Blue Diamond

by Dawn Umrie

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  Blue Diamond

  HE BROUGHT COLOR TO A COLORLESS DIAMOND.

  AUTHOR DAWN UMRIE

  Blue Diamond

  Copyright © 2018 by Author Dawn Umrie.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book cover design by G. Rogue

  To my family, thank you for allowing me the time to live in my own fictional world for longer than what might be deemed as healthy.

  To my friend, Lyssa, thank you for inspiring me with your never-ending rays of sunshine.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Merissa

  As I sit on the edge of my bed, I stare at the same marred walls of this less-than-stellar second-story bedroom, and I swear the dents, dings, and defects are combining to form one large picture the longer I look at them. I lean back on my elbows and begin observing the discolored paint-peeled ceiling, having gotten into the habit of counting the irregular shapes left behind—finding the action to be oddly calming. And since I’ve established the whatever works philosophy long ago, I don’t even try to stop myself.

  Three repetitious knocks sounded off outside my door, alerting me that it’s time for my 9 PM–3 AM shift at Graffiti’s, located in Fort Lauderdale. I could hear the usual commotion drifting upstairs, and strangely enough, I’m comforted by the sounds. My workplace is just a flight of stairs down, so, sometimes, I feel very much like a living, breathing meme. The one that pokes fun at the woman who lives above a bar.

  I stretch before lifting myself up from the old-fashioned, flowered quilt and gaze in the full-length mirror, the only thing that adorns the walls in here, choosing to keep it that way. Anything that would reflect my personality, might also weaken my resolve to move out.

  I pass a brush quickly through my waist-length, straight black hair and finagle it into a low ponytail when I hear the predictable second set of knocks, which serve as ‘my last call.’ The abrasive sound coming from the bottom of the landing this time. Thankfully, the lazy bastard wouldn’t dare climb up the stairs twice in one evening.

  My boss is a complete, PITA.

  Pain. In. The. Ass.

  My hands smooth out the imaginary wrinkles from my skimpy, v-neck Graffiti’s shirt and skin-tight black shorts.

  I lean on the small dresser to aid me in the task of getting my feet into my strappy black heels that not so magically turn into medieval torture chambers halfway through the night. I take one last quick inspection in the mirror, finally having reached the point in my life where I could accept the reflection. My curves, which, unarguably, earn me higher tips on the job, I had wished away as a preteen girl because of the unwanted attention I received from the boys who were raging with hormones.

  Still, at 29 years old, it amazes me daily how much I resemble my mother during the happier years—when being a mother meant everything to her.

  When I meant everything to her.

  I fished out my room key from my micro black shorts pocket, if you could call it that, and opened the dented metal door—like I’ve also done the night before and the night before that, and so on.

  The monotony of this repetitive routine is not lost on me, but I’m thankful, none the less.

  Entering Graffiti’s bar, a name that was synonymous to the neighborhood not that many years ago, is in what can be referred to as a transitional neighborhood, which is slowly undergoing a revival of sorts. My boss slash ape of this fine establishment is obviously not feeling the whole revamp thing.

  Instead, knocking on doors like a Neanderthal seems to be more suited to his personality.

  Jim’s head turns my way when he hears the door slam shut behind me, the only way it will close.

  “Hey, sweetness, what the hell took you so long?”

  Looking down at my feet, I wait for the anticipated sexist comments to spew out of his mouth, so I begin the countdown in my head.

  In 5, 4, 3, 2….

  “You’re plenty pretty enough that it shouldn’t take you so long to get your fine ass downstairs to work.” He scratches his large stomach. “Good thing you have me to keep you on schedule because I can’t have a money maker like you be late for work, now can I?”

  God, he’s just so—icky.

  And, grossly obvious.

  I bite my tongue, so the hairy creep will bore of me if I don’t give him an audience by engaging him. An awkward few seconds of silence go by, so I finally look up, following his watchful eyes to the top of my head. This, in turn, causes me to run a hand over my hair thinking I might have a fuzz ball in it or something.

  Jim puts his index finger under his chin, “Put your hair down, Merissa, you’re not headed to one of those rumba classes.”

  You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me.

  Calling upon the heavens for an ounce of willpower to keep my mouth shut, I nod while making it known that I’m looking up at his comb-over before I walk away and when I’m out of earshot, I whisper, “Zumba, you, dumbass.”

  I can’t help but laugh at him. If nothing else, he is stupidly entertaining.

  Luckily, he doesn’t hassle his workers… much, since all his focus is on one thing, and one thing only—the almighty dollar. What he does with said money is a mystery that I have no inclination to solve, but it most certainly isn’t being put to modernizing this bar or my place upstairs.

  An even bigger mystery is the crowd Graffiti’s draws, from original customers from the neighborhood to the young, trendy crowd that are of the opinion that this place is artistic and vintage. I could understand the draw in some respects, but that still doesn’t stop me from mentally holding a torch to the place. Starting with a clean slate, minus the torch, or, maybe with it, would expand the reach of customers even further to those, such as myself, who perceive it as being shabby and dated.

  As soon as I step foot behind the bar, I’m immediately greeted by Brook, a ray of sunshine in this dimly lit watering hole.

  “Hi, Rissy!” How are the accommodations in steerage?”

  Laughing at my bubbly Tinkerbelle-like friend, I respond, “‘Hardly any rats.’”

  Titanic quotes are generously shared between the two of us, and I’m not ashamed to say that we quote them often, especially when life’s bitter fruit says, take a bite of me—or because the words are the shit. I don’t care what anybody says, there are valuable l
ife lessons in the movie, even though most can’t seem to get past mocking the line, “‘I’m King of the World.’”

  Brook places her petite hands to her mouth, eyes overly wide to feign shock, and we both crack up like a couple of loons. If this little blonde pixie only knew how much she means to me. She helps fan away the fog that sometimes threatens to obscure my very being. She’s there when I need a healing presence or a swift kick in the ass.

  She can make jokes about the apartment, and I don’t take the slightest bit of offense because it’s no secret what they’re like. Her boyfriend, Mike, aka the resident hunk, likes to joke, as well. He got roped into doing a few repairs to the one-bedroom efficiency apartment for sir-sucks-a-lot. It’s not like I’m the one who’s responsible for the less than lavish décor—complete with an avocado green sink, chipped Formica counters and matching appliances that break down frequently. The plus side, because I always try to find one, is that, although dated, the bedroom and bathroom are clean and functional.

  The condition of the apartment is irrelevant to me anyway in the grand scheme of things. Not to say that I, sometimes, okay, more than sometimes, feel guilty for my depressive thoughts about why I deserve better, but at least that makes me human, and I haven’t felt that way in a very long time.

  In the meantime, the rent isn’t bad for this area, the tips are decent, and I love working with my, now, close friends, who I consider family.

  Most importantly, the very few pervs or unruly patrons that manage to stumble in here, literally, are immediately ejected by Mike, our muscle-bound bouncer. Even though his very presence emits intimidation because of the sheer size of him, he’s protective, loyal, generous and treats Brook like she’s fine china.

  Tell me about how a man treats his woman, and I’ll tell you about how his character,’ rings true with Mike, and occasionally, Brook and Mike not so subtly try to persuade me to stay with them until I find my footing. Even though they understand the importance of my wanting to stand on my own, they still wish I would accept the olive branch they’re extending my way.

  How effortless it would be to extend my arm and hold on tight to it—a no-brainer to most, if given the alternative, but I just can’t… won’t.

  A familiar voice across the bar brings me out of my thoughts.

  “Merissa, how ‘bout you make me one of those fancy schmancy cocktails all you young whippersnappers drink?”

  Mr. Huxley, who also wants to be called by such, is not only a permanent fixture here, but a sweet, sometimes, crotchety, eighty-year-old scotch-loving man, who I grew fond of over the past year.

  I giggle out loud at his outdated use of vocabulary while simultaneously grabbing a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, his drink of choice, off the glass shelf.

  Brook chimes in using her signature flirtatious tone. “Do you want the drink, Death by Sex, Mr. Huxley?” making sure to draw out the word, sex.

  “At my age, one time and that would be inevitable, young lady.” He says while leaning his elbows on the bar top.

  I almost choke on my own saliva after Brook responds with a not so feminine snort.

  “Would you rather your usual scotch neat, Mr. Huxley?” I say while pouring it into the glass through my hazy vision from laughing so hard.

  He nods, “You bet your sweet bippy, I would. That’s the problem with the kids today. You make everything complicated.”

  “Not always by choice, sweet man.” I speak quietly even though he’s hard of hearing.

  * * *

  Alas, the last of the stragglers lazily make their way out the front door with Mike trailing right behind them in hopes of quickening their steps. I hear him make a loud sigh as he locks the door and flips the sign to the ‘We’re Closed’ side. The guy has to be beat, between running his business and keeping late hours here.

  I reach blindly into the little cubby where I’m currently storing a pair of flip-flops—my winter, spring, summer, and fall footwear choice. At the end of the night, I’m like a firefighter switching to boots for how quickly I exchange my heels for what I refer to as my glass slippers of the south. The fact that most customers never see our feet behind the bar begs the question, why heels? Just—why? When I shyly inquired my first week here, Jim’s response was, “Because they’re classy.”

  Clearly, he’s an authority since he puts the ass in classy.

  Both Brook and I started our usual closing procedures about an hour ago, so we’re only left with wiping down the surfaces, cleaning the beer nozzles, and emptying and cleaning out the ice wells. After that, we’ll cash out, claim our tips and call it a night.

  Tiredly smiling over at Brook when our eyes meet, she sets the last of the glasses facing up to air dry, then walks over and nudges me with her hip.

  “Tonight, wouldn’t have been half bad if it wasn’t for that group of nincompoops that came in at midnight.”

  Writing the last number on the cash report, I snicker my agreement at her Mr. Huxley-inspired description of the mannerless douchebags. “Yeah, I almost clobbered the guy who kept waving his bills back and forth like he was trying to sell off stock to get my attention.”

  “Right? I told the jerk to save it for when he goes to a strip club—and do you know what he had the nerve to say?”

  I can’t help but be amused by her exaggerated display of anger.

  “He said, I could make it rain for you, baby girl. Then, get this—he licked his lips!”

  Scrunching my nose like I drank sour milk, “What a disgusting savage.”

  Mike walks back over. “Well, I had a little chat with the savage and his meathead buddies,” he puts his arm around Brook’s shoulder and squeezes it. “About the use of proper etiquette in this classy establishment—and the right and wrong things to say to a lady, my lady. I then told them to get the fuck out.”

  “My hero,” she yelps after he teasingly slaps her ass. Reaching up on tiptoes, she kisses his cheek, and he responds by grabbing the nape of her neck and kissing her like he meant to do that all night.

  I’m feeling very much like a voyeur, but I can’t seem to turn away because I want the fairy tale, the whole nine yards, but I’m smart enough to know that right now might not be the best timing. A lot more healing needs to transpire before I can give everything I am to another person.

  Snapping myself out of their intoxicating love spell, I pick up tonight’s money bag and head off to Jim’s pigsty of an office. After unlocking the door, I remove what has to be one of the world’s ugliest paintings of an armadillo, or, maybe it’s a portrait of Jim—the likeness is uncanny.

  Opening mister money grubber’s shiny safe, the only object that shines in this room, I shove the bag inside, close it, and punch in the digital code. After I position the fugly painting back in its rightful spot, I make my way back into the hallway.

  “Ahem, I’m just about to round the corner, so behave, freaks,” I announce, and Brook rolls her eyes at me while she untangles her arms from around Mike’s neck.

  Her eyebrows are raised in question, “All set here, Rissy?”

  Smiling at her routine question, I gently guide them towards the front door and follow behind them. “You two crazy kids get out of here and get a room. I, on the other hand, am ready to retire to my cabin.”

  “Say, hi to Fabrizio for me.” Brook blows a kiss and makes her way out the door.

  Mike shakes his head and stares down at me with his big brown eyes. “Don’t you girls ever get sick of quoting Titanic?”

  “Do you ever get tired of watching the Dolphins lose?” I say with a hand on my hip.

  After a few seconds of reflection, he rubs his chin. “Touché, now lock the door behind me and set the alarm. I mean it, Merissa, I’m going to stand outside this door until you do.”

  Giving him a stiff-armed salute, I do just as I’m ordered. I walk back over to the front door, and sure enough, he’s standing right there like an imposing statue. Giving him my best smile and a thumbs up to bust his chops, he s
hakes his head and leaves.

  Right now, I just want to shower away the invisible Graffiti grime, in spite of the fact that I showered just before work, and I’m tired as shit.

  Tomorrow, or rather, today, I’m going to visit my favorite coffee shop, but first and most importantly—get my clothes washed. I’ve reached what’s considered the acceptable number of times one could re-wear jeans, and since cheap ass doesn’t have a washer dryer, even though the hookups are up here, I have no choice but to go to a laundromat.

  “As if any of this place could be considered finished,” I say out loud, as I flick my flip-flops off my feet and allow them to land haphazardly.

  Sliding the shower curtain aside, I turn both dials until it’s approximately eighty percent hot to twenty percent cold. Having two dials, one needs to be a chemist to figure out the proper ratio to avoid scalding or freezing with the slightest of movement in one direction or the other. The result is a temperature that is probably too hot for most. It’s been my sanitation vs. showering ritual that I grew accustomed to the last few years.

  Stepping into the circa 1970s gold-tiled shower, I remove my hair tie and toss it high over the curtain rod, a habit that goes back to my early childhood.

  “Riss, Riss, can you at least put your hair tie on the counter before you shower?”

  “When I throw it over, I’m actually trying to get it to land on the counter, Ma.”

  “Oh, I should have known,” she says with laughter in her voice while picking up the elastic, along with the pile of dirty clothes strewn across the floor. “I’ll have to show you how to make a finger slingshot, then”

  “You’re the coolest mom, ever! Can you show me when I get out?”

  “You betcha’, little darling.”

  Thoughts of my mother should bring me solace, but instead, they plague me with anger. An anger that I’m learning to contain before it fuels a wildfire within me.

  Little darling, one of the many endearments she would call me before I became a number of derogatory names. Names that were hissed at me by a woman I no longer recognized as the doting mother who was also my best friend.