by Xyla Turner
Always Right
Xyla Turner
AZINA MEDIA PUBLICATIONS
AZINA MEDIA PUBLICATIONS
237 Flatbush Avenue, #187 Brooklyn, NY 11217
This is an original publication of AZINA MEDIA PUBLICATIONS.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2018 AZINA MEDIA PUBLICATIONS
Cover Page by Q Designs
Edited by VRM5 Editing
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
10:80 - Line of Duty Series
About the Author
Lady Guardians Serial
Also by Xyla Turner
XYLA’S CONTACT INFORMATION
Acknowledgments
To you!
Those of you that rock with me, from the beginning, just now or you’re about to. :-)
Thank you for making this author’s dream come true.
My mom and my biggest fan.
I love you!
Thanks to my Protector, Provider and Provision Way Maker.
Much Love,
Xyla Turner
Chapter 1
Maxine
“I said I wanted Margherita pizza,” I whispered to the small woman in the quaint Italian restaurant.
“What?” she shouts in a thick Italian accent. “You ask for pizza. Here is pizza.”
“No, I asked for a Margherita pizza. You just gave me a cheese pizza.” I say a little more loudly because her English was so bad. I had a hard time understanding and figured she had trouble comprehending what I was saying as well.
“You ask for pizza.” She shared again, in a loud manner with her hands on her hips.
She picked up the silver tray with the wrong pizza on it as if she was going to take it back, then she dropped it back on the table, ending with a hard thud.
Wait, one goddamn minute!
All eyes were on us in the overly decorated Italian restaurant. Bottles were hanging from the ceiling, signs splattered all over the place with no rhyme or reason, and pictures of what seemed like random people plastered all over. I should have known this was going to be a problem when I walked in and asked her if they had takeout. She asked me to repeat myself twice, then waved me off and said, “No, no.”
That should have been my first hint that this was probably going to be a problem. Customer service was a major pet peeve of mine. So much so, I started an entire company to consults businesses on how to best appeal to their customers. That old saying, the customer is always right. Well, I was a true believer in that. If it was for no reason, other than, they are spending their money for a service. They can do that anywhere, so why not have them do it at a business that will treat them right. Not like this Italian restaurant with one waitress, who I presume is the owner. She had to be in her seventies with weathered skin and a scowl to match. The doors that I assumed led to the kitchen was reasonably quiet, which made me think, she could probably be the cook too, since she made her rounds.
There were two couples, one family, one single guy, and me in the entire place. It was no bigger than a New York apartment building, and I was nearly sitting on top of the couple and single older man, who was quietly eating his spaghetti and reading a paper.
“But, this isn’t the pizza that I asked for,” I said while lifting the pan and dropping it back down but closer to her.
“You eat pizza.” The old woman snapped back. This had me standing up because clearly it was time to leave this place. The man next to me had abandoned his dinner and paper and was focused in on our conversation.
Hell, everybody was.
“I’m not eating or paying for this!” I went to grab my coat, but the crazy woman lifted the pan that held the pizza and slammed it down on the table again.
“Oh!” She grunted. “You pay.”
“Ha,” I laughed in a sarcastic, I’ll be damned if I do way. “I’m not paying.”
My body leaned down to face the old tyrant because she was about to have Philly come out. I worked hard to keep that part of me away. My strides toward earning a successful business, code-switching my way so that I could communicate in any arena and making something of myself, since that’s what I was raised to do. I had done all of that, but this one act had me going deep back to my teenage years in Philly with my neck popping and finger-pointing. I was raised to respect my elders, but this lady was taking this to another level.
The scene was so heated that I failed to realize that the door had chimed, signaling that someone walked inside.
“What is going on?” I heard a deep voice, thick with a London accent.
It seemed that all eyes turned to the voice, which I realized stood next to the crazy old lady, who was facing off with me. I looked up to meet a deep set of green eyes, sharp features, a square jaw, and a low haircut.
“Mum?” He called to the woman but his eyes were on me.
The tyrant turned to face him, then started spewing off a litany of Italian to him and making gestures.
“What?” I hissed at the gesture she made with her hands extended but in front of her. As if to say that I was big or something was big.
Yeah, I was a size eighteen, but if that woman was calling me fat, we were going to have a major problem.
“What did she say?” I asked him with squinted eyes.
He just nodded at me, trying to pacify or cover up what the woman was saying. So, I intervened and pled my case.
“I asked for a Margherita pizza. She brings this out, and I shared with her that I asked for a Margherita pizza. She picks up the tray, slams it down, and said I asked for pizza. I told her that it’s not a Margherita, so she tells me that I need to pay. I’m not paying.” I told him as I talked over her.
“Ugh, Americans.” The woman hissed.
“What?” I snapped back at her.
The man stepped in between the two of us and said in what I think he thought was a diplomatic tone.
“You ordered the pizza, you should pay for the pizza.” That square jaw or sexy accent was no longer a factor as I reared my head back at him.
“In what country am I in that I need to pay for something I didn’t order?” I said loudly and looked around at the people in the restaurant.
The man replies in a bored tone and says, “You’re in England.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I hissed. “You and your mama can eat the fucking pizza. This is by far the worst customer service that I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. I cannot believe this shit. I’m not paying for a goddamn thing.”
Snatching up my purse and my jacket from the back of the chair, which knocked it over, I went for the exit and thank God, no one stopped me.
Then, I heard her say, “Loud,
vulgar Americans.”
I stopped, and I shouldn’t have. Yelling back, “I’ll show you a loud and vulgar American. Right on my review for every site this place is listed. Count on that.” I stomped out of the place and walked down the London streets, aimlessly trying to figure out where my hotel was located.
That place made me so mad, I completely lost my bearings. Pulling my phone from my purse, I googled my hotel, grabbed a ready-made sandwich from Starbucks, and headed back. I needed to pack, since my plans from what was supposed to be my vacation ended effectively the next day.
Outside of the Italian restaurant terror, it was quite a relaxing trip. Six whole days in London by myself, without thinking of work, problems, or my personal life. The past five years were spent growing my business, The Always Right Company (ARC). It really started with me suggesting some things to a few of my friends and watching the turnaround in sales or traffic to their business. My father took special pride in the business that I’ve started because many of my lessons were from working at his corner store, even before I was legally allowed to be employed. In Philly, there was a store or bodega on every corner. So much so, an entire company started five years ago with new clients every month and my employee count had reached fifteen. We had even connected with the local community college to get interns from the Business Administration department.
ARC was my baby, but I had been working non-stop for five years. Finally, my dad and employees pooled together and said that I needed a vacation. When they presented the fact that I hadn’t had a day off in five years, I called my travel agent and we landed in London. Now that it was coming to an end, I made a commitment to take at least one weekend off a month, go to the spa, get a mani-pedi, and do something to my hair. With the time that was spent building the company, meant I didn’t have time to do things like my hair. So, I cut it all off and put a balm on it that made it curl up. It was simple and worked, but maybe a style or something could be incorporated into my regiment.
It was a noble idea.
Chapter 2
Maxine
Where was it?
I could not find my passport anywhere and my flight leaves in four hours. There was even a connecting flight to Madrid, which meant that I could not miss the first flight or be delayed because I’d miss the second one. After retracing my steps and ripping my hotel room apart, I did not find it. This sent me on a hunt to go to the pizza shop to see if I left it there.
God, I dared not go to that horrid Italian place, but I think that’s the last place I had my satchel. My driver when I first arrived warned me that I should be wary of pickpockets. Even the people who I wouldn’t suspect might try to bombard me with questions or asking for directions. All with the intent to take my wallet or something like that. Therefore, I wore a satchel that remained under my jacket.
Damn.
When I thought I was going to eat, I took it off and laid it on the chair. In a fit of rage, I just grabbed my purse and forgot about the satchel. Reluctantly, I went back to the restaurant, since it was only a few blocks away from the hotel. As soon as I entered, the old hag started with her nonsense.
“You come to pay?” She sneered.
“No!” I snapped back. “I came to get my satchel, it has my passport. I left it here yesterday.”
“No, no.” She shook her head and walked away.
This shit again.
“Lady, I left my satchel here. It was black.” I walked further into the restaurant to where I was seated, and there wasn’t anything there.
Dammit.
“Lady, have you seen my bag. I left it here. Who was here after me? I need to leave today. My flight leaves in three hours. I’m already late.” I was nearly begging because I did not want to get caught in London, and I damn sure didn’t want to talk to that lady.
“No satchel, no passport.” She urged as she picked up trays from folks who probably weren’t even done.
Someone yelled, “Hey. Still working on that.”
She just kept walking. I couldn’t help myself and uttered, “Worst customer service ever.”
Well, that must have been the straw that broke the camel’s back because the crazy woman spun around and say, “You stay here in London with no passport because you a stupid American. Lose passport.”
Her little withered index finger came up as she wagged it in my face from side to side and made a tsk sound with her tongue.
This woman.
I nearly growled until I found myself following her in the kitchen and lo and behold, there was a chef. The old hag wasn’t cooking and waitressing too.
“You!” She pointed to me. “Get out. No satchel.”
“Oh, you’re the American?” The man said with a thick Italian accent. “Left your passport?”
“Oh my God, yes!” I nearly ran to hug him. “Do you know where it’s at?”
“No.” The old lady said with a finite negative. “Don’t know.”
“Oh Marianne.” The chef, who had what I presumed as pizza sauce on all over the beige apron, shook his head. “You know Noah has it.”
My ears perked right up because the witch was lying. Right to my face.
“Noah?” I asked. “Who’s that and where can I find him?”
“No find him.” The woman snapped at me while glaring at her cook. “She ungrateful American. Don’t pay.”
“Fuck!” I yelled back. “You want me to pay for the pizza I never ate, so I can get my passport back.”
Her eyes narrowed at me right before she nodded, “Yes!”
I pulled out what pounds I had left. It was probably twenty-five dollars and all those pretty coins and put them on the table.
“Here. For the damn pizza. Now, where can I find this Noah?” I glared at the extortionist.
“Ha, you pay!” She gloated while I grit my teeth.
“He lives at the hotel Wolfe II, closest to here. On Aldergate place.” The man shared as the ratchet woman counted the money. “He works crazy hours, but he lives there.”
“Can we call him?” I asked. “Because my flight leaves in three hours. Less than that, actually?”
“No call. He work.” She chimed in, causing me to glare at her even more.
There had to be a way to get in contact with the man. Missing my flight was not an option.
“She’s right. The man works and never answers the phone. Go to hotel, maybe they can reach him there.” The chef said as he taps his protruding stomach as if he had to get back to work.
“Okay, okay. Noah, ah. What’s his last name?” I asked as I started to head out of the small kitchen.
“Wolfe.” The woman proudly announced. “Like his mama.”
“Some mama.” I said as I left out the double doors.
“Some American.” She said the last word as if it were a disease.
Oh, that woman.
Quickly looking up the hotel on my phone, I found two Wolfe hotels, but only one of them was near this wretched restaurant. It was seven minutes away on foot, so I power-walked to the location. Once I arrived, everyone knew who Mr. Noah Wolfe was, but said he was unavailable. I asked if they could call his room and see if he was there. They assured me he wasn’t, but after the fifth time, the concierge called upstairs and let me see that he wasn’t there.
At that point, I only had two hours to make my flight, so I was counting down and praying that he would come through the doors. They offered to have me wait at the bar, since it was happy hour. At first, I refused because I wanted to wait for him at the door. Then after an hour of that, my stomach decided it needed to get some food. Constantly checking my app, I ate, drank, and watch my plane board and then take off. No sign of Mr. Noah Wolfe. The drinks kept coming, and I continued to indulge until Happy Hour was over at 7:00 pm. Tossed was not the word to use for my state of being. Neither was nice or sloshed. I was downright drunk at that point. Talking out of my ass about only God knows what. Everybody knew that I missed my flight, and everybody knew that I was waiting for Noah
Wolfe. This was made known to me because when the handsome, squared jaw gentlemen came inside of the bar with his brows pushed together, searching the room, everybody said in unison, “Noah Wolfe!”
Like he was some sort of celebrity. In my intoxicated state, I slurred, “There you are, Noah Wolfe. You made me miss my flight, and your wretched mother is a spawn of Satan who robbed me today.”
As I said this, the goal was to get off my stool, so he could see how upset I was about this news. However, I ended up tipping over and Mr. Noah Wolfe caught me.
“Damn, you smell good.” I said with a droopy smile on my face. “But if you’re a spawn of the spawn of Satan. That means you’re supposed to smell good, right?”
Both of my hands were draped over each shoulder, my face was planted in his hard chest, and I might have slobbered on the tailored suit that fit him perfectly.
“Up, you go.” I heard a familiar British accent.
That was the last thing I really remember.
Chapter 3
Noah
Another long day at work, trying to revitalize my inheritance, which is proving to be more of a challenge than I originally thought. Father was a great businessman, but he also managed to make horrible decisions. As the group started to fail, he refused to change the members. They made poor decision after poor decision, which sent the two hotels to rubbish. After his passing, he left everything to me as what he called his inheritance. However, as my uncle so pointedly let me know when we went over the financials, what was left was a burden of debt that needed to be fixed. Not anything that would be beneficial for the next five years. That was seven years ago, and I was close to turning it around with one major venture that would help flip my entire lot.