by P. Dangelico
“Jordan…,” I say, taking a chance now that he’s left his armor by the door.
“Hmm…” He frowns at the television. Mr. Warren, the elderly home owner, is crying after seeing the renovations to his house.
“Why is Maisie living with you? Where’s Eli? What happened to her mother?”
He turns to look at me, as stoic as I’ve ever seen him.
“Lainey died seven months ago…Eli showed up at my office a few days after you and I met and left her there.”
“Left her there?”
“He was in bad shape. He looked like he hadn’t showered in weeks. Talking about the past and…just a bunch of nonsense.
“I stepped away for a minute––to deal with a work issue––and when I returned to my office the baby was there, sleeping in the car seat, and Eli was gone.”
The ache under my breastbone is familiar. A bittersweet pain. Like an old friend you’ve had a falling out with. I know what it’s like to lose a parent when you’re a kid. I know what it does to a person and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone let alone Maisie.
“I don’t know what to say. Sorry doesn’t seem enough…poor Maisie…” I stall, choosing my next words carefully. “I know you were all very close. I’m sorry about your friend, Jordan.”
He stares back at me. Then in the quietest voice possible, “Yeah, me too.” He rises from the couch. For a second he pauses, looks at me. Then I hear him murmur, “Good night Immi.”
It takes me a minute to figure it out. Then I recall the night we met. I guess new friendships have to start somewhere. Maybe ours began tonight.
Tommy looks around the bar like he’s waiting on someone. He’s jumpy, pushing the drink coaster back and forth on the bar with his index finger. The swishing sound gets under my skin.
So does this place. It’s a dump. It’s dark and smells like skunky beer and mold. The guy and an older woman playing pool at the far end of the bar look equally sketchy. Why Tommy had to pick this place in Staten Island to meet up is beyond me.
“Gary, can I get another beer?” he shouts at the bartender. It’s freaking four in the afternoon and he’s on his third one already. I’m about to lose my patience with him.
I had to ask Jordan for the day off to do this. Check on Bonnie, put a For Sale sign on my old pickup truck, take care of a leaky pipe in Mrs. Argento’s unit. And to give Tommy the money for Ivan.
“I haven’t seen you in three weeks. Can I get your attention for one minute?”
“Yeah, sure.” He smiles that smile that could be worth a million dollars if he wasn’t the person he is.
The envelope full of cash sits in my bag burning a hole in it. I take it out and slowly slide it down the bar to him. “Here’s the next payment.”
He takes in and stuffs it inside the waistband of his jeans, pulls his T-shirt down over it. “Ivan is gettin’ antsy.”
“Antsy? Why? I’ve been making steady payments.”
“He says it isn’t enough.”
My stomach immediately reacts––gets queasy. And I thought this nightmare couldn’t get any worse. “That’s two thousand dollars in cash stuffed in your underwear. I can’t give him more at a time,” I whisper hiss. “I have to pay taxes on that money.”
“What about the guy you’re working for? He’s loaded, right? He got anything we can fence?”
The blood drains out of my head. “No. And don’t bring it up again.”
Tommy looks down, shoulders hunched in shame and embarrassment. He wipes the condensation on the beer mug away with his thumb. “Ivan said he needs more…I’ll talk to him again.”
My stomach goes into full rebellion mode. I can’t spare another dime. I will literally not have enough to pay taxes if I give him more. Then what? I’m broke and owe the government? No.
“I’m doing the best I can T. Are you working? What have you been doing?”
Guilt blankets his face. He looks so pathetic I’m sorry I even asked. “I’ve been working for Ivan a little.”
You have got to be kidding me.
Elbows resting on the bar, I bury my face in my hands. “What are you doing for him?”
“Shaking some people down that owe him money.”
“You mean like us?”
He swallows, his expression telling me he hadn’t considered it. “Nothing bad. I just…show up at their place of business and remind them to make the payment.”
If I had any hope that this time he would learn his lesson and wise up, that hope is dead. He killed it for good today. Tears of frustration well in my eyes. Watching Tommy destroy his life is like watching my father slowly die. I know what’s coming. I know how the story ends. And I’m powerless to do anything to stop it.
I wipe them away, take a deep breath. “You’re going to get in trouble. You’re going to end up in prison and this time I will be too broke to help. Tell Ivan I’ll try to get more.”
I stand, throw a twenty on the bar for Gary because I know Tommy’s low on cash, and walk out.
I take the ferry back to Manhattan later that same day. After seeing Tommy, I can’t stay in Staten Island. I need to get as far away from my problems as possible. To pretend that my oldest and dearest friend isn’t on a path of total self-destruction, that my mother isn’t going to make me worry about her for the rest of my natural life. Sometimes I feel a thousand years old. I dream about buying a bus ticket to anywhere and never coming back like most people fantasize about movie stars. Never gonna happen but dreaming about it, the two minutes of relief it gives me, is worth it.
It’s nine p.m. by the time I walk through the front door. All the lights are off, the house completely silent. I slip off my Air Jordans and tiptoe down the hall. The baby should be fast asleep. Jordan is probably in bed already. He’s an “early to bed and early to rise” type unless he’s out for a business dinner.
I reach the side of the apartment where his bedroom suite and the guest bedroom I sleep in are located and hear a strange noise. I stop to listen, thinking maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, but no. There it is again. It’s a hitting sorta slapping sound followed by a grunt. The blood drains out of my head and my hands start to shake.
Holy shit, he must have a guest over and they’re having sex. Jordan is having sex with someone…in his own house.
This shouldn’t be a problem for me. And yet it is. I’m having a severe reaction to it in fact, feeling a sense of loss so great it’s like I’ve caught my lover cheating. Except we aren’t lovers and never will be. This is crazy. He doesn’t belong to me. Doesn’t matter––I am flooded with jealousy and pain.
My brain splits into two parts. The rational part that can see the absurdity in this. And the part that wants to bust down the door, grab the bitch by the hair, and drag her out.
The grunting and hitting stops. They must be done. It’s so quiet at this point that I can hear myself breathing heavy. I’m about to turn into my bedroom to scream into my pillow when his door suddenly flies open.
Jordan is shirtless. But he’s not just shirtless, he’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing silky black basketball shorts hanging low on his hips. They expose a set of ab muscles no ordinary civilian should ever possess. Muscles like that belong on action figures and professional MMA fighters and should be admired from afar. They don’t belong on my emotionally stunted boss who’s standing close enough for me to touch.
Sweat drips down his finely sculpted chest, in between his pecs lightly dusted with hair. No need to speculate about what’s hiding under that suit anymore.
Jordan has hair on his chest.
This explodes into my mind like a glitter bomb. Then I remember he just had sex with someone else and the party gets cancelled.
He takes the hand towel hanging around his neck and wipes his face, looking as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“Hey, you came back.”
But he says it like it’s a good thing. Like…hey, you came back. Exciting! Not like I just interrupted him having s
ex. Not like, hey, Imma bout to fuck the house down and you weren’t supposed to be here.
“Hey,” I respond, leaning a little to the right, looking over his shoulder to see where she’s at. I’m so out of sorts I can feel my heart beating in my throat. It’s so loud I’m surprised he doesn’t hear it.
An image of sweaty bodies suddenly floods my brain. “Yeah, I uh…I couldn’t…I, uh…”
“Riley?” He looks concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m…I’m fine. I just…you’re very sweaty.”
I didn’t mean to say that. That last part was not supposed to come out of my mouth. That was the silent part that I said out loud.
“I couldn’t sleep––”
Yeah, I bet he couldn’t.
“––so I hit the bag.”
Huh? He calls having sex “hitting the bag?” Who is this person I’ve been living with? I never pegged him for a misogynist. Rude awakening. What a drag. The disappointment I’m feeling right now is heavy.
“Wow. Okay. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Try not to hit the bag too hard. I could hear you out here.”
His face puckers like he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. “What is up with you tonight? You’re acting weird.”
His attitude lights a fire. First I have to deal with Tommy’s crap and now his? No.
“Me? I’m acting weird. You just called some chick you’re having…” I catch myself getting louder and lower my voice to a whisper-hiss. “S-e-x with––a bag. But I’m the one out of line? Glad we got that cleared up. I wouldn’t want to continue thinking you’re a nice guy or anything.”
He blinks. He blinks again. Then he covers his mouth with his hand and his shoulders start shaking. And shaking. And now I’m feeling a little bit unsteady.
What’s so funny? I mean, seriously what is so freaking funny about disparaging a human being so flippantly. And he’s not just laughing, he’s wheezing, trying not to wake the baby down the hall. This is a man I’ve technically never seen fully smile and he’s trying not to laugh so hard he sounds like he’s suffocating.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand to know.
He doubles over, hands on his knees, and takes deep loud breaths. “Come with me.”
Before I can stop him, he grabs my wrist and drags me into his suite. At first, I’m like noooo, I don’t want to see your lady friend naked. But then I see the bed is empty. Yes, the sheets are messy. Someone has definitely been in that bed at some point lately. But at present, it is person-free. There’s no one here.
He takes my wrist again and leads me to the Christian Grey room, the door that’s always locked.
Except…the door is open. I peek my head in, scared at what I might find. Tentative. Cautious. Aaand it’s a home gym.
You have got to be kidding me. “A gym?” I say a bit too loudly. “This is what you keep locked twenty-four seven?” In the gym, there’s a punching bag, a speed bag, mats, and other stuff.
Smiling, and I mean a full-blown smile that would put anyone who witnessed it into cardiac arrest, he walks in and throws two punches at the bag. Wap wap...
Well, this is embarrassing.
“I keep it locked because Maisie could hurt herself in here.”
Of course. This makes perfect sense.
“Were you snooping Miss James?”
His smile turns devious. I almost don’t believe what I am witnessing here tonight.
“This is embarrassing.”
“You thought I was having sex?” While the smile slowly melts, his gaze remain fixed on me. There’s a challenge there I haven’t seen before, a playfulness that makes him ten times more attractive than when he’s all buttoned up.
I can’t answer. I’m so hot under the collar right now I’m the one sweating. “You box?”
“Mixed martial.”
Mixed martial…as in arts? Like kicking and punching? I would venture to guess that most people who practice mixed martial arts know how to defend themselves.
“To stay fit?” Things are not adding up.
“Among other things.”
Wait a minute…
“Then why did you get your ass handed to you on Broome Street?” That’s a question that demands an answer.
He turns to face me, his shoulders drop. Any lingering trace of humor disappears. It makes me regret the question. I want playful Jordan back.
“Why Jordan? The truth.”
His chest rises and falls. He’s so handsome it’s almost painful to look at him. Add all the angst and he’s got turbo-charged sex appeal.
“Ever feel so much you’ll do anything not to?”
Like biting the inside of your cheek so hard you draw blood when you break a finger hammering sheet rock?
Like hurting yourself to stop the pain?
“Yes,” I whisper.
I can still see it on his face, the pain he carries around. I can feel it coming off of him in waves. “I’m sorry about Lainey. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love…I lost my dad when I was twelve.”
His expression shifts, more concerned than introspective. “How…how did you lose him?”
“He was a fireman. He survived 9/11 but he worked the rescue site…cancer got him a few years later.”
I’ve caught him glancing at the tattoo I have on the inside of my wrist a number of times.
Never Forget II written in cursive.
He walks up to me, standing so close my heart starts beating fast again, and takes my hand, turns it over. He stares at my wrist and brushes his thumb over my tattoo. Sparks fly over my skin and shoot up my back.
“I didn’t know,” he says softly, “I’m sorry too.” Then he plants the softest sweetest kiss on my forehead and walks out.
10
Chapter Ten
Riley
“Go to the club,” says the star of my dirty fantasies. I watch his lips while he takes a sip of his coffee as if the secrets of the universe are about to spring out of there. This is becoming unhealthy. “I keep forgetting to tell you that I made arrangements.”
I’ve been having dreams about him. Dirty, inappropriate dreams. I’m that girl now––the one who dreams about her boss. The last guy I had dirty dreams about was Brad Pitt when I was seventeen. And now we’re here. There’s no middle ground with me.
Jordan takes another bite of the frittata I made for Maisie, the leftovers I should clarify. I’ve been researching new ideas for meals online and I think this one’s a hit.
“What club?”
He taps his fork on the now empty plate. “The private club I belong to. This is good,” he says.
“Just good?” Jordan has become a good little guinea pig, always willing to try anything I make first. He smiles deviously and puts the fork in his mouth slowly, chews his food. “Very good.”
The tease. More material for my nightly habit. I can basically feel it between my legs, which is a miracle on the level of the holy resurrection because I was pretty sure I was dead down there. I don’t remember when it happened last and it sure wasn’t recently.
Taking the now empty dish to the sink, he rinses it and places it in the dishwasher.
“Don’t sprain a vocal cord with all that praise.”
He looks over his shoulder at me. “Make me one next time and I’ll do better.”
It’s my turn to smile this time. “Where’s this private club you belong to?”
“On Madison. A couple of blocks over.” Facing me, he braces his hands on the white marble counter top. “I gave them your information. Charge everything to my account.”
“What is there to do at this club?”
“Plenty. They have a kid’s playroom. A theater. Spa. Gym. You can have lunch there…I sent you the info in a text.”
I check my phone. Sure enough, he had.
After Jordan leaves for work, I get Maisie ready and we hit the city streets. Turns out you have to be a somebody to join The Club, so it isn’t a complete sur
prise to see a famous New York actor walk out as I’m entering with the stroller. Rich people live a very surreal life is all I have to say.
We spend most of our morning in the kid’s playroom which is bigger than the entire first floor of my two-family. Then I spotted the rooftop pool.
I haven’t been in the water––not a pool or a beach––for close to a decade. That’s no exaggeration. You don’t get days off when you have your own business. Every minute of your time is devoted to growing it. Every penny that is not spent on essentials gets reinvested. Vacations, clothes, entertainment: they all lose value. My one goal for years has been to keep my little business solvent. And even with my level of discipline, it’s been tough.
We pass by The Club shop and I spot a red bikini hanging in the window. I have a strange reaction to this red bikini––I want it. I want it the way Veronica wants the latest Chanel nail color. Which means I have to have it.
I never ever buy anything for myself, and even though I really shouldn’t, even now, because I really can’t afford it, I buy it anyway. It also doesn’t feel right to charge it to Jordan’s account since it’s a personal item. Then I pick out a cute pink one-piece suit for Maisie and we head to the pool.
“Pool,” she shrieks, which really sounds like poo.
The baby doesn’t last long. All the activity in the playroom really knocked her out. She gets really tired. So after we spend a little time splashing around the shallow end, I change her out of her wet bathing suit and tuck her back in the stroller. She falls asleep in under ten minutes.
Which brings us here. It almost feels like I’m cheating, doing something wrong relaxing on this pool lounger. I pop in my earbuds and pull up an audiobook I downloaded for free on my phone. I got in the habit of listening to them on the job sites I’ve worked alone and it just stuck.
Sighing deeply, I fall back and close my eyes, let the heat and sun work its magic, warming my skin and drying my wet suit. I could get used to this…better not to though.
