by D. C. Ruins
The afternoon had been a little slow, so she had come back to join Bunz in the kitchen as her friend was whipping up a batch of chocolate chip cannolis. Bunz seemed to be able to sense her friend's moodiness and need for quiet, as it had been for the past couple of weeks. Drew had informed Bunz of what happened at the gym, announcing that her friend had been right all along and she was done.
Suddenly, they heard the bell over the door tinkle. Bunz glanced at Drew, who had her hands full of half and half and whole milk. She quickly wiped her hands on her apron and waved Drew off.
"I got it," she said, walking through the door.
Drew shrugged and carefully poured the liquid and the flavoring into a canister, screwed on the cap, then the little canister of pressurized air that would give it the whipped, airy consistency. She flipped the canister upside down and leaned one hand on the counter, shaking it vigorously as she absently stared off into space.
She glanced up when Bunz re-entered the kitchen, biting at her lower lip, looking as though she wanted to smile, but didn't.
"What?" Drew asked, cocking an eyebrow.
Bunz cleared her throat and went back to mixing her cannoli filling. "Just a customer out there. Asking for you. Wants a latte."
"Oh," Drew muttered. She quickly unscrewed the mini air canister and picking up the other full canister of the caramel whipped cream, she headed out into the café, slipping behind the counter. She leaned over to put the canisters in the fridge.
"What'll you have?" she called.
"Latte, please," a deep male voice replied, low and rich.
The voice made her freeze for a second, its familiarity clutching at her. Slowly, she straightened up, and found herself looking into a pair of earnest blue eyes. She swallowed.
Heath Riley was sitting at her counter.
Chapter Four
Heath couldn't remember the last time he'd been in Little Italy. It was one of those neighborhoods he knew existed, but rarely had a reason to venture to. Actually, never had a reason to venture to was more like it.
He couldn't help appreciating the overall ambiance of the mostly-friendly family neighborhood of Pittsburgh. Restaurants, shops and stores boasted signs all in Italian. The streets were filled with locals going about their daily activities. He was Irish, and his pale skin and light eyes made him feel like he stuck out like a sore thumb. He pulled the hood of the sweatshirt he wore under his leather jacket over his head and trudged down the street until he saw the inconspicuous storefront of Café Carnevale. He pushed through the door, the little bell over his head tinkling gently, marking his entry.
The first thing he noticed was that the café was totally empty. The second thing he noticed was that it was filled with a sweet, delicate scent that boasted of delicious pastries, mingling with the rich, heavier scent of roasted espresso. They were pleasant scents, to be sure, and he couldn't help taking a deep breath.
The café was small, but cozy, with wooden tables and chairs dotted around the room. To his left was a long, exquisite mahogany bar with stools. Behind the bar was a long counter with espresso machines and a wide variety of syrups and flavors for coffee beverages, canisters of coffee and espresso, blenders, and the like. As he headed toward the bar, he glanced at the wall, seeing several framed pictures to his right. The one at the top was of a middle-aged, smiling, dark-haired couple. The frame was engraved with "Mama and Papa Carnevale, Owners". The one just below was of the exact person he'd come to see; a pretty brunette with olive skin and dark eyes smiled shyly into the camera. The engraving below was "Drew Carnevale, General Manager". Below that, a picture of a funky African-American girl with short hair, red-framed glasses and big earrings, who was grinning slyly, bore the inscription "Bunz Williams, Pastry Artist Extraordinaire".
Drew, he mused silently, moving to the bar and pulling out a stool. At least she'd used her real name, if the spelling had been adjusted slightly to appear more masculine.
A young woman came out from what he presumed to be the kitchen and stepped behind the bar. Her eyes lit on his face and he saw recognition bloom in them, although her face gave away nothing. He knew he was looking at none other than Bunz.
"Hey," he said in a low voice, nodding slightly in greeting.
She gave him a polite smile in return. "Hey," she said. "What can I help you with?"
He cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable and suddenly wondering what the hell he was doing there.
"Uh, Drew around?"
Bunz's full lips pulled into a smirk and she nodded. "She sure is. Do you want a drink or something?"
"Uh, sure," Heath said hesitantly.
Bunz turned and headed for the back. He heard her voice speaking quietly but couldn't make out the words. A moment later, a small figure came out of the doorway, holding several canisters in her arms. She didn't even glance his way as she bent down, disappearing behind the counter. He heard the sound of what he assumed was a storage door or maybe a refrigerator door being opened and the sound of metal against metal.
"What'll you have?" she called from below.
He glanced up at the beverage menu chalked on the board behind the bar. "Latte," he replied. Latte? he thought, annoyed with himself. Since when do you drink lattes?
There was a long pause, and he sat quietly as he watched a hand appear to grip the edge of the counter. A small hand, the neat, short nails not extending past the fingertips and professionally lacquered a deep, shiny shade of dark plum. A moment later, a tousled dark head appeared, followed by a pair of large, warm brown eyes, narrowed in suspicion. He stared back at her impassively, studying her face. She definitely looked better than the last time he'd seen her; that deep-rooted, panic-laced fear gone from her eyes. That they were now replaced with skepticism and suspicion wasn't much better, but then again he'd take that over the primal terror that had been in them before. Her shiny, dark espresso-colored hair was piled loosely on top of her head in a knot, and she wore a hint of makeup, her eyes smudged slightly with dark liner that made them appear even larger and more expressive. He remembered how her face was softly rounded, not an angular feature in sight—a pert, small and slightly up-turned nose, high, rounded cheekbones, and impossibly full, soft-looking pale pink lips that were currently pursed as she appraised him. Her face was a soft heart-shape, and as her mouth stretched slightly into a tight line, two dimples magically sprang deeply into her cheeks.
She spoke before he could. "What are you doing here?" she said quietly. Her voice was pleasantly raspy, low in tone but high and utterly feminine in pitch.
"Came to get a latte," he replied lightly, wanting to see if she'd bite. She didn't.
"You came an awful long way for a latte," she replied, folding her arms over the front of her fitted, V-neck black top. Her sleeves were shoved back to the elbows and she wore a black sports watch on one wrist, and several silver bracelets on the other. Several delicate, silver chains of varying length hung from her neck, the shortest one pooling around her collarbones while the longest almost reached her belly button. She wore a pair of simple, round silver studs in her ears. "Especially given the fact that there's, like, seven coffee shops within a three-block radius of your gym."
He sighed. "I came to apologize to you," he said finally, watching as one of her silky brows arched in skepticism. "For what happened a few weeks ago."
She met his gaze for a beat before averting her eyes and giving him her back as she turned toward one of the espresso machines. He noticed the large flower tattoo on the back of her neck, done in simple black ink with no shading. His eyes slid lower and he swallowed as he took in her shape. She was small-boned and slender, but she had curves in all the right, womanly places and he had a moment to marvel at the fact that she had managed to conceal her sex as long as she had. There was nothing remotely boyish about her curvy, athletic shape, set off to perfection in a pair of tight jeans.
"Water under the bridge," she replied tersely. "What size you want? Medium?"
"Sure,"
he answered. "It's not water under the bridge to me. That type of shit ain't acceptable, not in my establishment, and I don't take kindly to shit like that."
She had been measuring out ground espresso for his drink, but stopped. Her shoulders slumped slightly and she turned to glance at him.
"Why does it matter so much to you, anyway?" she asked. "I didn't call the cops, didn't try to press charges. It is what it is. The world is full of assholes."
"You're right," he conceded. "But at the end of the day, I guess you could say it's just my moral principles. I hate bullies and I hate seeing violence against women. It just ain't all right with me, and if nothing else, someone owes you an apology. It's my place, so, here I am. Saying I'm sorry."
"Wasn't your fault," she replied, her back still to him as she began tamping espresso. "You can't control everyone. Skim or two-percent?"
"Skim, please," he replied, and fell quiet. If she wasn't interested in his apology, he was just going to put it on the table and leave it alone.
Several minutes passed in silence as she steamed his milk and let the espresso drip into his cup. When the milk was hot, she poured it carefully into his cup and let it mix with the espresso, stirring it gently. She placed a lid on the cup and slid it into a sleeve, and turned and placed it on the bar in front of him. She didn't look up at him.
"Two-fifty," she said softly.
He handed her a five. "Keep it," he added, referring to the change. She nodded once in acknowledgment and thanks, still not meeting his eyes.
He turned to leave, then turned back. She finally raised her eyes to meet his, lifting her brows in question.
"If you ever want to come back," he started softly, "just know you're always welcome. And I'll personally guarantee that nobody fucks wit' you."
She breathed out a quick laugh, one corner of mouth pulling upward fast into smile before smoothing out. He didn't quite know what the meant and decided that now, for real, he'd let it be.
"Thanks," he said, lifting his cup. He caught sight of her flicking her head upward in acknowledgment before he turned to push out of the café. He cursed himself for his idiotic idea as he headed back toward the subway. What the hell had he been thinking? Sure, he felt like shit over what had happened to her. But who else besides him, and maybe Connor, would ever really understand why?
He winced inwardly as unwelcomed images flooded his brain; there was Mom, lying on the floor in the living room, sobbing as John gripped one of her hands in his, wrenching her arm back around her. He heard his drunken father's open palm slap against the tender skin of his beloved mother's face; the sickening crunch of ribs giving way under the steel-toe of a work boot. He heard her pleas for him to stop, to please stop, that he was hurting her so much. He shook his head quickly, and the memories dispelled. His father was a different guy now, but unfortunately, John the Drunk or John the Wife-Beater were the two things that immediately came to mind whenever Heath thought of his father—not John the Best Grandpa or John the Supportive Sober Father, as he was now.
Moreover, he was bullied as kid. In school, he had always been the short, scrawny kid in class, and the bigger boys would never fail to gang up on him at least three times a week to make his life hell. In fact, it was the driving force behind his decision to start wrestling—not only did he like the team atmosphere, but he enjoyed learning moves that he could apply in real life situations. Even now at the age of thirty, he couldn't help warming at the memory of the first time he'd fought back. He'd flipped the main bully over his shoulder and had placed him in a chokehold so fast the kid hadn't even realized what was going on until he realized he'd stopped breathing.
These were the reasons why his gut had clenched when he'd seen Drew sprawled on the floor, looking like she'd just been shot. They were why he'd felt helpless after kicking the Three Assholes out of his gym, why he'd offered to call someone for her, do something to help her—no one had helped him out when he was a kid. No one had tried to help ease his suffering. He'd be damned if he didn't do the same thing for someone else.
But, unfortunately, it seemed Drew was through with Carter's Gym and everyone involved. He was disappointed, but at the very least, he'd given it a shot. Never mind that he felt incredibly stupid for it now.
He hopped the train and headed back to his comfort zone—the gym.
***
Drew was grumbling irritably to herself, washing the utensils she'd used to make Heath Riley's fucking latte, when she felt something swat her rear. She whirled, eyes wide, and saw Bunz shaking her head, twirling a dish towel around in her hands.
"You slapped my ass!" Drew exclaimed needlessly. "What the hell?"
"Can you stop mumbling angrily to yourself over there?" Bunz asked. "You sound like a crazy person."
Drew shot her friend a withering stare and returned to her task. "Gee, sorry to disturb you." She was a little embarrassed, having not realized she was actually vocalizing out loud.
"So, when are you going back to the gym?" Bunz asked.
"Ah, never," Drew replied. "On account of the minor incident I endured a few weeks ago."
"I remember," Bunz said patiently. "But did you not hear him say he would make sure nobody messed with you?"
"What exactly does that mean to me?" Drew demanded. "I don't need or want a bodyguard. I don't need to work out at Carter's Gym that bad."
"Maybe not," Bunz replied. "And I'm fairly certain he wasn't suggesting that he would be your bodyguard. But he made a promise to ensure your comfort and safety. That's pretty damn nice of him."
Drew whirled around and glared at her friend suspiciously. "Since when do you care what Heath Riley says or does?"
"I don't," Bunz said. "I care about you. And you seemed to like going to the gym. And I don't think that you should let a bad experience prevent you from doing something you enjoy, especially when the owner himself came all the way down to Little Italy to apologize to you in person and tell you that he would essentially have your back if you decided to go back to his gym."
"It's really not that deep," Drew replied, and moved to start grinding fresh espresso.
"Plus," Bunz added, "seeing him on TV is totally different than seeing him in person. The man is fine."
Drew chuckled and shook her head. "That's what this is really about. I see."
"He is. Come on, Drew. You have to admit it."
"I don't have to do a damn thing," Drew replied automatically, but she had to agree with her friend. Heath Riley was, to say the very least, a beautiful specimen of a man. She blushed suddenly, thinking that she'd seen more of him in person before than just his face, and as far as she could tell, he was beautiful everywhere. "Maybe you ought to be the one working out at the gym."
"I ain't scared," Bunz said. "Maybe I will."
"Not sure how Anthony would feel about that," Drew pointed out with a grin.
"Oh, yeah," Bunz said, sounding unmoved. "Anthony. Totally forgot about him. Jeez. Two minutes with a gorgeous white boy and I'm trippin'."
Drew snickered as she poured the grounds into the espresso container. Maybe she was being a little hard on Heath, but who was he for her to not be hard on? He was just some troubled, local MMA celebrity with baggage and a gym. Yeah, he'd been nice to her when she'd gotten attacked, and yeah, he'd voluntarily parted with $105 per month, maybe more, by kicking the three stooges out of his gym. And yeah, it was sort of sweet he'd come down to the café just to apologize to her and invite her back although she still didn't see what the big deal was to him. But she wasn't sure if any of those things were worth her going back to a place where she'd been assaulted and violated. She didn't know if she'd be able to work out there again and not think about it.
Sorry, Heath Riley, she thought. Too little, too late.
***
Word of the story of "the girl in guy's clothing who came to Carter's" spread like wildfire through the gym, despite Heath's best efforts not to let it. He was annoyed every time someone brought it up, even though he was
getting praise for acting the way he had. But he hadn't done it for praise or recognition; he'd intervened because it had been the decent thing to do. It had gotten to a point where he turned a deaf ear to any more commentary on the subject.
A week had passed since he'd gone to the café and he still hadn't seen Drew back at the gym, so he assumed now, it was case closed. While he was sorry she felt like she couldn't come back, he knew he'd done right by her and the situation, and at this point, he was washing his hands of it. But when almost everyone was talking about it, it seemed, it made shutting the door on that particular event difficult if not altogether impossible.
As a result, there were women coming to the gym, but not to work out—apparently, the guys had taken Drew's infiltration as a sign that women could and should come to the gym, so when they started popping up, Heath at first had some hope. But it became quickly clear that the women were there to pick up their boyfriends, drop off food, equipment, gym bags, payments, or—most annoying of all—stand by the ring and cheer them on while they sparred against each other. Frequently, the girlfriends brought their friends with them and all but threw them at Heath. The girls were only too glad to offer to fetch and carry for him, in a multitude of different ways couched in clever double entendres. And they were so obvious. Aside from their comments, they came to the gym fully made up, dressed up in tight and low cut clothing, laughing loudly to catch his attention, finding any reason at all to put their hands on him. He was personally affronted and disgusted. Was this what real, actual famous people dealt with and expected? Did they take down every woman who flung themselves at them, use them and move on? And the women—for Christ's sake. Was there a woman left anywhere with a shred of dignity and decency about herself?
So, Heath spent a lot of time in his office with the door closed. It irked him, because he knew he needed to be spending a hefty bit of time training for the Smackdown tournament in New York, but he couldn't stand to be around the clientele's girlfriends and their slutty friends.