by Xyla Turner
The tyrant turned to face him, then started spewing off a litany of Italian to him and making gestures.
“What?” I hissed, at the gesture she made with her hands extended but in front of her as if to say that I was big, or something was big.
Yeah, I was a size eighteen, but if that woman was calling me fat, we were going to have a major problem.
“What did she say?” I asked him, with squinted eyes.
He just nodded at me, trying to pacify or cover up what the woman was saying. So, I intervened and pled my case.
“I asked for a Margherita pizza. She brings this out, and I shared with her that I asked for a Margherita pizza. She picks up the tray, slams it down and said I asked for pizza. I told her that it’s not a Margherita, so she tells me that I need to pay. I’m not paying.” I told him, as I talked over her.
“Ugh, Americans.” the woman hissed.
“What?” I snapped back at her.
The man stepped in between the two of us and said in what I think he thought was a diplomatic tone.
“You ordered the pizza, you should pay for the pizza.” That square jaw or sexy accent was no longer a factor as I reared my head back at him.
“In what country, am I in, that I need to pay for something I didn’t order?” I said loudly and looked around at the people in the restaurant.
The man replies in a bored tone and says, “You’re in England.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I hissed. “You and you mama can eat the fucking pizza. This is by far the worst customer service that I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. I cannot believe this shit. I’m not paying for a goddamn thing.”
Snatching up my purse and my jacket from the back of the chair, which knocked it over, I went to the exit and thank God, no one stopped me.
Then I heard her say, “Loud, vulgar Americans.”
I stopped, and I shouldn’t have. Yelling back, I’ll show you a loud and vulgar American. Right on my review for every site, this place is listed. Count on that.” I stomped out of the place, walking down the London streets, aimlessly trying to figure out where my hotel was located.
That place made me so mad, I completely lost my bearings. Pulling my phone from my purse, I googled my hotel, grabbed a ready-made sandwich from Starbucks and headed back. I needed to pack, since my plane from what was supposed to be my vacation ended effectively tomorrow.
Outside of the Italian restaurant terror, it was quite a relaxing trip. Six whole days in London by myself, without thinking of work, problems or my personal life. The past five years were spent growing my business, The Always Right Company (ARC). It really started with me suggesting some things to a few of my friends and watching the turnaround in sales or traffic to their business. My father takes special pride in the business that I’ve started because many of my lessons were from working at his corner store even before I was legally allowed to be employed. In Philly, there was a store or bodega on every corner. So much so, that an entire company started five years ago with new clients every month and my employee count had reached fifteen. We had even connected with the local community college to get interns from the Business Administration department.
ARC was my baby, but I had been working non-stop for five years, and finally, my dad and employees pooled together and said that I needed a vacation. When they presented the fact that I hadn’t had a day off in five years, I called my travel agent, and we settled on London. Now that it was coming to an end, I made a commitment, to take at least one weekend off a month, go to the spa, get a mani-pedi and do something to my hair. With the time that was spent building the company, meant I didn’t have time to do things like my hair. So, I cut it all off and put a balm on it, that made it curl up. It was simple and worked, but maybe a style or something could be incorporated into my regiment.
It was a noble idea.
Chapter 2
Maxine
Where was it?
I could not find my passport anywhere and my flight left in four hours. There was even a connecting flight to Madrid, which meant that I could not miss the first flight or be delayed because I’d miss the second one. After retracing my steps and ripping my hotel room apart, I did not find it. This sent me on a hunt to go to the pizza shop to see if I left it there.
God, I dared not go to that horrid Italian place, but I think that’s the last place I had my satchel. My driver when I first arrived warned me that I should be wary of pickpockets. Even the people who I wouldn’t suspect might try to bombard me with questions or asking for directions. All with the intent to take my wallet or something like that. Therefore, I wore a satchel that remained under my jacket.
Damn.
When I thought I was going to eat, I took it off and laid it on the chair. In a fit of rage, I just grabbed my purse and forgot about the satchel. Reluctantly, I went back to the restaurant, since it was only a few blocks away from the hotel. As soon as I entered, the old hag started with her nonsense.
“You come to pay?” She sneered.
“No!” I snapped back. “I came to get my satchel, it has my passport. I left it here yesterday.”
“No, no.” She shook her head and walked away.
This shit again.
“Lady, I left my satchel here. It was black.” I walked further into the restaurant to where I was seated and there wasn’t anything there.
Dammit.
“Lady, have you seen my bag. I left it here. Who was here after me? I need to leave today. My flight leaves in three hours. I’m already late.” I was nearly begging because I did not want to get caught in London and I damn sure didn’t want to talk to that lady.
“No satchel, no passport.” She urged as she picked up trays from folks who probably weren’t even done.
Someone yelled, “Hey. still working on that.”
She just kept walking. I couldn’t help myself and uttered, “Worst customer service ever.”
Well, that must have been the straw that broke the camel’s back because the crazy woman spun around and say, “You stay here in London with no passport because you a stupid American. Lose passport.”
Her little withered, index finger came up as she wagged it in my face from side to side and making a tsk sound with her tongue.
This woman.
I nearly growled until I found myself following her in the kitchen and lo and behold, there was a chef. The old hag wasn’t cooking and waitressing too.
“You,” she pointed to me. “Get out. No satchel.”
“Oh, you’re thee American?” The man said with a thick Italian accent. “Left your passport.”
“Oh my God, yes!” I nearly ran to hug him. “Do you know where it’s at?”
“No,” the old lady said with a finite negative. “Don’t know.”
“Oh Marianne,” The chef, who had what I presumed as pizza sauce on all over the beige apron, shook his head. “You know Noah has it.”
My ears perked right up because the witch was lying. Right to my face.
“Noah?” I asked. “Who’s that and where can I find him?”
“No, find him,” the woman snapped at me while glaring at her cook. “She ungrateful American. Don’t pay.”
“Fuck!” I yelled back. “You want me to pay for the pizza I never ate, so I can get my passport back.”
Her eyes narrowed on me, right before she nodded, “Yes!”
I pulled out what pounds I had left, it was probably twenty-five dollars and all those pretty coins and put them on the table.
“Here. For the damn pizza. Now, where can I find this Noah?” I glared at the extortionist.
“Ha, you pay!” She gloated, while I grit my teeth.
“He lives at the hotel, Wolfe II, closest to here. On Bleeker place.” The man shared as the ratchet woman counted the money. “He works crazy hours, but he lives there.”
“Can we call him?” I asked. “Because my flight leaves in three hours. Less than that, actually?”
“No call. He work,”
she chimed in, causing me to glare at her even more.
There had to be a way to get in contact with the man. Missing my flight was not an option.
“She’s right. The man words and never answers the phone. Go to hotel, maybe they can reach him there.” The chef said as he taps his protruding stomach as if he had to get back to work.
“Okay, okay. Noah, ah. What’s his last name?” I asked as I started to head out of the small kitchen.
“Wolfe,” the woman proudly announced. “Like his mama.”
“Some mama,” I said as I left out the double doors.
“Some American,” she said the last word as if it were a disease.
Oh, that woman.
Quickly looking up the hotel on my phone, I found two Wolfe hotels, but only one of them was near this wretched restaurant. It was seven minutes away on foot, so I powerwalked to the location. Once I arrived, everyone knew who Mr. Noah Wolfe was, but said he was unavailable. I asked if they could call his room and see if he was there. They assured me he wasn’t, but after the fifth time, the concierge called upstairs called and let me see that he wasn’t there.
At that point, I only had two hours to make my flight, so I was counting down and praying that he would come through the doors. They offered to have me wait at the bar, since it was happy hour. At first, I refused because I wanted to wait for him at the door. Then after an hour of that, my stomach decided it needed to get some food. Constantly checking my app, I ate, drank and watch my plane board and then take off. No sign of Mr. Noah Wolfe. The drinks kept come and I continued to indulge until Happy Hour was over. Tossed was not the word to use for my state of being. Neither was nice or sloshed, I was downright drunk at that point. Talking out of my ass about only God knows what. Everybody knew that I missed my flight, and everybody knew that I was waiting for Noah Wolfe. This was made known to me, because when the handsome, squared jaw gentlemen came inside of the bar, with his brows pushed together, searching the room. Everybody, said in Unison, “Noah Wolfe!”
Like he was some sort of celebrity. In my intoxicated state, I slurred, “There you are, Noah Wolfe. You made me miss my flight and your wretched mother is a spawn of Satan who robbed me today.”
As I was saying this, the goal was to get off my stool, so he could see how upset I was about this news, but I ended up tipping over and Mr. Noah Wolfe caught me
“Damn, you smell good,” I said with a droopy smile on my face. “But if you’re a spawn of the spawn of Satan. That means you’re supposed to smell good, right?
Both of my hands were draped over each shoulder, my face was planted in his hard chest and I might have slobbered on the tailored suit that fit him perfectly.
“Up, you go,” I heard a familiar British accent.
That was the last thing I really remember.
Chapter 3
Noah
Another long day at work, trying to revitalize my inheritance, which is proving to be more of a challenge than I originally thought. Father was a great businessman, but he also managed to make horrible decisions. As the group started to fail, he refused to change the members. They made poor decision after poor decision, which sent the two hotels to rubbish. After his passing, he left everything to me, as what he called his inheritance. However, as my Uncle so pointedly let me know when we went over the financials, what was left was a burden of debt that needed to be fixed. Not anything that would be beneficial for the next five years. That was seven years ago, and I was close to turning it around with one major venture that would help flip my entire lot.
Mother was no help with her restaurant that she insisted on having, which for the most part broke even. She wanted nothing to do with the hotel business because she said she had enough. She helped the man build them and it was at a cost. She lost her husband, so she wanted nothing to do with it. Before there was a chef, she cooked for Wolfe I and then when father became more ambitious with Wolfe II, mama managed both kitchens. We still use the recipes, but she will have nothing to do with them. I don’t bloody blame her, either. Her contributions to the business were to be closer to my father. His contribution to the marriage was an income. The woman loved him, but she resented the man almost in equal favor. Therefore, she did what she always wanted to do after he died. Took the money from his insurance and started her own restaurant. Even though she broke even, everything was already paid for, the building, equipment and since she only employed her and Sergio, they were paid just fine.
When I walked back home, to the hotel where I took up my residence, Scot, immediately accosted me at the door.
“Mr. Wolfe, there is a woman that is here to see you. She’s been here for four hours now and she says it’s urgent. We didn’t call you as you have made clear, but it does appear to be urgent, sir.”
“Okay, Scot,” I nodded towards the faithful concierge (see if that’s the name Londoners call it). “I have an idea who it is, and I don’t wish to speak with her at this moment.”
My heart no longer ached at Patricia’s betrayal, but I also don’t entertain her antics anymore. Any bloke who inquiries about marrying young, will always get an emphatic no. Bloody no, it’s rubbish. She was a beauty and that was all that I saw. I ignored her conniving ways, manipulation but I did not let her slander bypass me. The woman would not get an audience from me, unless lawyers were present.
“But sir,” Scot called as I made my way to the lift. “This woman is American, and she says you have her passport.”
“Bloody hell,” I said, while stopping dead in my tracks and turning to eye Scot. “She’s here now?”
“Yes, sir. In the bar. A little tossed but she’s here.” He informed me.
Turning on my heel and opening my stride, I almost ran towards the quaint bar, I had installed after taking it over. As soon as I entered the room, everyone at the bar turned towards me and yelled in a jolly tone, “Noah Wolfe!”
It was similar to that American show, Cheers, when they greeted their mate, Norm. This was not my usual greeting, even though the staff knew me well. It was usually the same way Scot addressed me. Sir or senor, but never by my full name.
The American black woman from yesterday that left in a tizzy, was in the bar and quite tossed. Her words slurred when she said, “There you are, Noah Wolfe. You made me miss my flight and your wretched mother is a spawn of Satan who robbed me today.”
Shite, she went back to see mama. Of course, she did, since the woman left her bag at the restaurant. She was trying to get off the stool, but the woman clearly wasn’t going to make it in her state. I quickly moved towards her where she landed in my arms.
“Damn, you smell good.” She said with her face plastered against my chest. “But if you’re a spawn of the spawn of Satan. That means you’re supposed to smell good, right?
Her arms snaked around my shoulders and the feeling was almost a foreign one, since I had not had a woman do that in a long time.
“Up, you go,” I murmured as I lifted her into my arms. “Let’s get your passport and then a hackney.
The woman said something unintelligible, but I carried her to my flat, so she could be on her way. Her mumblings sound liked she was curing my mother and me, but we made it up to the top floor to my suite. When I put her down in the front room, she mumbled, “You are one strong man. I weigh over two hundred pounds.”
It wasn’t a question, but a simple observation. Where some men work hard, play hard. I work hard, then work out harder. Not as a muscle builder but stamina and weight training. It had become an obsession of mine. Every morning before work, I was at the hotel gym working out.
Nabbing her black bag, that I had to pry from mother’s hands yesterday because she would have likely put it in the oven to let it burn. Last night, I took the privilege of opening it to see that her passport was inside. I meant to call around to the neighboring hotels to see if a woman by the name of Maxine Robins had a room, but with the crisis at Wolfe I, it slipped my mind.
“This is all your fault,
you know?” She was speaking slower. “I have to pay more to get home now.”
“I can cover the cost,” I shared with her as I put her satchel in her hand.
“Thanks,” she snatched it in a dramatic way, which almost sent her over the couch. “But, no thanks. You’re handsome and all with your square jaw but you come from Satan’s spawn.” Maxine laughed at her own joke, but it was that of a tossed lady. She had the coloring of a chestnut, equally baked with smooth skin on all sides. Despite her intoxication, she was a stunning woman, any man could see. Her attire consisted of a skirt suit that hugged her those shapely curves, but her colors were very bold. This was another thing that made her stand out, the burnt orange suit that matched her complexion as if it was made for just her. The nose on her was small, almost like a button, but those full lips could make a man want to bite one. The eyes on her were big but it worked for her. Everything about her worked.
Why was she here alone? There was no ring on her finger. It could have been her brisk manner, but a man worth his salt could look past that.
“Maaan,” she almost sang the word, “If I were a different type of woman, you could get it.”
I’d heard that term before when I was in America, watching one of those Housewives by accident. She was saying that I could have sex with her. The brisk woman found me attractive; which I found odd, since she hadn’t a kind word for me. The fact that my cologne was pleasing to her, was not a compliment.
“What kind of woman is that?” I asked, ignoring my manners to not let drunken women make fools of themselves.
Something told me that if she were in a sober state, those words would have never been uttered.
“A woman who freely sleeps with people,” she said it as if I should already know.
I would not know because I did not squander with loose women, in any way.
“Let’s get some coffee in you, before I get you a cab.” I tried to change the subject, so my cock did not join the mental party of having this woman wrapped around me. The one where I am peeling that orange suit from her voluptuous body to find what I know must be treasure. That particular party had to shut down and she had to go. I’d pay for the ticket, the cab and even another night at a hotel, but this woman had to leave.
