by P. Dangelico
Detective Dominic Vega was on his way home from a late shift at the local precinct when he decided to stop at the 7-Eleven three blocks from his home for a cup of coffee. He walked in and observed a teenage girl––sixteen to be precise––stuffing a bag of powdered mini doughnuts in her puffy black jacket. Then he watched her stride over to the wall of refrigerated drinks where she appropriated a can of Dr. Pepper and slid it in the opposite pocket. Detective Vega walked to the cashier and promptly paid for the items. He then followed the juvenile delinquent out into the parking lot and read her her rights.
After scaring the crap out of me, he gave me a choice: show up at his home the next night for a family dinner or get booked for petty theft. I showed up at his house.
“Hold still,” my best friend demands while taking a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back. Veronica’s the sister I never had, both fiercely protective and mildly abusive at the same time––albeit in the most loving way possible.
“Ouuuch,” I wail around a mouthful of popcorn. There’s a Euphoria marathon on TV, enough junk food to survive a zombie apocalypse, and Vern is doing my makeup. It’s a typical Sunday night for us. Except there’s nothing typical about this Sunday night.
It’s been five days since Tommy blew up my life and I’ve finally come to a decision, devised a plan of sorts. Or rather, the decision has been made for me––the plan is the by-product of me alternating between beating my head against the wall and curling into a fetal position. But I’ve decided not to dwell on the devastation wrought on my life, or I may start to cry and never stop.
I gave Tommy the five thousand I had tucked away for my insurance, told him to negotiate some kind of payment plan with Ivan. Ivan being a criminal and a gigantic piece of shit inevitably agreed, but imposed a vig––an interest payment––on the rest of the sum. Upwards of twenty percent. This isn’t a guess; everyone in the neighborhood knows how these guys operate.
So, the plan…there’s only one way I can make the rest of the payments––by taking West’s offer. These are only two options that do not end with me serving time: work for free for the next few months for West, or hand over the paper on the two-family house I live in, the only property I own outright. The other is an investment property. Due to being constantly short on cash, I haven’t finished renovating, and it’s heavily mortgaged anyway. Bottom line is that I’m not going to lose them. I’m not about to give up everything I’ve worked and sacrificed for because Tommy, a grown ass man, can’t control his habit.
The walking ATM machine is the best chance I have of getting us out of this mess with the least damage. That is, if the offer still stands.
Which brings me here. I need Veronica’s help to pull off this impossible caper. The problem is, I can’t have her knowing the entire story. She would insist on involving Dom, and I can’t have that on my conscience. Which means this will take some finessing.
“Serves you right. Stop moving around. You’re ruining my art.” She dips a brush into the pot of metallic copper eyeshadow, taps the handle with the nail of her ring finger and paints some on me.
I’m the official guinea pig and have been since that fateful dinner all those years ago. Back then, I was going through a Goth phase and thought it would be perfectly appropriate to show up wearing black lipstick and platform knock-off Doc Martins. Needless to say, Veronica, with her perfect long brown hair and flawless makeup, even at seventeen was as intimidating as she is now.
“Why do you wear that?” she said an hour into staring at me from across the dinner table.
I shrugged. That was the extent of my response. I did a lot of that back then.
“It doesn’t make you look pretty,” she outright told me. I would later learn that this is literally a crime against nature in Vern’s book. For me, however, that was pretty much the point. I was growing fast and filling out and the last thing I wanted or needed was any male attention.
“Can I do your makeup?” she asked.
I shrugged and nodded. Because…why not? I had a severe shortage of female friends, and I didn’t want to do anything to make her mad at me. Veronica did my makeup and we’ve been best friends ever since.
“Bitch, how about you wear sunscreen,” says the skin police. She makes a face, and tugs my hair again. “I can feel your skin aging as we speak.”
“Ouch, ouch, I do, you sadist. This is the product of seven hours of roofing.”
“Then wear a hat. Or you’ll look eighty before you turn thirty.”
“Does it look like I care?”
“No. And that’s the problem.”
Time to change the subject. Otherwise she’ll punish me with a chemical peel. “Tommy asked about you again.”
She rolls her eyes. “Did you tell him I don’t date guys who steal wallets to pay for the date?”
Cringe. Unfortunately, it’s not far from the truth. “Kinda…”
I don’t have it in me to make him feel bad and she knows this about me. He already has low expectations for himself––and he’s so much more sensitive than he lets on. That’s why despite everything he’s put me through, I can’t stay mad at him.
“You told him I’m dating someone, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“When are you going to stop making excuses for that jamoke?”
Never. I will always do everything in my power to protect him. “You know I hate hurting his feelings.” Vern shakes her head and returns to abusing my eyelids with an eyelash curler. “Aren’t you anyway?”
“Kinda,” she says with a devious little smile. “His name is Brad. He’s a hedge fund manager.”
Poor Brad. For context, Veronica is a smaller, Puerto Rican version of Gal Gadot with the tactical smarts of a five star general. One plus one equals Brad is screwed and not in a good way.
“I saved a guy the other night…,” I casually throw out, baiting the waters in a manner of speaking. She stops and gives me the Vega stare which makes me fear for the children she’ll have one day.
“You saved a guy?”
“Don’t tell your Pops.”
“Depends––spill the sauce.”
“Nothing. He was having dinner––drinking mostly––at the restaurant, and when I finished my shift, I ran into him getting jumped.”
“You ran into the dude getting jumped?” The look on her face is priceless. Vern’s a lot of tough talk, but she’s the quintessential girly girl, the kind that panics when she chips her flawless nail polish. “And you thought…let me step in?”
I have a visceral reaction to seeing someone being victimized and my reaction is not to look the other way. Why is that hard to understand?
“They were really going to town on him.”
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “You need a man badly. You need someone to keep you busy, so you stay out of trouble. Was he cute at least?”
“Eh…I guess.”
Technically, he was––for an inanimate object.
“You guess?” More eyeballing from her. “What’s his name?”
“Joey Nobody.”
She tosses the eyelash curler down on the coffee table amongst the rest of the makeup and picks up a tube of mascara. “Did you even bother getting his name?”
“Of course, I did. I went to his apartment.”
She stops applying the mascara and leans back. “You what?”
“I drove him to his apartment.” This gets me more disbelief and a lot of blinking. “He’d been hit in the face a few times, V. I couldn’t just leave him there.”
“Drove him in what? Your jalopy pickup truck can’t make it down a block.”
“His Bentley.”
The multiple emotions that cross her face would be funny if I wasn’t on pins and needles. “What’s his name, bitch?” she says grabbing her phone.
“Don’t Google him.”
“Name.”
“Jordan West.” A few taps of her perfectly manicured nails on her phone and she freezes. “I
t doesn’t even sound real,” I hear myself muttering.
I watch her brown eyes widen and her perfectly shaped eyebrows climb up her flawless forehead. “Are you kidding me?”
“What?”
“This guy?” She shoves the phone at me, inches from my face. On the screen of her phone…yep, there he is. “You drove this hot meal of a man to his apartment?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Sweet JC, he’s hot. It’s like a unicorn made a baby with the devil.”
“A bit of an overstatement.”
“It’s like Brad Pitt mated with the God of Death and created this delightful creature.”
“Whatever.”
But now, admittedly, my curiosity is whet. “Who is he and why are his pictures Googleable?” I pop a few Reese’s Pieces in my mouth and await her answer.
“He’s a rich guy and he’s hot. What other reason does there need to be?”
“Anything else?”
“He’s a tech guy.” She reads some more. “Invented some code thingie and ten times hotter than the Facebook dude. I don’t see a wife either. Please tell me you got his number.”
“Yeah, sure, right after I gave him my rap sheet.”
“You don’t have a rap sheet.”
“Thanks to your father I don’t––but I should.”
In my defense I was dealing with the death of my father and a mother who could hardly cope. Back then, the only person who I could depend on was Tommy. Which is why, when it comes down to it, I will always take care of him.
“You should’ve gotten his number and given it to me.”
Rich and good-looking is definitely her type. Veronica is one of those annoyingly positive people who wholeheartedly believes that if you want something bad enough, and go after it, you will achieve it. I’m more of a cynic.
“This isn’t one your Billionaire and the Nanny books, dude. Besides, no loss. He’s about as charming as a razor blade. I’ve had more fun smashing my thumb with a hammer.”
“Who said anything about talking?”
I’ve never been a fan of casual sex. I can’t have some stranger’s skin touching the inside of my skin without knowing the basics. Like his middle name, how often he changes his underwear, and whether he’s ever engaged in revenge porn. No judgement, but I can’t do it.
“Real question––” my best friend says, looking quasi-serious. “Do you ever feel the need to see a real penis up close? In addition, would you remember how to operate one if you did?”
“I saw one the other night.” Shrug. It’s the truth. Not the truth she’s looking for but the truth, nonetheless.
Vern throws me a look I rarely see on her––a confused one. Then the light turns on, and her expressions brightens. “You did?”
She assumes I mean West. “Yeah, the homeless dude on 23rd street was pissing on the street corner as I was walking by. He gave me great demo on how to operate one.”
“You’re hopeless,” she grumbles as she finishes applying mascara. “I’m doing corn rows on you tonight.”
“You can’t,” I tell her. Here comes the boom.
“Why not?”
“He offered me a job and I’m going to take it.”
“A job? The rich hot guy?” Despite the situation being deadly serious she manages to make me laugh. “Doing what? God, I hope it’s something dirty.”
“As a personal assistant.”
“Huh? Why the hell would you want to take a job like that when you have your own business?”
I can’t tell her about Tommy. She’ll either flip out on me, or tell her father, and as well-meaning as he is, I can’t have Dom getting involved. Ivan DeloRusso is no Tony Soprano, but he’s also no joke. I would never forgive myself if Dom got hurt.
“It pays well. Plus, you know how slow things get in winter.”
“How well?”
“Three thousand a week well.”
“Holy shit.”
“See why I couldn’t turn it down.”
“What about your business? And the restaurant?”
It’s like a stake to the heart. The thought of giving up both my job at the restaurant––a job I will never be able to replace later or get back––and putting my beloved business on hold hurts so much I can hardly stand it, but there’s no use in torturing myself. This is my chance to hang on to my properties. I have to make it work. There’s no alternative and there’s no turning back time.
“Forget that now. I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“Clothes…I need to look the part. What do I wear?”
Chapter Five
Riley
“You got this…no sweat…this is EZ street compared to the foundation you poured by yourself for Mrs. Torrano’s new garage…” I mutter at the image in the mirror.
My nerves are shot right now. My stomach is acting up, a bad case of the nervous jitters. Facing down two junkies on a crime spree does nothing to my sensitive stomach, but a job interview with a cold tech billionaire has me reaching for the Pepto-Bismal. Veronica’s right, there’s something wrong with me.
There’s no time for psych evaluation now, however. I’ve got to get it together or there’s a very good chance my stomach will fail me at some point on my way uptown to West’s apartment and I can’t have that.
“You’re gonna wreck this interview”––my stomach gurgles––“or maybe not.” I’ll definitely have to pop another Pepto.
At least, I’m dressed for the occasion. Thanks to Vern, I barely recognize the person staring back in the mirror. As promised, she came by the house before leaving for work and did my hair (low bun, not too tight) and my makeup (work appropriate). She also lent me her Dolce & Gabbana navy blouse with the mandarin collar and her black slacks that look cropped on me since I’m four inches taller than the Puerto Rican princess.
I look the part of a successful tech guy’s personal assistant, but then what? What if he asks me to do something I have no clue how to accomplish? Like…set up a Zoom meeting? In that case I’m f––
“Who are you talking to?” my mother says, barging into my bedroom. She’s still wearing her robe which indicates she doesn’t have a temp job lined up for today.
For years Bonnie was a librarian at the famed New York City Public Library, but after my father died she had to resign. Too many sick days. Too many leave of absences. She’s been working temp jobs ever since.
“No one.” Grabbing my messenger bag, I make for the door.
Eyeballing me, she brushes her shoulder-length curly bob behind her ear and crosses her arms. Bonnie knows something’s afoot.
“I still don’t understand why you would take an office job? You’ve never been good behind a desk…”
Always the cheerleader, my mother. I can always count on her to make me feel less than good. It’s not that she’s malicious. She’s just a glass half empty kinda person.
“…and you have your own business.”
I can’t tell her how much West is paying me otherwise she’ll get the wrong impression and assume all that money is going into the family till. It’s not like she oversteps about my finances; I’ve been earning my own keep since I was a teenager so she really has no standing. But she’s still my mother. Besides, lying takes effort and energy that I don’t have to give. I’m also not very good at it. So I generally tend to stay away from it. There’s not much I keep from her…except, you know, the big stuff.
Sigh. I’m juggling a lot of balls here.
“Like I said, it’s a stable paycheck during the winter and…and I’m getting great medical insurance.”
Suspicion fills her brown eyes. She doesn’t look convinced. Oh, well, it’ll have to do for now.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say, leaning in to kiss her cheek while I move past her and out the door. “Love you. We need food.”
“I’ll try to go food shopping if I feel up to it,” she throws over her shoulder.
If she feels up to it…if only s
he would feel up to seeing a doctor would be even better.
On that note, I head for the ferry. Fingers crossed I have a job waiting for me in the city.
Manhattan is considered another world for those of us who were raised in the Burroughs. Think of it as The Capital city in The Hunger Games––everyone wants to live there but very few are entitled to.
Today, it’s not so glamorous, however. The subway may as well be a sauna. Or, as I like to think of it, the devil’s urinal. With the heat and humidity at record highs, the smell of piss is strong today.
Thankfully, it’s not full since it’s a Saturday. I figured my best chance to catch West at home would be on a weekend. It’s the only hand I have to play largely because I have no idea where his office is located. Plus, it felt a little stalkerish to show up at his place of work, even if I could find it. Anyway, that’s the plan––to ambush him at home and convince him to give me the job he’s probably already given to someone else.
It’s a long shot, but the only one I’ve got.
The doors of the subway train close and bodies move about, getting comfortable for the ride. An older man steps aside, offering me a direct view of the sliding doors. Someone has covered the safety sign that should read Do Not Lean On Door with one that reads Do Not Fall In Love.
I’m way ahead of you, buddy.
No chance of that happening. I’ve never been in love before and I don’t see the need to start now. My mother loved my father desperately and see where that got her? That’s right, forever broken. Going through the motions of life without living.
I once read that love requires sacrifice. If what is meant by that is sacrificing my dignity and the capacity to function as a normal human being, then the cost of love is something I can’t afford. I figure if I could resit the temptation of falling in love with Tommy, my saviour, when we were teenagers, I’m pretty much love proof.
By the time I reach West’s building on 5th Ave, I look like I jogged here. My hairline has a nasty coating of sweat, my hair is getting poofy, and Veronica’s silky shirt is sealed to my body in an unseemly fashion. Definitely not-safe-for-work. But whatever, here I am. It’s now or never. Plucking it away from my chest, I cautiously approach the front desk and clear my throat.
