“You are blabbering too much—somewhat delusional. I think you somehow got drunk with only one sip of champagne.”
“That may very well be possible.”
Amber’s opinion might be right. I was losing control of my mind and body—especially my mouth. I couldn’t stop myself from praising her and was making a fool of myself.
And she very nicely tried to lure me in. “Why don’t we turn the car around and do this dating thing some other time?”
“Over my dead body!” I said with a grunt and slapped myself to pump me up.
Amber was geared up to give me a slap, and I quickly covered my cheeks with my hands and screamed, “What are you doing?”
“I thought you were in need of a shock,” she replied throwing her hand back in defeat.
“Keep that weapon of destruction to yourself. I’ll let you know when I am in need of a defibrillator. . . . Don’t try anything funny. My eyes are on you, Missy.”
“Don’t they always?” she mumbled.
It was entirely my fault. I got swept up by my emotions and did the utterly wrong thing of over complimenting her. I shouldn’t have done that—I realized that then.
A little tease or flirting was acceptable; it’s an excellent way to keep a woman on her toes. But I went overboard—and beyond—which blew up on my face. And then it was time to restore the balance.
“Holy shit! Look at your toes.”
“What?” My shout startled her, and she kept looking at her feet.
“Your toes are webbed!”
“Like you didn’t know about that?”
“Oh, I do, but I forgot how horrendous they looked. It’s an absolute relationship killer if the guy has a foot fetish. By the way, does Walter has a foot fetish?”
“It’s none of your business.” She lashed out at me.
I was happy with the success of my plan. But I didn’t stop there just yet and said, “Well—if you ever decide to get it surgically treated, make sure you also get that thing at the side of your lips taken care of.” I pointed my fingers at her lips and whispered, “It’s a little wrinkle—”
“What did you just say?” She gave me killer looks—literal killer looks—like she would take my heart out of my chest with her bare hands then and there.
Oh shit! I was scared to death—almost close to taking a shower in prison.
“Hey”—I shouted and banged on the partition—“stop the car. . . . Let me out.”
But the driver neither slid the partition down nor stopped the car. I forgot at that time that the driver was just following the instructions I had given earlier.
I saw no way out and begged Amber for forgiveness. “Listen, I was just kidding. There is no wrinkle. You are wrinkleless—flawless I might add.”
“Grr . . . How dare you?” She grunted and started hitting me with her clutch. She was raging with fury and showed no mercy.
I didn’t know until then that a clutch could also be used as a weapon in time of need. I was covering myself up—the best I could do—but was not very successful in defending myself.
Then came a moment when I believed she had more than two hands like a Hindu goddess. The frequency of her hits increased, and I didn’t know where they were even coming from.
I learned my lesson the hard way. Never ever make a comment on women’s wrinkle; it’s a very sensitive issue.
“Enough!” I shouted and grabbed her hands when I was legitimately hurt. She had given me a brutal blow above my right eye.
Suddenly the limo driver took a sharp right turn which led to me bumping my head on the window and Amber falling all over me like God’s greatest gift. I brushed the stray hair draped across her face and tucked it behind her ear. As I held her face in my hands, I was speechless—and so was she. At that moment, I lived my whole life once again.
“I have seen many women in my life, but no one came close to you. You are the most beautiful woman I have seen and the last one I have laid my eyes on. Your love will burn and mark my soul for eternity.”
I poured my heart out, gently caressed her cheeks, and then leaned in closer to kiss her—but she turned her face away. I was overwhelmed with emotions and said, “If only I could rip my chest open, I would show you what you mean to me.”
I let go of her face and helped her up. She sat back on her seat, took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
A weird, awkward silence engulfed us for the rest of our ride.
Until the driver pulled down the partition and informed, “We have reached the restaurant.”
“Thank you. Give us a few more minutes.”
The driver put the partition right back up.
I then turned to Amber and nicely said, “Why don’t you go ahead and be seated?”
“Why? Is this some kind of practical joke?”
She was suspicious again. By that time, I was very much sure that she had cultivated some magical power over the years to detect my high pulse rate.
I tried to defend myself to ward her off and said, “Why do you always think that I am going to do something bad to you?”
“Past experience, maybe.”
That’s the 267th time—yes, I counted—she reminded me as to how I conned her, persuaded her to marry me, and ruined her life. It didn’t get any older because it hurt each time worse than the last.
“All right, I am just going to be honest with you. It’s my meditation time; it helps clear my mind. So all I want is to be alone in here for some time without anybody distracting me.”
“You got an erection, don’t you?”
I believed that she might have looked at my crossed legs and knew that something was wrong. She left me bewildered as to how to respond to her question.
And my thoughts came out of my mouth as words. “How should I answer this . . . ?” I decided to come clean, thinking she might like the fact that she had me going without even touching me. “Uhh . . . yes.”
“Okay . . . bye, bye.” Amber jerked her face away with repulse and quickly opened the door and got out of the limo.
As she was going away to the restaurant, I stuck my head out of the window and loudly said: “You should be proud of yourself that your husband is still attracted to you even after seven years of marriage.”
But she went inside pretending to have not heard anything and didn’t even flinch a little, let alone looked back to applaud me.
I pulled my pants down and rubbed an ice cube on my crotch. It was damn uncomfortable, but it worked like a charm. Within a few minutes, I was chilled, relaxed and numb down there.
I walked inside the restaurant only to found Amber in a verbal fight with the hostess. I thought the whole erection thing got her frustrated and she was taking it out on the poor young girl.
And hell, could I be more wrong?
Chapter 13
A word of advice.
Never jump into an argument—especially between women. They don’t need anybody to sort their arguments.
And that’s what I did wrong.
I believed a little hair pulling might be in store for the hostess if I hadn’t interjected myself into the situation to save her. “What happened?”
“We don’t have a reservation,” Amber said, pursing her lips and slapped me—but thankfully on the arm.
I jumped in earlier to save the hostess from Amber, but then she had to face my wrath for embarrassing me in front of my woman. I too lashed out at her and said, “What kind of pathetic hostess are you? I have double checked my reservation, no, triple checked. It’s under the name of Duke Kingsley.”
The hostess girl was just about to cry and said, “I am sorry, sir. It’s not here.”
“Check again!” My shout caused a sudden crack in the dam of her tears, and the poor girl started crying—not loudly, but enough to draw other customer’s attention at us.
I realized that it probably wasn’t her fault—might be an oversight—and I tried to calm her down. “Sorry . . . Sorry . . . Calm down, please.”
/> I then gave a stern look to Amber and growled, “Look what you made me do.”
“Hey, what did I do? You are the one who is spinning me around in the limo for the last three hours.”
“It’s official. We are monsters. Perfect for each other—but monsters. We had the chance to dine in Michelin star restaurant, but we made the hostess cry.”
“Oh, calm down!” Amber shouted at me in front of the hostess—not to mention the customers already dining there.
I leaned forward and put my head down on hostess table and began silently watching what ensued between them.
Amber had begun to feel sorry for that girl and handed over some tissues to her. She didn’t stop there and rubbed that hostess’s arm to calm her down. Add to that, she advised, “Don’t get me wrong, sweetie, but you are not cut out for this job. You should have thrown us out, but you started crying.”
“I am just subbing here for the holidays while I am in town. I am actually a business major in UCLA,” the hostess mumbled between her cries.
“Hey, that’s where I went. I am also a business major. We are like sisters.” Amber sure did like anyone who was from UCLA.
The hostess had then stopped crying and shook Amber’s hand. “I am Reagan, by the way.”
“I am Amber. It’s nice to meet you.”
I didn’t know how women do it. They fought like they were in deathmatch, and then later, find a way to bury the hatchet like it was nothing. It was a miracle and a very enlightening experience to see it happen before my eyes.
Once Amber and Reagan had introduced themselves to each other and got to talking, I also broke my silence to introduce myself. “Hi, I am Duke, her husband. I got my GED two years back if we are still talking about academic qualification.”
“Shut up, Duke!”
I thought Amber would be proud of me for getting the GED. After all, she used to nag me all the time to get it, but instead, she shut me off again. I guess she enjoyed disrespecting me in public or was probably annoyed that I called myself her husband.
But after Amber shut me off in front of her so-called sister, I had to assert my dominance. I had to show her that even though I only had a GED against her business degree, I still knew how to deal with people and get the job done.
And I got just the right opportunity.
A man suddenly arrived wearing a business suit and a tie and had the word manager written all over his face.
“Excuse me, what seems to be the problem here?”
“Are you the manager?” I arrogantly said as if I was the wealthiest person in the world.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Manager,” I said as I stepped ahead to talk mano-a-mano with him,” is this how you treat your customers?”
“Reagan, what did you do this time?”
“Hey, don’t you dare blame everything on me.” To my surprise, Reagan silenced the manager. She was empowered by Amber within a matter of minutes. That was the charm of my woman.
“Mr. Manager, I reserved a table—no—I was guaranteed a table for this evening, but to my shock, my name is not on the list.”
I talked with arrogance and a little bit of elegance to show Amber that I was not the same person as I was five years ago. I had evolved, somewhat slowly, but I was the best version of myself—all thanks to the fire that was burning inside me which motivated me to get my family back.
The manager took the register in his hand to check the booking himself. “When did you call to book the table?”
“In the morning.” I smiled at Amber and assured her with a nod that our date would go as smooth as planned.
“Sir, there is a four-month waiting period at this restaurant. It’s not possible that you have called this morning and we confirmed you a table.”
“Are you saying I am lying?” I gave an angry stare to the manager and said, “That’s it, that’s where I draw the line. I am calling Mr. Dew in New York and telling him that the restaurant he suggested was total shit and will recommend him to never ever come here with his friends.”
“Mr. Dew Johnson of ‘Dew and Douglas’?”
“Yes . . .”
“Hold on, when did you say your reservation was?”
“At 8 today.”
The manager took out a small diary from his coat pocket. I was surprised when he started to turn the pages of that diary instead of booking list.
“Yes, there it is. A table for two for Mr. Duke Kingsley.”
“That’s me.”
“Sir, we did receive the call from New York to book a table for you—and we did that right away. But as our elite customer, your name is not on the hostess list to maintain your anonymity. We have a private entry on the north side of the restaurant that leads to a more secluded and special dining area just for our special customers like you.”
“Did he just say you are his elite customer?” Amber whispered to me with surprise.
“Yes,” I whispered back and wrapped my arms around Amber’s shoulders. “I am sorry. I followed my wife and entered from the front instead of the north. I often get forgetful around her—she has that effect on me.”
“Mam.” The manager was very respectful and bowed his head a little for Amber. His humble nature made me feel ashamed for the way I misbehaved with him just to showcase my dominance to Amber.
“It’s all right, sir. No harm is done. Your table still awaits. If you could please follow me, I’ll personally take you there.”
“Sure, lead away.” I talked like a Royalty—possibly with a little bit of accent as well. The only thing missing was the smoking pipe.
Amber and I were following the manager who was taking us to the elite dining area. Out of the blue, she whisper-yelled, “Get your hands off me.” Before I could understand anything further, she shoved my hands away without attracting manager’s attention.
Well—that was bound to happen. I was surprised she didn’t do it sooner. At least, she played as nice as she could at the reception.
While I was wondering how quickly she had changed her colors, the manager showed us our table. “Please make yourself comfortable.” He was just about to pull a chair out for Amber.
And I stopped him. “Let me.”
I couldn’t let a stranger—how respectful he might be—to pull out a chair for my wife; that would be a slap to my face. But instead of a slap, I got kicked by Amber—metaphorically speaking—when I pulled a chair for her, and to my dismay, she sat on another one.
I chuckled to save face and said: “Wifey is angry. She gets like this when she is hungry. You better send some bread fast.”
“Right away, sir,” the manager said and walked away.
As I sat down, I couldn’t help but admire the decor of the place in my thoughts. The dining area was absolutely marvelous. I never had the money to see such lavish restaurants from inside, but it was worth going there on a date with Amber.
It was actually quite difficult for me to get a reservation to that restaurant considering I didn’t even know what a Michelin star restaurant was until that afternoon. Dew Johnson—the man who bought my diamonds last week—was the only rich guy whose number I had. So, I called him wondering if he could get me a reservation at a fancy restaurant in Michigan. Which he did—still under the impression that I was a close friend of Miss Applebaum.
I always had a theory that all the one percenter remain in touch with each other through a private intranet network, and the way Dew pulled strings from New York to get me a reservation at an elite Michigan restaurant further strengthened it.
As I was silently enjoying the ambiance of the place, Amber initiated the conversation for the first time—and what a way to do it.
“It was a nice con you pulled back there. Calling as a rich guy named Dew, getting yourself a reservation, and the look ‘Oh I forgot to enter from the north side, oopsy daisy.’ If I were a con-woman in training, I would be very impressed with you right now.”
“Well, it’s nice to know that you would be
impressed, but it may come as a shock to you that it wasn’t a con. I have left that life behind me.”
“Sure you do. Then, who is Dew Johnson?”
“An acquaintance . . . I recently met.”
“Ah, an acquaintance. Wouldn’t it be a job that requires the two of you? Wait, don’t you usually work alone?
“I am now an honest man, Amber. I work very hard at my job—so much that my body is sore. I try to manage in whatever I get paid. Why is it so hard for you to believe that I have changed?”
“There is a proverb in India: ‘the dog’s tail stays crooked even if it’s buried for twelve years.’”
“Do you also know that in that country a husband is treated as God by his wife? You might want to look into that as well.”
“I don’t have to. We don’t live in India, and even if we did, I would have killed myself before calling you my God.”
The server arrived with the bread basket and menu and disturbed our conversation. “Hello, I am Ben. I’ll be your server for tonight.”
Ben was handing over the menu to me, but I refused. “I don’t need it. Bring me the same what my wife will order. And yes, get my wife the wine list, first.”
Ben went back to bring the wine list and Amber’s bickering started again—then with yet another issue she had with me.
“Would you stop calling me your wife?”
“Then, what else should I call my wife? My woman? Mate? Or maybe, spouse?”
“Stop it!”—she opened the menu—“Holy fucking shit.” Her eyes nearly popped out of their socket on seeing the menu, and she kept looking at me and the menu to and fro with grave astonishment. Her concern for me—or rather for herself—was clearly evident on her face as she whispered, “Have you checked the prices at this restaurant before reserving a table?”
“I didn’t feel the need to.”
“Well, you should have. The tasting menu for nine-course-meal is $200, and the chef-special-sixteen-course is $325,” she said in disbelief like she had seen an extraterrestrial fly crawling in that menu.
Hard Redemption: A Second Chance Romantic Comedy Page 11
