“Yeah, I get that,” I say, running my finger through my hair, blushing. I can see the similarity. “You were handsome.”
“Yes, I was. But I was also a womanizer. Women just fell in my lap. My success as the finest chef in Vegas strip fueled my cockiness and charm to an unprecedented high. The tales of my adventurous sex life had already made its way to the casino. I didn’t know her, but she knew me very well.”
“She ever agreed to go on a date with you, or you just plowed her with alcohol and married her in a chapel?”
“The latter one was a good idea. It crossed my mind at that time. But it was not just the physical attraction I was feeling for her. I wanted to know her. I wanted to make soufflé for her and feed her with my own hands. I wanted to go on a walk with her on the Vegas strip. So, I decided to take a long road to woo her.
“The next day, I asked her on the date again, but that time with a flower in my hand. She accepted the flower, took a good whiff, kept the flower in the cigarette tray, and said no. I tried the next day with a different flower. She did the same thing again—took the flower and said no. I tried to get a date with her for 27 days straight, with a different flower each day, but every time she said no.
“On the 28th day, I walked to her with my head bowed down. ‘No flowers this time?’ she asked. I answered her honestly, and I think it was the first time I was truly honest to anybody. I said, ‘There are no flowers left which I can give you. The only thing left is my heart. It doesn’t matter if you want it or not, but your name is already written on it since the day I saw you. It belongs to you, and will always be yours till my last breath.’ I didn’t dare to look at her and turned to get out of the casino, but she held my hand, and I stopped right there. She gently caressed my knuckle with her thumb, and said, ‘Pick me up at 7.’”
I cannot believe I am thinking this, but I am jealous of Jeremy.
Yes, I know it’s pathetic that a man in his prime is jealous of sixty-something man.
But I am.
I thought I was a romantic one. That I am the one whose face Shakespeare must have imagined when he was writing ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ After all, I feel for a woman in my dream, but if you have been following me all the way, you should know it was mostly sexual. But what Jeremy had, was pure. It had a soul. He is one true romantic.
“A year later, we got married,” Jeremy continues. “She wanted children right away, but I didn’t want them so soon. I wanted to savor her some more. I thought we had all the time in the world. . . . Two years later, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. All the second-hand smoke finally caught up to her, and she was out of my life like the way she arrived—in a heartbeat.”
Her wife is dead for 25 years, and he is still hurting. He still mourns for her. Is that what we call true love?
Jeremy is lost in his wife’s memory. I don’t want to disturb him, but I am now too involved in his story, and eager to know what happened next. Did he find someone else after Alexandra?
I ask in a low voice, “You got married again?”
He laughs. “Sir, you are too young to understand this, but the truth is only women fall in love—men don’t. But when we do, we fall hard. We only fall in love once. After that, it’s just about companionship, compromise, and the fear of not dying alone. After Alexandra, there were many women in my life. I still lust after them. But the love is dead. This body is my cage, and I have to feed its urges. But my soul is with Alexandra. My heart always beat for her.”
I am quiet.
I am speechless.
There was him—posing blind, trying to cop a feel, kind of perverted old man. And there is this one, one who is madly in love with his dead wife. I don’t know why I used to inflict mental torture on him. My respect for him was already at sky-high, but after this, it’s on the moon.
“You must be thinking about what happened next? How I came here?”
I am not thinking that. I am still thinking about him and his wife, Alexandra, but I shake my head in a yes.
“After Alexandra’s death, I lost it. I started drinking my money away. I gambled with my savings. I smoked weed. I snorted drugs. I slept with prostitutes. I still don’t remember that decade of my life. After the clouds of the pain of losing Alexandra settled, I was almost penniless. I came back to Los Angeles and started working again as a fry cook. One night, in the diner, a young man found my Panini press so enticing that he offered me the job as his butler. You must have read about him somewhere. Even after his retirement, he is still talked about for his wealth, and for turning his life around. He used to go by the name of ‘Dudley the Dong.’”
“The porn star mogul?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. His real name is Steve Robinson. A very nice fellow. His love story is very exhilarating. But that’s for another day. He married his high school girlfriend and moved to Ohio after leaving the business behind to his associate. But before leaving, he gave me the check of $1,00,000 as a bonus for my years of service and even got me in a luxurious old age home. But I didn’t want to live there. The idea of sitting around, doing nothing, and playing bingo with old women all day haunted me. So, I refused to go there. I invested my bonus in bonds and came back to my roots in New York. And eventually, I met you and been there since the last four years.”
“Jeremy, I think you should write a book.” Jeremey has had an exciting life. He has experienced love. He has faced loss. From the depths of pains, he has managed to bounce back in life. I am serious about what I said, but he takes it as a joke in good spirit and laughs at my idea.
“All right. Let’s put that degree of culinary school in use. Aye-aye.”
“I am not joking, you should write about your beginning, the height of your career, about you and Alexandra. You should write your autobiography.”
“I don’t think anybody would buy my autobiography, sir.”
“I will. You don’t know how great you are. I wish I could be more like you.”
“Well, you were more or less like me. Your life before the accident was nothing more than a reflection of the first half of mine.”
“I want the latter half, Jeremy.” I tap on my knees and get off the couch. “I want what you and Alexandra had. I want to give different types of flowers to that tall blonde. I want to breathe in her scent. I want to write her name on my heart, but the irony is I don’t even know her name.”
“Sir, trust me. When the time is right, you will get the woman you are supposed to be with. You will get your Alexandra.” He assures me with a nod.
I hope he is right. Where are you, my Alexandra?
Chapter 8
“I’LL SEE IF WE HAVE milk.”
Jeremy goes away to the kitchen.
“See, if there are any cookies in there,” I say loudly while checking out the collection in my bar.
Whoever arranged these bottles in the bar shelf must be a wizard. They are all well-categorized by their type, brand, and probably, alcohol content. There is a section labeled whiskey which is further sub-categorized into Scotch whiskey, Irish whiskey, and bourbon. Under rum, I have dark rum, flavored rum, and white rum. I also have sections for vodka, tequila, cognac, and gin. Most of the bottles are branded and labeled. Johnny Walker, Macallan, Jim Beam, Aberfeldy—you get the gist. I think there is a bottle for every occasion.
And then there is an unnamed section, and just as expected, the bottles in there has no label. No name. No nothing. I open a half-empty bottle from that section and bring it closer to my nose to take a whiff.
“No! Don’t drink that.” Jeremy freaks out before I could even take my next breath.
I turn around. He is here with milk and cookies. Wonderful!
“What happened? What is this?” I ask.
“It’s homemade moonshine. Very high in alcohol content. You bought them from a Texas cowboy.”
“Is it bad?”
“The last time you drank it, you woke up after 36 hours. So yeah, it’s bad.” Jeremy put the milk and cookies on the b
ar table and take the bottle and cork out of my hand.
“Are you getting the urge to drink again?” he asks as he puts the bottle back in its place.
“Not really. I am just admiring how meticulously they are placed. You did that?”
“No, it was actually you.”
Wow! I have some mad arranging skills. Let’s hope I don’t have the OCD.
“Is that the most expensive one?”
I point at the Aberfeldy 12 years old while taking a sip of the milk. Jeremy first giggles, then cup his face as he props his elbows on the bar table, and finally, breaks into laughter like I have cracked a joke. He doesn’t need to tell me I have guessed wrong.
“Glad you are having a hearty laugh at my expense.” I mock him with a laugh of my own. “Yeah, make fun of someone who just yesterday got to know the difference between pop tarts and pop-its.”
“I am sorry. I know I shouldn’t, but it was damn funny.” He finally stops laughing and stands straight. “This is the cheapest one in your bar. It only costs $41.99.”
He extends his arms, hands gesturing up as if he is pointing to God himself. I follow his cue, glance up, and find a lone wolf—a bottle of Scotch whiskey—on the top of the shelf, standing proudly like a king.
“That’s your most prized possession in this entire bar. Only a few hundred people in the world have the luxury of owning it, and you are one of them.”
“Really?! That’s nice. How much is it?”
“Take a guess,” he says.
“$3,000.” I utter the first figure that comes to my mind.
“Probably, the bottle alone cost $3,000.”
“$8,000.”
I am wrong again. How much does a bottle of fucking scotch can cost?
“$10,000. That’s it! It can’t cost any more than this. It’s alcohol for God’s sake, not gold.”
“It’s expensive than gold. This thing cost a whopping $35,000.”
I think he has lost his mind. All the talk about his life, and memories of losing Alexandra resurfacing has probably taken a toll on his mind. He is on the verge of a possible mental breakdown.
“This is Macallan 65 single malt scotch.” Jeremy gives the formal introduction to the one foot of monstrosity, and I can’t say I am impressed.
“And what made it worth $35,000?”
“It’s a Macallan 65 single malt scotch.” He uses assertive tone this time to prove a point. It’s a fucking scotch for God’s sake. I refuse to believe this that this bottle costs more than the annual personal income of a U.S. citizen.
“Does it have the water from the fountain of youth?”
“What?! No!”
“So, no eternal youth, huh? What a downer?! How about immortality? Few drops of elixir just put in there while it was fermented.”
“You were always stubborn—and now more than ever,” he mumbles as he types on his phone, and a moment later, slam it before my face “Here . . .”
There is an article of 2016 before my eyes. Apparently, only 450 bottles of Macallan 65 were released, and it costs exactly what Jeremy said—the extravagant sum of $35,000.
I look at the top of the shelf again. The bottle is beautiful. Scotch in it is glistening. And then, I come to remember the article I read last week. Many villages in Africa are still far from access to clean water. Thousands died due to water contamination. One sip of this bottle is more than the cost of providing tens of children the basic necessity of clean water for the next twenty years. When this thought crosses my mind, this beautiful bottle of scotch turns into an eyesore for me. It belongs to an exhibitionist’s mansion, no doubt, but I am not the one.
“Get rid of it. I don’t want to see that thing in my house.” I turn my face away in guilt.
“I’ll get the glasses.”
“I didn’t mean drinking it, Jeremy. Send it to an auction house and donate the proceeds to a worthy charity working on providing clean water in Africa. But anonymously.”
He waits for a few seconds to confirm that this isn’t a joke. “Very good, sir. I’ll send the bottle to the auction house in the morning. May I add that this is the first selfless act I have seen you do in the past four years. It could even be your first.”
“It’s selfless, indeed, unlike your cookies,” I say, chewing the disgusting cookies Jeremy brought for me. “Aren’t they supposed to selflessly melt in the mouth? But they are stale, and smells like they were soaked in horse piss.”
“Let me check.” Jeremy takes a bite of the cookie and spits it out on the floor. “Sorry about that. You are right. They are very bad. But in my defense, I didn’t bake them. They are store-bought. But, no worries. I’ll bake you a fresh batch right now.”
“It’s all right. I’ll manage it. Make them in the morning.” I pick another cookie from the plate, but he slaps it out of my hand before it could make its way in my mouth.
“What the hell!”
That’s not the way to treat your boss. Taking a cookie away from the hungry. What a shameful act? And from Jeremy, nonetheless?
“Oops!” he says without any remorse and picks the plate off the bar counter.
“Give me that back. I am hungry.” I grab another end of the plate and give it a pull.
But Jeremy hangs on to it. “Hold your horses for half an hour.” He even tries to snatch the plate out of my hand. “I’ll not let the opportunity to bake the cookie slide by. I am fed up of eating the store-bought one.”
In this tug of war, I win as Jeremy let go of the plate. I get cocky and raises my hand in victory. Jeremy smiles and sweeps down all the cookies on the floor. He even crushes them with his feet as if I was going to pick the stale cookies from the floor and eat them.
“So, what will it be? Blueberry or chocolate chip?” he casually asks as if nothing happened.
I have liberated him too much. He is out of control. No respect for the boss.
“What the hell! Let’s get crazy. I will make both of them.”
He cheerfully leaves—giggling like a sophomore girl on a date with a senior. He didn’t even wait to hear my answer. I want a sugar cookie, damn it! Sugar cookie.
Chapter 9
YOU SEE THAT JACUZZI in my balcony? Isn’t it a beauty?
No, it’s not going to the charity. I need it. I’ll bring the woman from my dream here after a little wine and dine.
Both of us naked. She on top of me, kissing, water dripping from her hair, running down to her boobs as she bounces up and down on my cock.
My cock is already twitching to that thought.
“Fuck you, Brandon!” I hear a distant voice of a woman screaming.
And a women shoe hit me hard on the shoulder. It must have come from one of the two buildings on either side of me. I immediately get down on my knees in case another one is on its way.
I get that I am not popular around here. No, I am popular but for all the wrong reasons. But it doesn’t give women the right to throw their shoes at me.
If instead of a flat sandal, it was a heel, and if it was thrown by a woman with a good aim and hit me on the head instead of shoulder, I could be concussed—or worse, dead.
Imagine what my tombstone would have said.
Brandon Bryce.
A firm supporter of the alcohol and tobacco industry.
Loved every woman in his life at least once.
A job creator—ask Javier.
Died in an unfortunate turn of events when a woman’s shoe hit him on the head.
In the history of popular assassination, my name would be after Lincoln and Kennedy—or probably first. People die of bullet all the time but by women’s shoe—that’s something you don’t hear every day.
I was right to kneel down. Another shoe lands in the Jacuzzi, splashing water on my face.
Good news is, the pair is complete, and they look expensive and not worn much. I can give it to Javier who in turn could gift his wife.
I crawl fast like a contender of a dog race left far behind and take a deep sigh
of relief after I am back in my apartment.
“Just ten more minutes. Cookies are coming out very crispy,” Jeremy says from the kitchen, unaware of what’s happening out there.
“Take your time. No problem.”
I start pulling down the curtains on the window. It’s just a safety precaution. If a woman can throw her sandal at me twice, she could very well take a shot at me if she is into pig hunting.
After covering up the windows, I chug down a glass of water before I roam around in my apartment, admiring the interiors. Everything is at the place where it’s supposed to be. No room for any improvement. Now that I am going to live here, I need to get acquainted with this place. And that what’s I am doing now.
Nice! I have a gym in my apartment. My own private gym. Fully air-conditioned. Isn’t that rich? It has everything, I suppose. Treadmill, elliptical, spin bike, bench press, hammer strength machine, many steel rods, pulleys. You name it, and my home gym has it.
The wall of this room has posters of some great bodybuilders for inspiration. There is Arnold Schwarzenegger on the extreme left, followed by Lou Ferrigno and then there is a guy with the physique like a bull named Ronnie Coleman. He looks like a fucking gladiator.
After Ronnie, the entire wall is covered by the posters of only one person. I guess he is my all-time favorite. He is none other than Brandon Bryce.
Yep, I look great in these posters. But 18 posters of me is a little too much. Don’t you think? I pull up my shirt and smoothens my palm across my stomach as I compare myself with him. I no longer have abs, just a flat stomach like someone drove a roller on it. How am I ever going to get in a shape like that?
I grab a dumbbell from nearby dumbbell rack. It’s heavy—very heavy. But I can handle it. I have to start somewhere if I want to look like the guy in the poster.
“Aaah!” I grunt, barely doing a curl. And the dumbbell drops out of my hand, only to land near my feet.
Phew! I am lucky that all of my toes are still intact. I take my words back. I can’t handle it. Maybe I should hold on to pumping iron until I have graduated from Jeremy’s culinary institute of Porkchop.
Dreamy Distraction (Quest for Love Book 1) Page 6
