Monty

by Tina Martin

I can’t tell if he meant it as a question or a statement. I look at him, hold his intense gaze and nod since I can’t bring myself to speak the lie into existence. If it were up to me, we’d be much more than friends. I don’t just like Monty – I’m borderline obsessed, but what on earth would I do with a man like him? A man of power and influence. There’s no way I could live up to the expectations he’d have of a woman, especially given my inexperience with men.

  I never had a man. Don’t know what to do with one. For the longest time, I didn’t want one – that is until I met Monty. Something about him spoke to me and continues speaking to me. Whispers sweet nothings in my ear. Never did I ever think I would be this close to him. Working for him, keeping my distance and fantasizing was one thing. Us being together so often and him living with me in my home is another.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Monty

  I’ve never been a jealous person, partly because I never wanted something someone else had and couldn’t obtain it. If I want a car, I go get. A property, I buy it. Clothes – I have plenty of the latest designer suits and shoes.

  A woman…

  That’s something you can’t buy. You can’t own a woman. If I see a man with the woman I want, I can’t go buy another one of her. That’s what bothers me about the slightest possibility that Major and Cherish may have a thing going on. Meeting up secretly for drinks and whatnot. If she falls for him, I’ll never find another her.

  And it’s a strong possibility that could happen. That they could become an item.

  Major looks just like me. Only two years separate us by age. He’s more outgoing. Friendlier. He doesn’t have the same issues I have. He’s the nicer version of me. Women like Cherish Stevens don’t fall in love with men for their looks. She’s more of the personality type. Wants someone with good intentions. A good heart.

  To attract someone like her, I’d have to change.

  Major doesn’t. He’s already that person. The good-hearted kind.

  I don’t care that she and Major were discussing me. I care that they were together, having fun. Talking together. Laughing. Doing what people who date do.

  Meanwhile, I’m trying to work on myself. To be a man she’d respect. One she could see herself with. I know I’m not that man yet. I desperately want to be. But who am I to hold her back from living? She has no idea I’m feelin’ her.

  None.

  She’s so busy tending to my needs, I’m probably more of a burden to her than anything else.

  I hear the lightest knuckle tap on the door. She pushes it open, peeps around.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  She walks closer to me. Her hair is up in a bun. She has on a pajama set. It’s her bedtime. She’s doing her final check to see if I need anything.

  “I see you already got your water,” she says.

  “Yep,” I say, sitting up a little so I can properly talk to her.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “Yeah. I need you to rub that cream on my face.”

  She laughs.

  “Why are you laughing? I’m serious.”

  “Monty, your scars are barely visible now. Your face is healing well.”

  “Then why does it miss your fingers.”

  She smiles again. Her smile is beautiful. When she smiles, I see genuine joy in her eyes. “Your face misses my fingers?” she asks amused.

  “Yes.”

  She chews on her lip, makes my eyes fall to her mouth.

  “I’m just playing with you. I’m good, but I do want to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  “I’ve been working on myself and my relationships with people, as you’re aware. You laid out a plan for me, I’ve been following it.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want to talk to Syl—my mother—and I was thinking we could do it over dinner.”

  “Here or over there?”

  “Here, if you don’t mind.”

  She smiles. “I don’t mind at all. I’ll cook. Will it just be her or is Major coming, too?”

  “Nah, your boyfriend ain’t invited. You can cancel that.”

  She laughs. “He’s not—urrgh—he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Why is that? You’re obviously beautiful, have a heart of gold. You’re smart, you can cook. You’re everything a man would need.”

  I can tell she’s searching for an answer but when one escapes her, she says, “Let’s get back to this meal. What would you like for me to cook?”

  “You can cook whatever you want.”

  “Okay. I’ll think on it and go to the store tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “And you’re going to help me cook it, too,” she says.

  “I don’t cook, sweetheart.”

  “I know you don’t. You’ve probably never cooked a meal in your privileged life, huh?”

  “That’s one of the perks of being rich, baby. I get people to do things for me.”

  “Well, you’re going to get those hands dirty tomorrow.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. That’s right. Get some sleep. If you need me, you know where to find me, boss,” she says walking away from me. My eyes follow the length of her body like it always does. Lingers on her hips. Her hair. Her feet. I often wonder if she feels the heat from my eyes – if she notices the way I look at her or if she sees me just like she does my brother. We’re friends. I made that suggestion because before, we were nothing. She was my employee. Now, she’s so much more. She’s the woman who’s saving my life. The woman teaching me how to love and showing me the importance of my family. I will always be grateful to her for that.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cherish

  I can’t get the grocery bags out of my trunk and here comes Ms. Kettleworth, wearing a straw hat that looks like it came straight off the head of a scarecrow. She has a can of sardines in her hand. Her cat, Butterball, is clawing at her heels – big ol’ freakin’ cat – meowing and carrying on…pecking at her ankles like it’s in starvation mode.

  “You done went and got yaself food, ain’t you, Sherrish?” she asks so loud, I know the people who live across the street heard her.

  “Yep. Had to replenish the fridge.”

  “You say what?” she asks loudly, turning her head to point her ear toward my mouth.

  “I said, I had to replenish the fridge.”

  “Oh. The fridge bare again, hunh? Didn’t you just fill dat thang up last week? Dat man you got in there must be ‘bout to eat you out of a house and home.”

  I chuckle. “He does have quite the appetite.”

  “You say what now? I ‘pologize. I’m missing a hearing aid…didn’t quite hear ya.”

  “Nevermind, Ms. Kettleworth. I’ll see you later—”

  “What’chu cookin’ for him this evening, hun?” she asks, thwarting my escape. Danggit!

  “Um, I think I’m going to make some Ziti.”

  “You say—you say you fixin’ up some Zeebi—what in the world is dat?”

  “No, Ms. Kettleworth. Ziti.”

  “I heard you, hun. Zeebi. Sounds zotic.”

  Lawd have mercy. I ain’t got time for this…

  “It’s not exotic. It’s kinda like spaghetti, just with different noodles.”

  “Sounds like it might be good. Zeebi. Ain’t never heard of no Zeebi.”

  “You know what, I’ll save you some. How about that?”

  “Oh, you ain’t gotta do dat. These sardines’ll serve me just right.” She licks the sardine oil from her fingers then says, “I sure wish I knowed you were going to the store though. I would’ve told you to bring some cat food back.”

  “Yeah, you need to buy some ASAP. Your cat looks like he’s ‘bout to claw you up real good for that sardine can.”

  “Well, guess what, Sherrish. I ain’t sharing. Scat! Scat!” she says. Butterball doesn’t run. Not while she’s holding
that sardine can…

  She’s shoveling sardines in her mouth by the spoonful. The fishy smell is taking off thanks to the heat of the day. And her cat is scratching his way up her dusty old shoes and dirty jeans, trying to get his share.

  “Scat! Scat!” she tells it. “Fat ol’ cat. Eats er’thang in its path like a tornader. I bet’chu that’s what happened to my hearing aid.”

  I don’t mean to laugh, but it couldn’t be helped. This woman is nuts. “I doubt if the cat ate your…your hearing aid, Ms. Kettleworth.”

  “Say what, hun!”

  Oh, Jeez…

  “I said, I don’t think your cat ate your hearing aid,” I shout.

  “Well, somebody broke in and stole it then I tell ya dat.”

  I’m giggling so hard, I can hardly speak when I say, “Somebody broke…broke into your house…to…to steal one hearing aid and left the other one in your ear?”

  “They most certainly did. I paid good money for dem hearing aids, too.”

  “Well, maybe you can get another pair if you file it with your insurance.”

  “Insurance? Ha! Honey, I ain’t had insurance since 1998. Mess cost too much money.”

  “What about Medicare?”

  “Medicare don’t care ‘bout me. Just another way for the gov’ment to fill they greedy pockets. But don’t you worry ‘bout me, Sherrish. I can buy a brand spankin’ new pair of ears from the Walgreens right ‘round the corner.”

  If she insists on wearing drugstore hearing aids, who am I to stop her? “Well, I’ll see you later. I need to put this food up, Ms. Kettleworth.”

  “Okay, and one more thang, Sherrish.”

  I roll my eyes before I turn around and say politely, “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Now, you knows I try to mind my own business ‘round here but I done seen a white Chevy rolling real slow past your house a couple of times. I ain’t thank nuttin’ of it the first time, but I’d be doggone if it didn’t roll by just before you pulled up with dem there groceries.”

  “Oh, it’s probably nothing,” I tell her, although I feel sick suddenly. I know someone who drives a white Chevy Impala. My stepfather. Webster Gregory.

  “Will you let me know if you see it again?” I ask her.

  “Sure will.”

  Montgomery comes out of the house before I can make it to the porch. He’s dressed in a button-up shirt – a white one and a pair of black slacks like we’re going out to dinner. His hair looks extra curly. He hasn’t shaved since he’s been here with me and the facial hair looks good against his light skin tone. He looks like a whole entire snack.

  Oh, my heart…

  He’s breathtaking without even trying to be.

  “Hey, if I knew you were out here, I’d come to get the bags,” he tells me.

  “Oh, it’s okay. I only have a—um,” He’s wearing that cologne. Dolce & Gabanna. Smells like he just jumped out of the shower and sprayed it on his body. That hot body that’s been healing so well.

  “Um—” I still can’t find words.

  He takes the bags out of my hands.

  “And who do we have here?” Ms. Kettleworth asks, looking at Montgomery. Looks like he’s blushing, but her face is so discolored and damaged from years of smoking, I don’t know what she’s doing. This could very well be the prelude to a stroke.

  Montgomery looks at me before returning his attention to her to introduce himself. That’s a huge leap for him. “Hi. I’m Montgomery.”

  “Pleased to meet your ‘quaintance fine, Sir. I’m Ms. Kettleworth.” She drops the sardine can – the overweight cat runs off with it – then she reaches to shake Montgomery’s free hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  “Alright, Ms. Kettleworth. I’ll see you later,” I say.

  “Okay, hun. Eat enough Zeebi for me and I’ll let you know if I see that car ‘round here again.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  As we walk up the steps to the porch, Montgomery asks, “What car? What is she talking about?”

  “Oh, nothing. That’s Ms. Kettleworth—my nosy neighbor I was telling you about.”

  “She looks bad.”

  “And yet you still shook her hand. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Proud?” he asks setting the bags on the counter.

  “Come on, Monty—you know just as well as I do you would’ve never done that in the past.”

  He shrugs. “Probably not.”

  “But you did. Kudos to you. Just make sure you wash your hands because she was eating sardines. Your hand probably smells like fish oil.”

  He takes a whiff of his hand and sure enough, goes straight to the sink and washes his hands for a full two minutes. He dries them and says, “So, what do we need to do first?”

  “Well, you need to get out of that white shirt if you don’t want sauce splashed all over it.”

  “I’m good. If I get sauce on it I’ll just change.”

  “Yeah, because it’s no big deal if you ruin a five-hundred-dollar shirt.”

  “It’s not,” he says all cocky. He’s getting his swagger back. Makes me wonder how he’ll be when he’s fully healed and won’t need me any longer.

  I give him the assignment of cooking sweet Italian sausage and ground beef. I take the harder tasks – chopping onions and boiling noodles to the correct firmness. Then I caramelize the onions before preparing the sauce. I find the biggest pot I have, pour in the spaghetti sauce, fire-roasted tomatoes and add the onions. Now, I need the meat.

  “How’s it going over there?” I ask him. “Do you need some help?”

  “No. I got this,” he says tending to two pans.

  “How long before it’s ready, Monty?” I ask him.

  “You’re asking a man who’s never cooked a thing in his life if something’s done.”

  I laugh. “You gotta eyeball it.”

  We reach for the handle of the pan at the same time. His hand lands on top of mine. Skip the heat from the stove. The heat I feel with him is unbearable. All kinds of energy flows from him to me. I wonder if he feels it, too? Then again, why would he?

  “Sorry,” he says, moving his hand.

  “That’s okay,” I say like it had no effect on me.

  “It’s done,” I tell him. “Good job, chef.”

  “Whatever. You’re doing the hard work. You gave me the easy stuff.”

  “No, no, no. It’s a team effort. I can’t make the sauce properly without the meat.”

  I pour off the grease, then add it to the sauce. When the noodles are ready, I strain them and dump them in a casserole dish. I add the sauce along with a thick layer of mozzarella cheese and place it in the oven.

  I wipe sweat from my head using my forearm. Montgomery is propped up against the counter looking at me. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Um—I think I can handle it from here. Did you text your mother to make sure she was still coming?”

  “Yes. Said she’ll be here at five.”

  “Five!”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought she wasn’t going to be here until six?” I say in a panic. “I haven’t even made the salad yet.”

  “It’s fine, Cherry. Calm down.”

  “I am calm,” I say, looking for my best bowl – the glass one I never use.

  “No, you’re not. You look like you’re about to pass out. Hey—”

  “I’m fine, Monty.”

  “No, you’re not,” he says, wrapping an arm around me, pulling me to him. Next thing I know, I’m spinning, standing in front of him. Facing him. Looking up at the smirk on his face that tries to hide beneath the cover of his thick beard.

  I’m soaking it all up – getting all the testosterone and all the feels that only a man can exude to make a woman’s body ache. Well, in my case, only him. No other man could ever make me feel this way. “Monty,” I say, looking to the right and the left, too timid to connect my gaze to his.

  “I need your attention,” he says.r />
  “Monty…”

  “Do I have your attention, Ms. Stevens?”

  I look at him, can see the smile on his face now. Oh gosh, he’s so handsome I can’t stand it.

  “Ms. Stevens?”

  “Yes?”

  “Look at me.”

  I look at him. His eyes are my weakness. I’m drowning in them. “Wha—wha—what are you doing?”

  “Forcing you to calm down.”

  And you think being pinned between your body and the counter is a calming mechanism…

  “I am ca-ca-calm. I told you that.”

  He chuckles.

  “You’re not calm. You’re stuttering. You don’t stutter under normal circumstances, now stop it. You have nothing to be stressed about. It’s only Sylvia coming over.”

  “I just want to make sure everything’s perfect. It’s more than just about Sylvia. It’s about you and Sylvia. I’m not doing this for her. I mean, I am but it’s mostly for you. I’m doing it for you, and I want it to be perfect.”

  He smiles, then it goes away, replaced by a more serious look when he strokes his thumb down my face. My body shivers beneath his touch. “It will be, Cherish. It already is. Even if we don’t have a salad. Now, what I want you to do is breathe.”

  “I am breathing.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re panicking. Over some lettuce and tomatoes.” He comes closer to me. We’re chest to chest when he says, “I feel your heart thumping. I’m close enough where I can hear how hard you’re breathing, baby. Stop stressing.”

  Cute. He thinks the meal prep is the cause of my stress.

  It’s not the meal prep, Monty. It’s you. The way you smell. The way the heat of your body feels against mine. Make me all tingly and stuff. It’s the way you’re looking at me like I’m the only woman in the world – like you want me. I know you don’t, but a girl can dream.

  “Yeah. You’re right,” I tell him, hoping he’d let me go. He doesn’t. Instead, he lifts me from the floor and places me on the counter with one effortless motion. I’m light as a feather in his grasp. Now that I’m almost face-to-face with him, courtesy of the height of my kitchen counters, he looks at me and says, “I just want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’re doing for me and everything you’ve done.”