The Beginning of Always

by Sophia Mae Todd

  Solomon threw his hands in the air. “That was robbery! The US Government choking honest businesses for the sake of a front-page news headline. They wanted to look as if they were doing something about all the terrorism in the Middle East, so they stole that building from its rightful owners.” Solomon seethed his words, fisting his hands, in full rant mode.

  “Those weren’t honest business practices, they were funding terrorists,” Alistair said. Thomas nodded curtly in support. I nodded too, the wine already hitting my sensibilities.

  “We know you gentlemen have concerns and we intend to clear the air about them. However, this is time-sensitive, and if we don’t capitalize on this deal, they’ll just go to someone else,” Greg said.

  Alistair sighed, then leaned towards Solomon, lowering his head and speaking slowly.

  “Solomon, we can talk round and round about the possibilities here, but I came to dinner tonight in good faith. I’ve read the proposal. It’s not sitting right with me. I truly recommend for you not to do this. You don’t need this building. It can ruin you if it turns south. This is the kind of deal that can wreck a lifetime’s work. There are too many unknowns, too much smoke and mirrors and too many unanswered questions.”

  Solomon’s watery little eyes blinked.

  “You must be joking,” he said.

  “Thomas and I have combed through the records. A bank and a company I’ve never heard of listed as owners? We tried to trace them, but it was a dead end to nowhere. It’s more than likely a shell company. That can’t smell right to you. Do your research—nothing adds up here. They’re trying to dump this on you to run with the cash.”

  Solomon’s cheeks went red and he twisted his lips up on one side.

  “Since when did you turn so soft, Blair? You used to like a challenge, a risk. No jump, no reward.”

  “You know a good bet when it’s in front of you. Your vision is clouded on this, trust me,” said Alistair. He gestured towards Thomas, who produced a stack of papers from under his chair.

  “We printed out our findings.” Thomas handed the stack to Greg, who tilted his head with a furrowed brow but accepted it regardless.

  Solomon cast an incredulous look at Alistair, then for some reason redirected it at me with a hard glint in his eye.

  “I came to you, Blair, because I thought you had balls, that you had the edge and energy for such a huge undertaking. What the hell happened?”

  “Solomon,” Alistair said, his tone going low in warning. But that didn’t stop Solomon’s rant. He pressed on, yelling louder to drown out whatever protests any of us were to have.

  “Is it this new woman in your life? Did she cause this dulling of the love for the game? It’s always a woman! I tell you, it’s always a damned female!” Solomon jabbed a fat index finger in my direction.

  “Wait, what?” I said, confused. Where was this coming from?

  “The day Alistair Blair is taken down by a woman! I never thought you of all people. Neutered before your time, before you were able to achieve the greatness we all saw in you.”

  “Look, I’ll have you kno—” I started, but Solomon slammed a flat palm against the table so hard the flatware rattled.

  “Shut up!” Solomon snapped. “Men are talking, women stay silent!”

  Just as my lips parted to tell him exactly where to shove it, Alistair’s hand shot out and gripped Solomon’s wrist. The sight of Alistair’s strong fingers seizing Solomon’s pale doughy flesh was a contrast of their power and age.

  Alistair leaned forward, his eyebrows low and jaw clenched.

  Solomon didn’t appreciate the gesture. He twitched his body back, fighting to pull out of Alistair’s death hold.

  “What is this about, Blair? Unhand me!”

  “Apologize,” said Alistair. His voice was icy, calm, but a palatable rage radiated off him.

  Solomon glared. I stared. Everyone else at the table gawked.

  “Apologize?” Solomon spat it out as if it were a dirty word. Cassandra’s eyes drank in the scene, eager for the drama. Greg and his wife shifted nervously.

  “Apologize to Ms. Reynolds.” Alistair’s directive was slow and strong.

  “It’s alright, Alistair, just let it go—”

  Alistair ignored me. He stared Solomon down and the man returned the favor in kind.

  “Apologize,” Alistair repeated.

  The air surrounding the table dampened with the heavy implications of these two moguls.

  Solomon spoke first, condescension and disgust dripping off each syllable.

  “Alistair? How is this girl using your name, Blair? Of all the time I’ve known you, who has ever called you Alistair? So casual.” Solomon spat out his words, offended I dared to use Alistair’s name.

  Solomon’s small eyes narrowed into slits.

  “You’re going to let substandard pussy get in between a deal between men?”

  I gasped and Alistair looked as if he was going to explode all over our twelve-hundred-dollar wine. He let go of Solomon’s wrist, pitching it away hard, as if even the touch of him repulsed him. But Alistair didn’t disengage contact for long; both hands shot out and fisted Solomon’s jacket lapels. He threw Solomon back into his chair, standing up and seething into his face.

  “If you weren’t old enough to be my grandfather, I’d kick your ass right across this restaurant, you piece of shit.”

  Cassandra screamed high and shrill. Every face in the room turned towards us.

  This was escalating way too fast for my liking. I quickly grabbed Alistair’s forearm and pulled on his jacket sleeve. “Alistair, stop. It’s not worth it.”

  But he didn’t hear me, he couldn’t hear me. He shrugged my hand off and threw Solomon into the chair’s back again, looming over that corpulent supine body, with every muscle in his body straining in fury. Witnessing his wrath gave me flashbacks of all the fights he had gotten into during high school. That time he’d smashed Kevin’s face into the pavement was burned into my memory.

  And now that Alistair skirted the edge of elder abuse in a public space, I didn’t relish the idea of a new violent memory associated with him.

  I reached across Alistair’s forearms, covering his hands with mine. His fists were hard with rage, heat and fury radiating off the skin. I dug my fingers under his fingertips. I tightened my grip and pressed my body against his so that our sides ran flush with each other. The muscles twitched underneath his finely tailored suit, dying to spring into action, ready for the moment. I rested my chin against his shoulder so my lips were within a breath of his ears. I murmured softly, “Alistair, Alistair, please stop.”

  Alistair’s entire body wound up and tightened, but as I held my breath, he suddenly loosened his fist and let go of Solomon’s jacket. I exhaled and Alistair connected his gaze with mine for a second. His eyes were dark with ire, but in the familiar color of his iris, I could sense the fight within straining for control. And then, he looked away and I lowered myself slowly back into my seat.

  Off to the side, Solomon’s complexion bubbled even redder and he sputtered over insults that never came. Cassandra threw herself over his large belly, sobbing incomprehensible syllables from between her lips, mascara tracks running down her face.

  Alistair took a step back, shoving his chair away roughly. As he buttoned his jacket closed, he addressed Greg. “I appreciate you bringing the property to my attention. However, Blair Properties will have to pass. Good luck on your acquisition.” He snapped his head in Thomas’s direction to tell him it was time to go and then reached down to seize my wrist. I gave a small sharp gasp of surprise as he pulled me to my feet.

  “Whoa, hold on!” I stumbled forward and my knees crashed against the table, shaking the wineglasses so that they sloshed their contents onto the white tablecloth.

  “We’re leaving, Florence.”

  “Just wait a second.” I yanked my arm back, rubbing my wrist with my free hand.

  I folded my napkin up and placed it on the table
, trying to preserve some dignity in the process. I took a deep breath and brushed my hair over my shoulders before I stood up with as much grace as the moment could allow.

  “Alright, then.” I tucked my clutch under my arm. “We’ll be going now.” I spoke towards Greg and his wife. “It was pleasure to meet you.”

  I turned my attention to Solomon, my lips splitting in a sardonic grin.

  “I’ll have you know, my vagina is of the highest quality. Michelin star rated. Thank you for the wine.”

  And with that last word, Alistair grabbed my hand, tugging me one last time, and we exited the restaurant with Thomas following close behind.

  Chapter 12

  We parted ways with Thomas at the rain-soaked valet stand, where he got in his car muttering to himself. As Alistair and I got into his Mercedes, his fingers went for the knot of his tie. He deftly loosened it while shifting the car into drive, fat drops of rain violently striking the front window. The ends dangled below his collar and swayed with each gear change.

  As soon as we were speeding along a strangely deserted road, Alistair quickly pulled his tie off and nonchalantly pitched it into the backseat.

  The action soothed him. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled it hard. With a shake of his head, the angry volatile air to him cooled.

  “Don’t like ties?” I said.

  Alistair stared straight ahead as he answered, “No, never did.”

  I nodded and went quiet. The buildings sped by us, Alistair swerving, going in and out of traffic, cutting people off and downshifting.

  Alistair broke the silence. “Are you okay?”

  I gave a small sigh. “I’m fine, I deal with assholes on the daily.” I shrugged. “No surprise.”

  “Solomon can be a bastard of the highest degree; I apologize that you had to sit through that. I apologize we had to end it like that.”

  I vacillated on whether I should condemn his reaction. He was old enough not to allow his anger to get the best of him. But I decided to let it lie. “We left, that ends it.”

  “No one insults you.” Alistair’s jaw tightened and he cracked his neck irritably. “No one.”

  “Look, I appreciate you protecting my honor, but it wasn’t necessary, I can fight my own battles. He’s a misogynistic asshole, but don’t let him walk into this blind.”

  I shifted in my seat. The leather was too smooth, too rich; I couldn’t settle down. “Are you worried for him?”

  His answer was sure. “I am. This deal feels wrong—he shouldn’t do it. But some of these dinosaurs are driven by their ego more than practicality. He’s hungry for that big buy, that grand purchase. One isn’t enough, five won’t cut it, even if he pretty much made this city’s real estate history.”

  “Hubris,” I added. Pride, a hero’s downfall.

  Alistair nodded but didn’t add anything. We slipped along into the night.

  I hugged myself, not cold, yet feeling chilled from the inside out. Wine was in my veins; the world outside was dark, wet and mysterious.

  Hey. What?

  “Where are we going?” I asked, suddenly realizing that we were obviously not headed to the Upper West Side.

  “Since the dinner was a wash, I was hoping we could get some food and drinks.” Alistair said this matter-of-factly, as if it was an agreed-upon plan.

  It wasn’t.

  I glared at him accusingly. “You said you were taking me home.”

  Alistair kept his eyes on the road and his profile answered. “I am. After drinks.”

  “We already had drinks.” I didn’t bother to conceal my irritation. He’d told me he was taking me home and I’d trusted him to do as much, not insert his own agenda in the middle.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No.”

  Alistair changed gears. The car gave a low purr and tore swiftly down the deserted alley. Alistair’s right jaw clenched at my words and we went around a corner, the windshield wipers making soft rhythmic thumps.

  Alistair waited until he was at a stop light before turning towards me. “Let’s just turn off the clock, Florence. It’s been a long week, don’t you think?”

  I studied him warily, not trusting his words.

  “One drink,” he said. A simple request, spoken softly.

  Could this just be a simple conversation at a bar? Could Alistair and I truly treat this as one simple drink?

  No.

  Nothing was simple. I would be a fool to say otherwise.

  However, I nodded just as the light shifted green. Alistair returned me a faint smile, then engaged the clutch, slipping out of neutral, and sped away. As we continued towards our destination, silence fell. The wine had worked its way from my empty stomach into my system and I grew sleepy and tired. The rain came down hard, with thick droplets pounding the car, making their presence known with echoes above us.

  It had been raining that night too …

  I was suddenly thrust back into reality when the door opened and I nearly fell out. I hadn’t even registered that we’d stopped. My body jerked up violently and my head snapped to my right to see what had happened. A valet was standing at the door with an umbrella and a gloved hand proffered towards me.

  I blinked stupidly at him.

  “Welcome to the Carlyle Hotel,” the valet said smoothly.

  I swung my head to the left and caught Alistair’s amused expression. “Drinks,” he reminded me as he opened his own door.

  Oh yeah. I nodded my head and accepted the valet’s grip. The umbrella followed me into the entrance and Alistair pushed us through the gold doors. A blast of welcomed warmth enveloped me and I breathed deeply.

  I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath while in the car.

  A man was waiting for us in the lobby, standing next to an obscenely large arrangement of flowers on a glossy round table. He wore an impeccably sharp suit and was put together, without even a hair out of place. He took a step towards us and offered his hand.

  “Mr. Blair, it’s an honor.”

  Alistair shook his hand and casually wound an arm around my waist. My buzz fluttered around in my brain, confused, but I didn’t shake him off.

  His warmth felt good, just like the lobby air.

  I breathed deeply.

  The man was talking to Alistair and swept an arm to direct us towards the left. Alistair walked alongside me as we wound through hallways and passed through a moderately crowded dining room with patrons.

  We stopped and Alistair withdrew his arm.

  “I hope all meets your expectations, sir.” The manager was talking and I cast a glance over his shoulder.

  An inconspicuous ordinary doorway was behind him, leading to a dimly lit room I couldn’t make out the details of. A golden sign that was perched in the middle of the doorway proclaimed, Closed for Private Party.

  “Please do not hesitate to contact me with any additional requests or concerns.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Our pleasure.” With those two words, the man slipped silently into the shadows. He was wallpaper, that’s how good he was.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Bemelmans Bar.”

  That name meant nothing to me. “Why here?” I asked as Alistair coaxed me up the two steps up into the threshold.

  “You’ll see,” Alistair said simply. I ducked my head and slipped into the dark room.

  Then a gasp hitched in my throat.

  Bemelmans Bar was a beautifully moody, completely New York bar tucked away in the far back corner of the hotel. As my eyes adjusted with our entrance, the gilded walls shimmered in the low light, and immediately, I noticed beautiful murals everywhere. Whimsical scenes of New York with policemen, thieves, nannies and rabbits in suits were splashed everywhere.

  Bemelmans … I faced Alistair quickly. He had followed me and was standing at the doorway, examining my reaction.

  “Ludwig Bemelmans? Madeline’s illustrator?” My questions came out in a breathy rush. It was perfe
ct and beautiful, but disturbingly intimate to the point of romance. I looked at him with wide eyes and Alistair cocked his head to one side.

  “Do you like it?” he asked with the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

  As I struggled to figure out the tumbling emotions cascading over me, Alistair canted his head, studying my reaction. He considered me quietly, enjoying whatever was going on in my body and mind.

  Confusion, that was definitely there. There was also a slight hint of hesitation and suspicion, but disturbingly enough, also aching sweetness for this display. Paranoia with emotional conflict laced through.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was developing Stockholm syndrome.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and pushed away negative thoughts.

  “Yes.” I decided to answer as simply as possible. I took a step to put distance between us and nervously ran the edge of my fingertips over the smooth wooden bar. “It’s beautiful.”

  My heart constricted when he smiled at me. Not a slight twitch of the edge of his mouth, nor a smirk. But a real honest-to-goodness smile that lit up his face and dug those dimples into stone. I wondered how many people even knew he had dimples. An insane urge to stroke his cheek hit me. That intense air evaporated from his aura, and he was younger, freer, more like the Alistair I had known before.

  The elderly bartender peered at us from behind his half-moon spectacles, probably wondering what the hell was going on. I was still in my tight cocktail dress and Alistair was in a suit with no tie. We made a questionable pair, on top of buying out the room on a Saturday night.

  “Would you like a booth or the bar?” the bartender asked.

  “Bar,” I quickly answered. The booths splayed around the space were too plush, too cozy. They invited couples to lean into each other.

  The bartender gave me a friendly smile and gestured to the empty stools. As I stepped forward to sit in the nearest one, a large, powerful palm pressed against the small of my back.

  “Let’s sit near the wall,” Alistair said quietly. His body had suddenly gotten incredibly close to mine and his sentence tickled my ear. My spine gave an involuntary shudder at the influx of his body heat, but I allowed him to guide me into the bend of the L section of the bar. He pulled a barstool out for me and I sat down with my attention on the bartender, not Alistair.