by Anthology
“I’m Hope.” I extended my hand and he took it. The connection was instantaneous. Contentment wafted like smoke until it filled me.
“It’s nice to meet you, Hope.” His eyes traveled the perimeter of the store. “Come here often?”
I nodded. “As much as I can. I don’t get the opportunity to get away much, so I read. I travel the world through books.”
“But actually seeing the world is a whole new experience. Your imagination isn’t capable of giving you the same feelings. For instance, you can imagine a dark sky with a million stars, but seeing them from a place that has no light pollution will surely take your breath away.”
His comment piqued my interest. “Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”
He nodded. “I do. I’ve traveled most of the world, but not all of it. Whenever business takes me somewhere new, I try to make side trips to sample the culture. Sometimes it's just sightseeing, but I like to try the local cuisine or go somewhere to listen to music. A little mix of business with pleasure is a good thing.”
As he spoke, I imagined what a black sky would look like with a million sparkling crystals. Suddenly the oppressive dark cloud that had hovered over me began to dissipate. I felt lighter. Until this very moment I hadn’t realized how I had almost allowed my pain and hurt to define me. They were twin dragons and I had allowed them to sink their talons into me so deeply that by the end of the day I was exhausted and fell into bed. Perhaps the problem was with me. I had familiarized myself and identified with every shade of gray and white for nearly two years and all they had presented me with were feelings of sorrow. I had given them permission to color my life so that it had become dull and emotionless. Although it was impossible to bring back the part of me that I had lost and the man that I had loved, I knew that if I chose to stay in that dark place I would cease to exist. How crazy was it that a glance, a smile, and a simple cup of coffee would remind me that there were other colors. Brilliantly shaded emotions could paint every scene that lived inside of twenty-four-hour increments. Hues of red, blue, purple, green, and more were within my reach. All I had to do was have faith enough to touch them.
I forgot time as it passed. The conversation between Jared and me exposed little nuggets of our lives. With each moment, we learned a little more about each other. I came to the realization that releasing my pain didn’t dismiss any precious memories of my life with Judge. I had allowed the lines of my life to be colored in by a black crayon, leaving no light visible beneath its opaque weight. It had almost smothered any beauty that remained. Suddenly, I craved color. Even though gray and white had been present in parts of my life, I now desired to dwell among the more vibrant shades. There was still so much promise to be found in the colors of Hope. I was determined to find it.
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SHAKEDOWN
A Short Story by Elizabeth SaFleur
Chapter One
“Blend in more? Just how does a cocktail waitress do that?” For ten minutes Rachel had stood in her manager’s office, feet aching and her tables unmanned, listening to this crap. She crossed her arms, an unwise, defiant move, but really, this “chat” was ridiculous. “Are you accusing me of something specific, Mr. Jones?”
“The other waitresses have implied you banter with the customers a little too vehemently. There’s flirting, and then there’s . . . well, they’ve complained that you lure—”
“Lure?” She choked back a laugh. She made better tips than the other girls because she was personable. A little harmless flirting never killed anyone, and she was well aware of the game she played. “People like my service. I thought you’d be pleased. In fact, I’d like more shifts. As you said, I’m popular. You’d make more money with me.”
“And, lose my other help.” He stood signaling the meeting was over. “Thanks, Rachel. I know this is uncomfortable. The men at Talman’s are used to getting what they want, but let’s make sure they know you’re not on the menu, too.” He winked.
Un-fricking-believable.
As she fought her way through business suits and raucous laughter to the waitress station at the bar, she attempted to shake off the insinuations her manager had lobbed at her. She needed this job, and she would not succumb to the suggestion she practically prostituted herself for tips. She wasn’t on anyone’s “menu.” So what if a few patrons had asked her out? Big effing deal. She’d turned them all down.
As she waited for Gabe to finish her cocktail order, she glanced down at her phone to see if Jay had returned her call. He hadn’t. Shocker. She wanted to float an idea by her stepbrother, launching a for-hire bartending business they could work together to get them both out of their rut. Jay would never get very far ahead by working on an oil rig, and she’d never finish her bachelor’s degree by waitressing. They both needed something new.
“Order up, Rachel,” Gabe said with a smile and nodded at the drinks he’d prepared. “You outdid yourself with this suggestion.”
“Thanks. They look great.” She adjusted a sprig of lavender on one of the martinis du jour she’d “invented” with Gabe’s help. The same four women, members of the Red Hat Club, came in every Friday with the same request: “Surprise us with the cocktail of the day.” So she did, and her imagination earned her a guaranteed thirty percent tip.
“Interesting, indeed.” A male voice sounded behind her.
Her heart rocketed up her throat, and her knees buckled. She set the tray down to the bar just in time. She knew that voice. It was rougher, deeper than she recalled, but there was no mistaking who that rumble belonged to. She slowly turned and couldn’t believe her eyes. Trick Masters. Jesus, he looked good, but then Trick always had.
“Rachel Grant. As I live and breathe.”
The heartless, deceitful thief peered down at her with those same blue-gray eyes she’d thought so kind—but weren't. He leered at her with that same charming smile—but which hid a thousand lies.
The floor underneath her threatened to give way, and she stepped backward. He reached around and grasped the side of her tray to prevent the three lavender martinis from crashing to the floor. His suit coat brushed her arm, and just as if a lit match touched a puddle of gasoline, a ball of fire ignited in her belly and all the anger she thought she’d released years ago consumed her. Her therapist's words flooded her brain. Visualize a stop sign whenever your mind starts to race. Stop the negative feelings, thoughts, and pictures.
“Rachel, you alright?” Gabe asked.
No, she wasn’t alright. At the sound of her name said with kindness, her anger backslid to grief. It started with a tickle inside her nose, then her breath burning hot in her throat, then the prick in her eyes, a cascade of emotion threatening to let loose.
Do not cry. Stop sign. Do not cry. Stop sign.
“Can I get you something else, sir?”
Gabe’s voice likely saved her from doing the unthinkable: shedding another useless, wasted tear over Trick Masters. She lifted her tray. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her come undone.
“Another club soda.” Trick leaned his elbow on the bar and stared at her. “Gabe, no offense to you, but Rachel’s got some interesting mixology ideas. You should put her behind the bar. She’s good at dishing out fantasies.”
His words snapped a lid on her simmering emotion and her anger returned.
“Rachel, I need to talk to you,” Trick said. A fire brewed behind those blue-gray eyes.
“No.”
The haughty bastard’s mouth twitched up at her tone. She'd meant the simple word to land hard—like the punch she never got t
o deliver on his smug, model-perfect face.
She balanced the tray on her palm and turned away. Her feet finally escaped the invisible concrete that had kept her in place for far too long. Two men parted for her to scoot by, one of them skimming her with his gaze. She hoped Trick saw the man’s admiration.
Shit. Claire, another waitress, stood in front of her table of The Three Suits who had “big tippers” written all over them from their cuff links to their Berluti handmade shoes.
Rachel quickly hustled over. “Gentleman, I'm so sorry I've neglected you. Let me deliver these and I'll pop back over.”
“No need. I've got it, Rachel,” Claire said.
The three men were oblivious, of course, and had returned to their talks of mergers and return on investment.
“What are you doing?” she whispered to Claire.
“Nothing more than you do every night.”
“I told you, those guys last night asked for me, so they got seated in my section. Get over it.” Fury had returned in full force, which was precisely the emotion she should be feeling right now given she'd just encountered Trick Masters. Her therapist would disagree, but whatever.
After delivering her martinis and ensuring her tip from The Three Suits wasn't in jeopardy, she hustled back to the bar praying Trick’s presence was an illusion, or a mental delusion. He couldn't have been here. The betrayer couldn't be here in Baltimore.
Stop sign. Stop sign. Stop sign.
Gabe leaned toward her so she could hear him over the symphony of happy hour chatter and laughter. “You know that guy?” He cocked his head toward the exit. She caught Trick's broad back as he slipped through the revolving doors. “He told Mr. Jones you should join me behind the bar,” Gabe said and then straightened.
“Rachel.” Mr. Jones's voice behind her made her jump.
“I'd be no good behind the bar,” she said quickly, turning to face her manager. Bartending tips sucked.
“I have a better idea,” Mr. Jones said. “See those two guys over there? They asked for you. I'm putting you on hostess duties. As you said, you're popular.”
“But—”
“See me when your shift ends. We'll talk details.”
She dropped her empty tray on the bar. Tears? No way. The wrath she’d suppressed for three years? Bring it on.
“I'm taking a break, Gabe,” she said. Breaks weren't allowed during peak hours, yet fate presented a gift. She could finally confront the man who had derailed her life. From college student to waitress. What a cliché. She’d spent the last three years scraping dollars and change off dirty tablecloths because of that two-faced bastard.
She pushed her way through a gaggle of women holding martinis and then the revolving door. With any luck he’d still be in the parking lot. She found him leaning against a black sedan parked across the street, casually scrolling through the latest iPhone like he hadn't care in the world. A hot ball of anger rolled over her so hard, her mental stop sign melted into a puddle. She jogged across the road to him, and immediately a woody scent of cologne wafted between them. The effing nerve of the man, the unbelievable gall to smell good, to look good, to . . .
“Rachel.” He straightened with that same smirk he'd delivered fifteen minutes ago.
He grasped her wrist in mid-air, before she could land a satisfying crack on his cheek.
“What the hell?” he barked.
“How dare you be here!” she screamed. So much for her two years and eight months of therapy. Stop sign, meet Trick Masters, the man who ruined my life.
Chapter Two
Rachel Grant had some nerve. Trick lowered her wrist to her waist. He'd been texting his attorney when that long, dark, curly hair and legs from here to infinity charged up and attacked him. She’d always been a spitfire—a beautiful one, at that.
“What are you doing here?” she ground out and yanked her arm free.
“I'd ask you the same question. Waitressing?” He was still astonished Rachel worked at this over-priced gentlemen’s club.
“Yeah, waitressing,” she spat. “Why do you think, genius?”
Jesus, this woman had more than nerve, more like deranged arrogance, especially after all he'd gone through because of her. “Easy on the insults, sweetheart.”
“Don't call me sweetheart. Those. Days. Are. Over.” The harpy poked his chest at each word.
He grabbed her wrist again, that impossibly smooth skin under his fingers sparking memories better left alone. “Those days certainly are over.”
Three years ago, this woman had been his everything. Now, Princess Rachel’s crown was a tad banged up. If he hadn't seen her with his own eyes, scurrying around tables in that excuse for a skirt—he’d seen Ace bandages with more material—while balancing a tray of martinis over her head, he wouldn't have believed she'd demean herself by doing something as common as serving.
“Your shadow in Baltimore, too?” he hissed. “Of course Jay is. You two are joined at the hip. Your relationship with your stepbrother is just a tad unnatural—another example of the two of you ‘keeping it in the family,’ I presume.”
“Stop touching me.” She yanked her hand away again. “I’m not even going to respond to your disgusting implications. So, you’re here to screw him over again, too?”
“Me screw him over?” His bitter laughter drew the attention of those waiting in line for Talman’s across the narrow street. He put his back to the crowd and lowered his voice to a vicious undertone. “You didn’t stay in town for a hot minute after—”
“Why do you think I did that?” she sneered.
“Oh, I know why.” Man, did he know why. Funny thing about being imprisoned for twenty-nine months, four days and six hours. It gave you lots of time to stare at gray bars and blank walls and think about why his best friend and his fiancé set him up on charges of embezzlement. He still didn’t know what had happened to their trust fund money. He only knew he didn’t have it. Two feet from her face, he shook his head and let all the disgust he felt show.
“Don't shake your head at me, Trick Masters,” she spat.
“Babe, I could care less what you want. What I can't understand is why the hell you're in a seedy place like this. Blown through your money already? Searching for a new sugar daddy, a sucker to fund your extravagant lifestyle like I did?”
“Did prison affect your hearing? Let me say it slowly so even you can understand.” She leaned forward almost nose-to-nose and hissed, “I. Have. No. Money!”
“Liar.” He snorted in derision and his gaze fell to her four-inch heels. “Like I’d believe that fairytale. Still running around in those $800 Louboutin heels I see—shoes I bought you if I recall.”
“Fairytale!” she seethed. “You killed any belief I had in fairytales just like you killed everything.” Her eyes reddened, and that tell-tale quiver of her chin started. It always had when she got frustrated.
Shit. He could almost feel sorry for her. He was being an asshole, but damnit, she deserved it—and more. She and her stepbrother waltzed off scot-free while he'd lost his law license, his career, his reputation—shit, his entire life—and that thought stiffened his spine.
“Don't you dare cry,” he bit out. He wouldn't fall for her tears, not from the witch who shredded his heart, hell, shredded all his belief in humankind. “Have you tried the stage? You’re a damn good actress.”
When Jay and Rachel’s trust fund of $3 million had been discovered missing, his employers, the investment firm of Baskers & Trout, had turned him over to the District Attorney's office as the only man they assumed had the knowledge and opportunity to have committed the crime. Jay, his supposed friend, immediately believed he’d stolen their money, which stung like a bitch, but what felt like a thousand needles being driven into his heart was Rachel's distrust, her immediate and total abandonment of him. His own damned fiancé never showed up at the courthouse—not once—or visited him in prison.
For eleven fucking months he’d paced a 10 x 12 foot cell—wait
ing and wondering. Then when he got out? He won the prize of a clunky GPS ankle bracelet and stewed under house arrest for another eighteen mother-effing months, unable to track down Rachel and Jay because they’d high-tailed it out of D.C., a move that unequivocally supported what he'd suspected. The conniving bitch and her spoiled little stepbrother had set him up.
She screeched in anger. “This is the only job I can get, you . . . you. . .” That finger of hers was drilling a hole through his sternum again.
He swatted her hand away. “I can't believe you blew through all that money. Tsk. Tsk.”
“You have some fucking nerve standing there in your Hugo Boss suit while I—”
“I have no sympathy for you.” He snorted. “You want a better job? Quit your whining and go get one.” He pulled out a card to the club, Shakedown, and shoved it into her hand. Being the club manager was the only job he could land after he got out. Thank God Declan had honored his promise. He found it supremely ironic that one of the most honorable men he’d ever met he’d met in prison.
She peered at the card. “Shakedown? A strip club? That’s a cheap shot, even for you.”
“Furthest thing from a strip joint, sweet cheeks. But hell, even if it were you'd make more money than at”—he waved his hand—“this place.” He also could keep an eye on her and find out what really happened three years ago. Over the last four months, his mission in life focused on one goal: to clear his name. That meant finding out where she and Jay had put $3 million.
