by R. R. Banks
I’ve never done anything like this before. Not that I know what I'm doing, or what's going to happen.
It’s exhilarating. There's an unapologetic freedom in doing something so impulsive.
It's a new sensation, and I have to admit, I like it.
3
Carter
New York is a crowded place. Buildings on top of buildings, people on top of people. There ain't many places you can go if you want to be alone. Fortunately for me, I happen to know of a few places you can.
Even though it's getting colder, I wanted to show her this place. My place. It's where I come to get away from the world and decompress for a while. It's where I think. It's where I go when I'm stressed out and need to contemplate my life.
We're sitting on the rooftop of a building in the Kitchen, overlooking the sprawl of the city below us. I've spread out a blanket for us and grabbed some sodas to drink. She didn't think I was serious about not giving alcohol to minors, but much to her surprise, I was.
“You’re really eighteen?” I ask.
She nods. “Turned eighteen a few months ago.”
I take a sip of my soda and put the cap back on the bottle. She shivers, so I hand her a sweatshirt I'd brought from the car. She gives me a smile before she slips it over her head and pulls it down. She looks like a little kid in my big ol' hoodie. It's pretty adorable.
“So, what were you doin' in the Kitchen today?” I ask.
“Taking pictures,” she replies.
“Pictures?”
“Yeah,” she says. “It's for a project for school. I've always admired urban art –”
“Urban art?” I laugh.
“Yeah, the murals on the side of some buildings that –”
“Wait – you mean that crap taggers spray paint on the walls?” I ask, incredulous. “You call that art?”
She looks at me, her expression serious. “There's actually a lot of really beautiful artwork on those walls,” she says. “You might be surprised if you stopped and looked at it.”
“I've never been much for art,” I reply. “I obviously don't see things the same way you do.”
“I remember,” she says. “Books were always your thing though.”
I look at her and can't help but feel surprised. “You remember that?” I ask. “You were just a kid.”
“I remembered you, didn't I?” she says and smiles. “I was eight. And yes, I remember seeing you with your nose in a book all the time. That memory sticks out to me.”
“Huh,” I say. “Go figure.”
We sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments, just looking out at the city. The world around us is growing dark as day gives way to the night. The sky is set ablaze in vivid hues of red and orange. Lights in the skyscrapers and office buildings in the distance start to come on as the city prepares for the darkness of the evening. All around us, we can see the red and green lights, not to mention all of the gaudy, garish trappings of the holiday season – giant wreaths, and outrageous trees – that's bearing down upon us, flaring to life.
Thinking about the coming holiday season fills me with an oppressive weight, and a sense of loathing – as it always has. Though, I'm not going to ruin my time with Darby by dwelling on it. Seeing her again after all these years is a big surprise, and the feelings that are popping off in me as I sit next to her, are even more surprising than that. I want to explore and enjoy it a little, rather than ruin it with my shitty attitude about the holidays.
“It's beautiful up here,” she says. “So peaceful. You'd hardly know how busy and crowded it is down on the street unless you walked to the edge and looked down. I can see why you like coming up here.”
“It's kind of my little slice of paradise away from the dirty world below,” I say. “Up here, I feel free, you know?”
She nods. “Yeah, I think I do,” she says. “Or, at least, I'm starting to.”
I get the impression that she's not the kind of girl who sits on rooftops very often. But I'm glad she can see the beauty and peace I find up here.
Personally, I love living here, and really can't imagine being anywhere else. Something about New York is unlike any other place in the world. It's filled with this – energy – you can’t find anywhere else. If you open yourself up, and if you let it, it really ties you to the city. Bonds you to it. Makes you a part of it. Permanently. I wonder if Darby feels the same way.
I guess if you're not from here, you might not understand it, but New York is a very different sort of place, and New Yorkers are a very different breed. There's just an urgency, a vibrancy, and a frenetic energy about the place that's different from anywhere else.
At least, that's how I see it, anyway.
“So, what happened to you after we left St. Agatha's?” she asks softly. “I wouldn't have expected you to stick around here.”
“Nothin',” I say. “
“Nothing?”
I shake my head. “Nope,” I reply. “I turned eighteen, left that place, and here I am.”
She turns and looks at me, her eyes holding steady to mine. “And where exactly are you, Carter Bishop? Other than still living in the Kitchen, that is.”
I shrug. “Got a job,” I say. “Got my own place. Livin' life my way, on my terms.”
She giggles. “You never did tell me what you do for a living.”
That's the tricky part. It's not like I have the kind of job you run down the street telling everybody about. It ain't glamorous and if I'm bein' honest, it's kinda illegal. For some reason though, I don't want to lie to Darby.
I want to be open and honest with her. To expose all of my secrets and the dark corners in my mind. I don't get it, but I feel like I can trust her with my darkness. There's no rhyme or reason for it, but I feel like I can share myself openly with her, and she won't judge me. I wasn't kidding about her being nothing like her snooty family and friends.
I remember those eyes of hers, and the totally unnerving way they bored into me back when she was a kid. That really disquieting way it felt like she could see right through me. That impact hasn't lessened any now that she’s a grown woman. When I realized who she was, standing outside of Pops' bar, it felt like I'd taken a sledgehammer to the gut – like the air had been knocked right out of me. It was all I could do to not double over and start gasping right then and there.
It's something I've never felt before, and honestly, it's more than a little worrying. I have absolutely no idea what it means or what to make of it. And I'm usually a guy who can dissect myself quickly. I don't usually second guess myself. This is different, though. Very different.
All I know, is that oddly silent kid I knew back at the home has grown up to be a stunningly gorgeous woman. Long, curly red hair, freckles across the bridge of her nose, and curves for miles.
No, Darby has this fresh-faced, sweet girl-next-door look about her – and yet, she's also got a bit of an edge to her. She tries to hide it, but I can see it all the same. There's a rebel hidden beneath the prim and proper, high society, rich girl facade.
And if I'm being honest with myself, I have to admit that I find her sexy as hell. She’s incredibly appealing to me.
Letting out a long breath, I lean back on my arms and look up at the sky, pushing away my desires for the moment, and trying to get myself under control. The last thing I need is for her to see me sporting a hard on.
So, to distract myself from undressing her with my eyes, I decide there's no harm in telling her a little bit about my life. For all I know, this might be the last time I ever see her, so what’s the harm?
Even though we live just miles apart, we might as well exist in two separate universes. Our worlds don’t coincide with one another, and any sort of crossover between the Upper East Side and the Kitchen is merely coincidental. Although, these days, with all the changes going on, it's almost like they're trying to annex the Kitchen, and turn it into something it ain't – a playground for the rich.
But, that's not what Darby wants t
o hear me talk about. “After I left the home,” I say. “I got a job working as a runner for Pops Ramazzo.”
“A runner?”
I nod. “Yeah, delivering packages, picking things up,” I say. “Pretty much whatever Pops asked me to do. I'm just a gopher, really.”
“And who is Pops Ramazzo?”
It's strange having to explain who Pops is to somebody. He's pretty much a living legend in the Kitchen. An icon and a pillar of the community. I didn't know there were people in New York who don't know Pops.
Pops is a former mob boss and carries a certain notoriety to him. People respect him, and all he does for the community. I almost think that without Pops, there would be no Kitchen left to speak of. Some people speak of him reverentially, like they're in awe of what he gives to the community. Other people still whisper about him in hushed, fearful tones, afraid that even speaking his name will bring Pops' legendary wrath down upon them. And the cops seem to like hassling him, even though he's been out of the game for a long time.
In a way, Pops is the adult version of the kid I was back when I'd been at St. Aggie's. He built a reputation that sustained him. One that kept people in check. He takes no shit from anybody, but he's not gonna drive you out to an abandoned field and put two in the back of your head. He's not that guy anymore – though, people still think he is.
Truthfully, I don't know if he was ever that guy, or if it's all just a reputation he manufactured, a myth he perpetuated about himself – a lot like I did back at the home. You do just enough to set that reputation in people's minds, and then let their imaginations fill in the rest of the blanks. True or not – manufactured or real – though, having that sort of cred keeps people in line.
Today, Pops runs a legit business. He owns the bar I was coming out of when I ran into Darby and Jade. Pops is a good man. The best, most caring, and generous man I've ever known – which might be counterintuitive, given his past. But, when I came to him after I left St. Aggie's, he gave me a job. He gave me a place to live. He took me under his wing and became more of a father figure to me than anybody ever before.
He's also the only one who ever saw something good in me. Something inside of me worth nurturing and developing. He's the only one who saw that I'm great with numbers. After a year of being a runner for him, I started crunching numbers for him. I’m great at analyzing a mountain of information and predicting the outcome of games.
In the back room of Pops' bar, he has a little betting parlor. He hosts some card games now and then, but most of that back-room business is sports betting. And it wasn't all that long after he took me in that he saw my talent for setting lines and picking winners. And a short time after that, he had me running his little back room.
It's not exactly legal, but it's kind of an open secret around the neighborhood, and even some of the off-duty cops come in pretty regularly to lay a bet.
Like I said, it's not the kind of job you write home about.
But Pops was never one who wanted me to settle for being a bookmaker. He's always pushing me to do more. Always pushing me to aim higher. Dream bigger. He wants me to make something of myself.
So, about a year ago, he introduced me to a man named Doug Woods, who runs a hedge fund. He's got a successful office on Wall Street and makes money hand over fist. The guy knows his stuff and is just dripping with cash. He definitely enjoys the finer things in life. He lives a good life – which is why I suspect Pops pushed me into meeting him to begin with.
Ever since then, I've been interning with Doug, learning the ins and outs of the stock market. I soak up all of his wisdom like a sponge, and combined with own natural talent with numbers, it’s resulted in me doing really well. I've made Doug a pile of money – some of which he's funneled my way as thanks.
It's just a small taste, but it's more than I ever dreamed of back when I was a kid at St. Aggie's – and it's left me hungry for more. I want everything Doug has, and then some. I want to build the life of my dreams. I want to work hard, play harder, and live that good life.
Darby listens to my story and takes it all in. And when I'm finished with my tale, her smile is brighter than the tree in Rockefeller Center, or the ball that drops in Times Square on New Year's Eve. Seeing that smile lights me up inside and makes me feel emotions I don’t know that I’ve ever felt before.
“Wow,” she says. “So, you're a stockbroker?
I shake my head. “Not yet,” I say. “Still learning and studying. I'm going to have to pass some tests to get certified and all.”
“Sounds like you're on your way, though.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Do you like it?”
I never would have dreamed of having a career like this back at St. Aggie's. Back then, I thought I'd be running drugs, or on the street hustling every day, just to get by. But, I'm on the verge of something so much bigger, thanks to Doug. Thanks to Pops.
Thanks to both of them, my life is going to be so much better than I ever hoped it would be, all those years ago.
“I love it,” I say. “Playing the market is an absolute rush. It’s a lot of data analysis, and predicting trends, and picking winners. There's a lot of similarities between stocks and sports betting, when you stop and really think about it.”
“I have to say, I'm impressed,” she says.
“Why's that?”
She shrugs. “Back when we were in the home,” she says, “I'll admit to wondering if you were going to grow up to be one of those thugs we saw out on the street in front of the place. I thought you'd be some kind of a gangster, to be honest. I mean, the way you controlled everybody in that place – it was a bit scary.”
A rueful chuckle crosses my lips. “It was the only way I knew to survive in there,” I say. “It was all smoke and mirrors, honestly. I pretty much just wanted to be left alone.”
She nods. “I also thought, even back then, that there was more to you than what I was seeing. I saw more to you than just that tough guy facade you put up,” she says. “I noticed the way you were always reading. I'd never seen anybody tear through books like you. You always were buried in a book. Always. It was like you couldn't get enough.”
“It was an escape.”
“Maybe,” she replies, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I think there’s a lot more to you than the brooding badass you pretend to be. You’re a lot more intelligent than you let on.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you’re so busy projecting the tough guy image, it seems like you hide your intelligence. Like you're afraid to show it or something,” she says. “It's almost like you're ashamed of your intelligence, so you do everything you can to bury it. Right down to changing the way you speak.”
“The way I speak?” I laugh. “Now you're just making stuff up.”
She nods. “It's true though. The way you spoke in front of Jade is completely different than the way you're speaking to me now that we're alone,” she says. “With me, you sound different. Less like some guy from the streets.”
“I am a guy from the streets though,” I remind her.
“Yeah, but you're more than that,” she says. “It just so happens that I can see right through your facade.”
“Facade, huh?” I say. “I don't really know about all that.”
“I do. And let's not forget, there's also the very valid point about you actually knowing what the words presumptuous, cretin, and gauche even mean. You know, the very words you threw in Jade's face, and said only somebody from a posh private school on the Upper East Side would know,” she says. “And yet, despite not attending a posh private school on the Upper East Side, you knew them anyway.”
Her smile is as dazzling as the sun, and stretches across her face. I have to physically fight the urge to lean forward and kiss her. God knows I want to, but I don't know if it would be well received or not. So, I control myself as best as I can.
I look away and laugh softly. What
can I say? I mean, I'm no Einstein. I'm never going to cure cancer or invent something that will change the world. I know I'm never going to be the smartest guy in any room. But, I'm at least intelligent enough that I know what I'm doing and can do it well. And yeah, maybe I do hide it because in the world I run in, smarts aren't something people notice or respect. Strength is. As long as you can put people in their place, you're golden around here.
Until Darby, nobody has ever called me out on it. It's leaving me a little flat-footed and disconcerted – to be honest – and I don't know what to make of it.
“This is the strangest day I think I've ever had,” I say.
She smiles. “Hopefully, not in a bad way.”
I turn to her and stare into those green eyes, feeling like I can lose myself in their depths. Whereas eight years ago, they'd disconcerted me – and to some extent, still do – now they seem to beckon me. I find them utterly intoxicating, and they fill me with feelings I can't explain.
Without stopping to think about what I'm doing – and completely unable to hold myself back – I lean forward and press my lips to Darby's. Her body stiffens for a moment, but she melts into me, her arms sliding around the back of my neck as her lips part.
Our tongues swirl and dance together as I pull her to me, relishing the feel of her body pressed to mine. I run my fingers through her silky red hair, taking hold of it and pulling her head back as I lower my mouth and kiss her neck, drawing a soft moan from her.
“Is this ok?” I ask, hesitant.
She nods, giving me all the confirmation I need. Sliding my hands up and underneath the hoodie I'd given her. Our kiss grows hotter, more intense, and she raises her arms, helping me to take the sweatshirt off of her.
Tossing it to the side, I kiss her with an unbridled passion I don't know that I've ever felt before. I quickly unbutton her shirt and push it back, exposing her shoulders. Planting a line of soft kisses down her neck, I slide the tip of my tongue across her collarbone. She moans softly, pulling and tugging on my hair as I kiss her soft, delicate skin.
