twenty people in, with about six people still left to order, that’s precisely what happened.
“We are out of mac n’ cheese!” I said. “Sorry!”
Some groans came from the mechanics still yet to order, as well as some shouts to those who had already ordered to save some for them. I tried not to smile and look too happy, well aware of the fact that I had not had to deal with this de facto first-world problem in ages at the store.
And then, to make it even crazier, men with patches on their jackets came in, two of them with women by their side. I couldn’t even imagine what the women must have felt being in a store like this, customers among a hoard of hungry bears. At least I was on the other side of the counter here.
The last of them to order, a woman dressed in far nicer clothes than the usual clientele and a man with glasses and a lithe, slender frame, asked me to sit down with them.
“We want to discuss catering with you,” he said. “You can probably guess that our organization eats a lot, and Niner had said a lot of good things about you.”
I had no idea how Lane had gotten the nickname Niner—the only thing that came to mind was that he might have been a fan of the NFL team San Francisco 49ers, and that didn’t align with the Lane I saw in the hallways. That Lane wore Atlanta Falcons jerseys, but he never seemed obsessed with sports like much of the South was.
But the bigger deal—by far—was that someone was actually asking about catering! That was something we could easily make a profit off of, spread good word through the area, and get a regular client.
And if my gut was right, I owed a lot of this to Lane. He’s better than I had even suspected.
Don’t get too carried away, now. You may have helped him in the past, but that doesn’t mean you two have anything. It just means you were nice once. Be nice some more, but don’t…
Well, why not?
I sat down with the man and his girlfriend and introduced myself.
“I’m Carrie Griffith, owner and chef here at Southern Comfort.”
“I’m Fitz, and this is my girlfriend, Amelia. She’s going to have to leave soon for work, but she just wanted to drop in. She heard your food was amazing.”
“And holy shit, it is. Fuck, you don’t get shit this good in Manhattan.”
I laughed at how ridiculous that flattery was.
“Oh, I’m completely serious, you have no id
ea,” Amelia continued. “If this were more ethnic, maybe, but BBQ? Fucking forget it. That shit is hard to get in the Wall Street area.”
“Wall Street? Is that where you work?”
“Yep, and it’s why I have to leave as soon as I finish my plate. Sorry, will leave a review if you want. Holy hell, this is fucking amazing.”
She only took about two more bites before she stood up to leave. She gave Fitz a kiss goodbye, said that she loved him, and then departed. She moved so swiftly, I wondered if I had seen a ghost.
“She’s nice,” I said. “Not every day that you see a banker dating a mechanic. You’re one lucky guy.”
“Yeah, that’s…it’s true now,” he said, leaving a bit unsaid that I didn’t have much of an interest in filling in the gaps on.
But it was encouraging to see an example of people from such different worlds getting along. Maybe my mind was jumping a little bit to Lane, and maybe I was just acting a bit out of my mind because of the sudden surge in business, but hey, who was I to try and quash good feelings when they came?
Just remember, if anything goes sideways, you’re leaving NYC. It’s not like even if you are here that you’ll be around this city forever. You could just as easily take a surge in sales and use it to sell the place before heading back home.
Who knows. Just be present as best as you can.
“Anyway, yeah, so Niner was the one that mentioned you,” Fitz said. “He pointed you out to me at the party a couple Fridays ago.”
He didn’t even know me then. I guess he had me on his mind, huh?
“We’d absolutely love to have you cater some events for us, maybe our weekly meeting on Thursday, but I would say that on behalf of Niner, I’d love for you to join us at our weekly party this Friday.”
“Oh,” I said, smiling politely. “I appreciate it, but I was at the last one; it’s not my cup of tea.”
Fitz shrugged.
“It’s only a few people’s cup of tea, and they’re pretty easy to spot from afar,” he said as if sharing some state secret. “I’m not the hugest fan of the scene, but it helps when you have your lady around. And I think Niner would appreciate you having around.”
It dawned on me that Fitz was being Lane’s wingman now. I felt a little silly for not realizing it earlier—he hadn’t come here to discuss catering, although that was certainly a nice bonus. It was more about getting me interested in the potential for the party and showing up.
“And besides, if you get bored and Niner’s not in the mood, Amelia will be there too.”
“Her?” I said in surprise.
“Yeah, she’s not a fan at all. The first time she showed up at a party, she basically dumped me on the spot. That took a little bit of work to get back.”
I had to admit, I still was leaning toward saying no. As much as it was nice to know that Fitz was pushing on behalf of his friend, it wasn’t like he was pushing for Lane to go on a date with me. He was just encouraging me to show up at the party, and there were no guarantees at said party that Lane would flirt with me. He hadn’t done so at the last one.
But “leaning toward” and actually saying no were two pretty drastically different things. The fact that I was even giving it a window of an opportunity said a lot about how I was feeling toward Lane right now. I supposed, if nothing else, I owed it to him for all of the business he had directed my way. I knew he’d say that he was just thanking me for what I had done as a kid, but that was so far back that I couldn’t claim ownership of it. He’d had to have done a lot of work since to get to this spot.
“I’ll see how I feel Friday,” I said. “But thanks for the invite.”
As we discussed catering options and pricing, though, I slowly started to come around to the idea of going.
By the time Fitz and his crew had all but cleaned out my kitchen, I was pretty sure I knew which way I was leaning.
Chapter 5: Niner
For the rest of the week, I made the occasional dip into Southern Comfort.
For the most part, though, I let the club make our presence known there. Carrie always expressed her delight when she saw me and the crew came in, and even gave us the nickname “the Savage BBQers,” but I still had trouble opening up to her. I still saw her too much as my guardian angel, as a delicate part of my past I couldn’t ruin, even if I knew fully that I had some strong feelings for her.
But by the time the end of Friday had rolled around and it was time to start prepping for the party, I was in a pretty good headspace. I knew that I would have to see Carrie every so often, but such appearances would only be once a day most of the time. I just accepted that I’d have to find someone else—a difficult enough task with my baggage, but one that I figured would eventually come to fruition.
It being the end of my shift, I had discarded the Brooklyn Repairs uniform in favor of a white undershirt and the Savage Saints cut. I sat in the office, sipping on a glass of whiskey, content to let the evening settle in slowly. I had to stay at the party for a little bit, but I had no intention of staying past midnight—just long enough that the Stones would be happy, but not so long that I would lose my mind staying with them.
And then Fitz and his new girlfriend, Amelia, walked into the office. I kept a straight face as Fitz went to the fridge, hoping that he wouldn’t say anything.
“How’s it going, Niner?”
I knew it. I knew he’d say something.
“Good,” I said gruffly before I sipped on my whiskey once more.
“Excited for tonight?” he said.
“It’s going to be really good. I think you’re going to like what happens,” Amelia said.
I looked at her with scrunched eyebrows. Tension was starting to build in me, and it was only accelerating because of what I perceived as Amelia putting more on my plate that I cared to have.
“Why?”
“Oh, well, we invited Carrie to the party,” Fitz said.
Immediately, my nostrils flared and my eyes widened.
“Why?”
“Well, you’ve talked about her so much, we thought that it would be a good idea for you two to chat outside Southern Comfort,” Amelia said. “If Marcel and Fitz can get girlfriends, then surely you can too.”
“Woah now.”
“Just saying, babe, not every day that a banker turned car mechanic can get laid.”
“You’re so sweet.”
I rolled my eyes at this verbal foreplay and stood up, trying to leave the room.
“I don’t need a matchmaker,” I said.
“She’s coming either way,” Fitz said. “You might as well make the most of it.”
I ignored him as I took my glass of whiskey to the edge of the garage, just within the confines of the building so as to not cause any trouble. Being a former cop had taught me many things, but most of them were the little things that people could get cited for without even realizing it. Alcohol in public should have been one of them, but it seemed to elude most people’s minds.
As I stood on the edge, sipping the whiskey slowly, I thought of how Carrie arriving would go down. The place would be loud, far too loud. People would be drunk. It would be a shit show.
But she wouldn’t be. If she hadn’t gotten hammered when she had shown up without knowing me, she wasn’t going to do so now. She would be dressed very well, far better than most of the girls that showed up here. She wasn’t going to dress up to get laid; she was going to dress up to look nice.
I still didn’t believe, though, that she was absolutely coming. She’d looked so miserable before, and now I was to believe that Fitz being a wingman for me would definitely get her to come?
Would be nice, though. Would be real nice to see her.
Maybe you can stop treating her like fine China and just ask her on a date.
Or maybe you can keep being a coward and pretending that she’s too precious to be touched. Don’t be a wimp.
I sighed as I finished my whiskey.
I guessed the night would t
ell me if I got the opportunity.
But it was up to me to make the most of that opportunity.
* * *
It was just before ten when the first girls showed up. With me standing at the door until Carrie arrived, I had to go through the motions of making sure they had no cameras and left their cell phones at the front of the shop. We were supposed to ensure that no guests took photos of our parties, though not every doorman took the time to check everyone. A flash of some breasts was usually enough to convince the guys otherwise.
Some of the girls tried to flirt with me, but I had zero interest in them. Unfortunately, my complete and somewhat active disdain for many of them seemed only to further encourage them to flirt with me. A couple touched me and promised to show me a good time, but I just ignored them. There was only one girl that I was even going to give a chance to, and if she didn’t show up, I’d go to my usual spot—in the back of the party, letting things unfold.
The clock hit an hour before midnight. I started to give up hope. Carrie had shown up well before the last time she was here. I resigned myself to door duty until midnight, at which point one of the prospects would take over.
And then she turned the corner.
Carrie looked stunningly beautiful. She had on a purple dress that extended down to her knees, a pearl necklace, heels that accentuated her legs, and just the right amount of makeup.
“Hello there,” I said, barely able to get those words out.
“I guess Fitz told you that I was coming, huh?” she said. “Sorry it’s so late. I wanted to get home and get dressed before I showed up.”
“Honestly,” I said, looking back on the crowd. “You are way overdressed for the way this party—”
“Lane,” she said, putting a hand on my arm. “I didn’t get dressed for the party. I got dressed for you.”
You better not pass up this chance to get her on a date now. She’s not some doll you can’t touch. She’s a woman now. The fifth-grade Carrie is in the past.