by P. Dangelico
I place the drinks before the group of early twenties Manhattan professionals as slowly as I possibly can without looking like a completely incompetent moron. Across the room at table twelve, Sarah, one of the other cocktail waitresses, taps him on the shoulder and says something to him. As I breathe a sigh of relief, he shakes his head at her. Then Sarah’s head pops up and I watch her scan the crowd… until her eyes land on me. She waves me over.
Damn it. Who did I murder in a past life to deserve this?
Plastering a mask of cool indifference on my face that I’m not feeling, I wipe my now sweaty hands on my black jeans and walk slowly to table twelve. When Sarah sees the expression I’m wearing, her casual smile melts right off of her face. I treat her to a death glare, and she returns an awkward shrug. Then she pivots on her heels and scurries away. Frigging traitor.
He doesn’t look at me, the rim of the cap hiding his eyes, and I don’t say a word. It’s like showdown at high noon, time suspended by silence and a palpable tension. His massive shoulders are hunched, his elbows rest on his well-worn jeans, and his large hands are clasped in a single fist.
“This table is reserved,” I inform him, finally deciding to cut to the chase.
“For Titans players,” he counters without missing a beat. I feel my full lips thin in blatant annoyance. Gawd, I so strongly dislike this dude. He finally tips his head up and deigns to look at me. His cold, gray eyes scan my face for an amount of time that I deem inappropriate. And then they descend down the length of my cowish body.
Fucking cow…get that fucking cow.
My ears are suddenly on fire as those words play on a loop in my head. “What can I get you?” My eyes move off in a totally bored expression. I get nothing in return, not a frigging word. “Hello? This cow has things to do,” I say, jabbing a thumb at myself. “What. Can. I. Get. You?”
His eyes snap up to mine. He looks…startled? Okay, weird. Slowly, he stands, my eyes following his face until it’s looming over me. I have no idea what the heck to expect when his expression––that is what I can make of it from under the cap and beard––changes from indifferent to painfully uncomfortable. He stuffs his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and shrugs up his big shoulders.
“You,” he mumbles.
“What?” I practically shout. Clearly, I haven’t heard him correctly.
“I came for you.”
“He’s back,” Sarah says, nodding in the direction of the man sitting at table twelve. White button down and ball cap, again. I roll my eyes in exasperation. I’m really not in the mood for this. The Friday night crowd is always louder and more demanding than Thursday’s, so I’ve been running around for the past two hours. My feet are aching and my voice is hoarse from shouting over the racket. I decide to nip this in the bud immediately. Clearly, I wasn’t sufficiently rude last night because he didn’t get the message that nothing would ever entice me to work for a crude, entitled bastard such as himself.
This is how that melodrama played out.
Him: ‘I’m offering you the job.’
Me: ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
Him: ‘No? What do you mean no?’
Me: ‘No as in denial, refusal, an explicit rejection. If you’ve never heard the word before, let me be the one to introduce you.’
Him: Looking over my head to a point in the distance. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I said.’
Me: Confused look on my face. ‘I couldn’t care less what you do, or don’t say.’
Him: ‘Shouldn’t have said it.’ Finally looks me in the eye.
Me: Yup, no remorse in that cold, lifeless stare. ‘I don’t give a single crap. Are you ordering something to drink, or are you going to continue wasting my time?’
Him: Silence. Then, a scowl that should’ve killed me, followed by more silence. Spins around and stalks out of the bar.
Me: Self-satisfied smirk.
Marching over, I plant a hand on my hip and glare. “I don’t work here for sport or hobby. You’re taking up a table that could be earning me money. Now, what can I get you? Because if you’re not here to drink, I can go speak to the manager.” I watch the refined nostrils of his straight nose flare. I can tell he wants to let me have it, but he choses to stare me down instead.
“Bring me a bottle of champagne,” he mutters.
I hold out my hand for a credit card and he fishes a black Amex out of the wallet he’s removed from his back pocket. I stalk back to the bar and wait as Amber pours five shots of tequila for some Wall Street hotshots that are leering at her reed thin body and shouting indecent proposals. She verbally spars back and forth with them, and the more insulting she gets, the more the morons are lapping it up. Go figure.
“How about you let me show you a good time, sweetheart?” says moron number one.
“A two pump hump in the men’s bathroom is no one’s definition of a good time, Slick, except your mother’s. That certainly explains your fondness for it,” is Amber’s quick reply. Morons number two through four double over in hysterics. Ignoring the suits, she turns to me and tilts up her chin.
“He’s here.”
“Do I need to handle this?” Amber regularly forgets that she’s 5’5” and a buck nothing.
“What’s your most expensive bottle of champagne?” I ask.
“The Krug––4 grand.”
I’m loving the devious look in her hazel eyes. “Let’s do it.”
“Coming right up,” she says smirking. I don’t feel even the least bit guilty.
I drag the bucket with the Krug on ice back to table twelve and place it on the table. He’s blasting me with that chilly stare of his. I can practically feel the frostbite forming on the side of my face. Then, before I can retract it, he gently grips my wrist. A ripple of awareness climbs up my arm and fills my stomach with icky sludge.
“Sam likes you.” It takes me a minute to realize he’s speaking about his nephew.
“I liked him, too,” is all I say because it’s the truth. Then––nothing. Those crystalline eyes search mine for something. What for? I haven’t got a clue. But the intensity of his examination makes me lean away.
Just then three, very tall men walk up to the table and stare at Shaw as if they’ve just witnessed a Kardashian receive a Nobel prize in Physics. I tug on my wrist and he lets go.
“The fuck?” says one. “Dude,” says the other. And “No way,” says the third. Shaw tenses visibly. I get the impression that it’s rare for them to see Shaw at this sort of establishment. Tall, slim black dude starts laughing and says, “Who’s your stylist, man? The grand wizard of the Klan?”
I do a quick up and down of slim, black dude. He’s wearing a royal blue suit of expensive wool gabardine perfectly tailored to the swells of his body. Accenting his impeccable suit is a colorful bowtie that would look foolish on anyone else, though on him looks amazing. He’s easily the best dressed guy in the room and that’s saying a lot in this crowd. In addition, his build, skin color, and wide bright smile also make him devastatingly handsome.
“Shut up, Brandon,” says a sulky Shaw. Brandon? The name jars something in my memory loose. Brandon Meriwether, all-pro cornerback.
Three hundred pounds plus white dude sits next to Shaw and the whole couch sinks under him. He grabs the bottle of Krug and his rust colored eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “Shaw-shank, you sure got expensive taste for a cracker from Jacksonville.” Without waiting for permission, he pours himself a glass.
Shaw’s eyes shoot to mine, glinting with something…dangerous, while I manage to keep a totally impassive expression. “Expensive, you say? How expensive, Pop?” His icy glare remains trained on me. James Popovitch, nose tackle.
Popovitch scratches his red, stubbled chin pensively and says, “’Bout four grand.” Then he raises the champagne glass and drains it. I can’t keep the corners of my mouth from lifting just a little bit.
“Not like you can’t afford it,” says the third Titans player. I recognize him im
mediately as Grant Hendricks, star linebacker on the team and one of the most beloved players in Titans history. He runs an extra large bear paw, I mean hand through his floppy golden hair. His brand of handsome is of the Iowa corn-fed variety. His shrewd gaze moves between me and Shaw, assessing the situation. I catch a cynical smirk that belies his squeaky clean persona. Tugging up his gray slacks, he sits on the couch with his legs spread apart, opposite the other men. “You hanging around ‘til the other guys get here?” Hendricks asks Shaw. Shaw shakes his head and Hendricks answers with, “Didn’t think so.”
I suddenly notice that I’ve been standing silently for far too long and find my voice. “Gentleman, can I get you anything else, or should I close out the bill?”
In unison, they all answer something different. Shaw scowls at them and tells me to close out the bill.
“Be right back.”
Standing, Shaw says, “I’ll come with you.”
“Not necessary,” I answer as I turn and walk away. When I briefly glance over my shoulder, I see he’s following me. No surprise there. Is it all the blows to the head he’s sustained or hearing loss, I wonder?
At the bar, as I’m waiting for one of the bartenders to charge his card, I watch Shaw part the crowd three rows deep like he’s Moses. He walks up to me and stands way too close, close enough that I know he’s doing it on purpose. Then he places his large, tan hand next to my elbow on the bar, a mere breath away from touching me. Like I said, I’m not a small woman by any means, and yet at the moment I feel dwarfed and crowded. If he steps one inch closer, I may have to “accidentally” kick his shins. His intense gaze bears down on me from his lofty height. While I look everywhere but up, my heart starts to pump heavily for reasons which I can’t figure out.
“What’s it going to take?” he murmurs in that insanely smooth baritone. It’s another perfect example of the heinous injustice of life that this guy has such an amazing voice. His pushiness raises my hackles. I’ve felt so powerless over the last couple of years, robbed of the ability to make choices about the trajectory of my life, that his attitude launches me from irritation into rage. It doesn’t take much for the devil in me to make an appearance.
“Something you don’t posses––a time machine,” I say and hand him the bill one of the male bartenders has dropped off. He opens the folder, signs his name with a flourish, and hands it back to me. Without another word, he turns and disappears into the crowd. A momentary pang of guilt hits me that I may have hurt his feelings. It doesn’t take much for me to shake it off, however. All I have to do is remind myself what a self-centered jerk this guy is. Absently, I open the folder with the signed slip and my eyes bug out. He left a two thousand dollar tip on a four thousand dollar bill––and he never even touched the champagne.
The rest of the week flies by uneventfully. I don’t give Shaw more than a cursory thought. I have more pressing issues to consider. If I don’t get another job soon or pick up more shifts, I’ll be broke once again after I pay my medical insurance. This feeling of hanging on the edge of a cliff by my fingernails, I realize, will become a constant unwanted companion for the foreseeable future and the urge to become an alcoholic grows stronger. Too bad I can’t handle my liquor. I usually get a migraine before even the slightest buzz takes hold. Once again, shortchanged by life. An image of the hundred grand flashes through my mind and I decide to go for a run. I need to clear my head before I start smashing things I don’t have the money to replace.
The lifeless, taupe gray landscape matches my mood. I run to the point of exhaustion to block out the million emotions I’m not ready to deal with. Entering through the back door, I’m shrugging out of my Patagonia jacket when I hear my mother’s shrilly laughter emanating from the dining room. Angelina DeSantis, a woman who has been happily married for forty years, positively melts around attractive men so I know there’s one in the house by the tone of her voice. I walk into the room to find her having coffee with none other than Ethan Vaughn. Wow. She broke out the linen napkins and good cookies.
“Cami, Mr. Vaughn has been waiting for you for twenty minutes,” she scolds, as if somehow I’m the one that forgot the appointment. Mr. Perfect hands me a friendly smile. Then, turning the power of those hypnotic brown eyes on my mother, he says, “Has it been twenty minutes? I’ve been enjoying our conversation so much I must’ve lost track of time.”
I throw up a little in my mouth while my mother titters like a teenage girl. “I’ll walk you out, Mr. Vaughn,” I announce, my voice clipped, and get both their blank stares.
“Camilla Ava Maria DeSantis––” she says in a hushed voice. And I’m instantly five again. “That is not how I raised you to treat guests.”
“He’s not a guest, Mother, he’s a lawyer.”
She plants a hand on her chest like I’ve just mortally wounded her. “Did you know that Mr. Vaughn went to Harvard?” Her dark blue eyes bore into mine.
And it all comes back to me. Her little quirk. I’ve been part of a couple for so long I forgot all about it…my mother’s obsession to land me a husband with a Harvard degree. My mind follows that line of thought to its logical end and immediately grasps onto the fact that I am no longer part of a couple. Instantly, a cold sweat sweeps over my skin and I’m laboring to breathe.
Oh my God, am I having a panic attack? I try to swallow the fist of pain clogging my throat with no success. I can’t be having a panic attack…can I? The urge to run out of the room, shrivel up under the covers, and cry is overwhelming. The walls are closing in on me. Air. I need air. I know I have to get rid of Mr. Perfect before I start to break down. Thankfully, he sees the look on my face and gets the clue.
“I’ve already taken up too much of your time, Mrs. DeSantis. Ms. DeSantis, if you could show me out?” Without waiting for him to even finish the sentence, I’m already marching to the front door. Meanwhile, he thanks my mother profusely and promises to come by again for coffee sometime soon.
Outside, the cold air hits me in the chest and the shock settles my nerves a bit. I walk in a circle with my hands planted firmly on my hips, all my attention focused on measuring each breath and not hyperventilating.
“Are you okay?” Vaughn sounds genuinely concerned. I’m this close to snapping, ‘do I frigging look okay?’ but I don’t want to incur Angelina’s wrath––I’m almost positive the nosy woman is eavesdropping as I speak––and keep those words locked up in my mouth. Motioning him away from the front steps, I make sure she’s no longer within earshot to lay into him.
“How the hell did you get my address? If the agency gave it to you, they are f…they are going to be sorry.” His friendly demeanor falls away and I’m introduced to Mr. Vaughn the lawyer, his perfect brow knit in determination.
“Ms. DeSantis, I appreciate your reason for refusing our offer, really, I do, but I think there’s room to negotiate. If you would only listen to what I’m proposing––”
I hold up a hand. “Stop, stop this instant.” I’m mildly amused when he actually does as I ask. “Find someone else.”
“Can’t do that,” he answers, his head shaking vigorously. I keep walking toward his car in the hope that he’s following me and gets the hint to leave. If not, I’m more than ready to stuff him inside myself.
“Why not? I can’t possibly be the only qualified applicant in an area twenty four million people inhabit.”
“Sam likes you…he doesn’t take to many people.” Turning swiftly, the look on my face shuts him up real fast. I did like the boy. Silence ensues as I reflect on this fact.
“Why not?”
Vaughn looks off into the distance and exhales heavily. “Remember you signed an NDA,” he warns. That earns him a glare. “He’s really shut down since he came to stay with Cal, Mr. Shaw, and Cal just doesn’t know how to handle it.”
My scoff is loud and immediate. “Yeah, well, if his behavior toward me is any indication I can see why.”
He looks pointedly at me and says, “Sam really needs
someone like you.” I want to tell him that he hasn’t got a clue who I am but I let it slide. I need him gone, and a lengthy debate with a Harvard educated lawyer would be counterproductive to my goal.
“Why ninety days?” I know I shouldn’t, that any sign of interest will only open the door to more stalking, however the curiosity is killing me.
“His mother’s in rehab again. What do you say, Ms. DeSantis? Will begging do the trick? Because I’m prepared get on my hands and knees if I have to,” he pleads, batting his long eyelashes. This has less than zero effect on me––of the good variety. Overly flirtatious men have always made my ovaries shrivel.
“That nonsense only works on my mother, so stow it if you want me to consider your proposal.” A bright grin spreads across his face. “Besides, nothing’s changed. Your client is still a jerk and I’m still offended.”
All of a sudden, he looks uncomfortable. “Yeah, about that, you see…Cal’s had a tough time lately.”
“A tough time??” I interrupt, looking at him askance. “He’s had a tough time? No, don’t say another word. Just get in the car and give me a couple of days to think about it.”
I have absolutely no intention of thinking about it, and feel zero guilt for letting him believe otherwise.
“Great!” he says all chipper and gets into his Audi.
“I’m not promising anything.”
He reverses out of my driveway, his elbow hanging out of the open driver’s side window. “So I’ll expect you in a couple of days?” he continues undaunted.
“I said, I’m not promising anything.”
“Right. See you soon.” He’s speeding away before I can argue further.
Chapter Four
“Oh, this is a good one,” Amber announces cheerfully. She pulls a Law of Attraction book off the shelf and holds it up for my edification.
I was all set to put on my ‘no chance in hell I’m getting laid’ sweatpants and spend the day in bed feeling sorry for myself…and then I answered the phone. Mistake. Huge mistake. It took Amber all of five minutes to talk me into meeting her in the city for brunch.