By the time he processes that—and the fact that he won’t be dipping into the tip jar—and asks, “A gift from who?” I’ve organized my thoughts.
“None of your business, Phil.” I turn away to get the drinks made for my new table.
He grabs my upper arm and grips it, hard. I mean really hard. It hurts, and when I try to yank it away, he only grips it harder. I yelp and freeze, not sure how to react.
“It’s my business if you’re taking it out of my register.”
I’m about to lose my job because of that fucking car and possibly have criminal charges brought against me. Not that I’m worried; I haven’t taken anything and I know it.
But before I can answer, Deshawn yanks Phil away from me and shoves him into the wall.
He leans forward and whispers something furiously into Phil’s ear. Phil pales and jerks away, disappearing into his office without another word.
What the fuck was that about?
“Deshawn?” I put my hand on his shoulder and look up at him, waiting for an explanation.
He doesn’t explain, just looks at me with a smile and takes my arm gently, pushing my sleeve up to see the damage. It probably won’t bruise, but there’s a clear red handprint.
“He’s not gonna be happy about that,” Deshawn mutters, his smile disappearing.
“Who, Dee? Who’s not going to be happy?”
He looks at me and lifts his eyebrows. “Don’t worry about it, baby girl.”
Fury burns up through my veins as it hits me. There’s only one person it could be, and I have suddenly had enough.
“God damn him!” I tug my arm and Deshawn releases me. He buys me a car, and now has tried to move in on my job, assigning a co-worker to watch me. I stalk down the hall, not sure where I’m going or why. I’m just so fucking pissed and I need to move, to work the anger out somehow.
“Luna, wait!” Deshawn catches up to me quickly. “He just asked me to watch out for you, make sure you weren’t working yourself to death.” I keep walking and he stops. “Luna, he’s paying me.” That makes me stop. Deshawn is such a good guy, a hard-working man that’s seen nothing but the underside of someone’s boot his entire life. To have even one burden relieved is such a blessing for him. I turn back and he lifts a hand in a plea. “Enough that I can take Beverly to a better hospital, and get something for Markus to remind him he’s a kid. Enough to pay off the back-bill I owe the home for Mama’s room.” He sighs and yanks the hairnet off as he looks away. “But only if you don’t find out, and only if I make sure you’re safe and that you take care of yourself.” He looks back at me with a wry smile.
Fucking figures. If I bitch at Gabe about it, Dee will lose all the help that he so obviously needs. A little voice points out how gracefully Deshawn accepts help, but I shove it aside brutally. I know that Gabe knew I’d find out, and set those conditions with Deshawn so I’d have to keep my mouth shut. I cross my arms and stare sullenly at the wall.
After a few tense moments of silence, I ask, “What did you say to Phil?”
Dee grins. “I just reminded him of what the cops might find in his office if someone tipped them off.”
“What would they find?” A million horrible things go through my mind. Kiddie porn? Snuff films? Dismembered body parts?
He winks at me. “Usually about a gram.”
I blink at him, stunned. I’m not sure how much a gram is, or exactly what he has a gram of…but I know it’s something that could ruin his reputation, his business, and possibly his life. Some type of drugs.
Deshawn shrugs and wraps his arm around my shoulder, turning me back toward the dining area. He leans down and whispers, “And some pictures of his first cousin that Brother James could preach on for at least six months.”
Ew. Phil’s first cousin is Ramona Johnson, and she’s probably the ugliest person I’ve ever met. Inside, not out. Outside she’s about average. But all the make-up in the world can’t cover up what a malicious bitch she is. And Phil’s got some scandalous photos…God, I can’t even think about it without giggling in sheer morbid disgust.
And the funniest part isn’t even that he has the photos. It’s that Brother James, the Baptist preacher, is also the chief of police. So he’d find the gram and the photos.
Gotta love small towns.
Chapter 11
I get a text at six a.m. the following Thursday from Gabe. Since I don’t work until the evening shift, I wanted to sleep much later and I’m a little miffed at being woke up so early after closing the night before. I squint down at the ridiculously bright screen of my phone to read it.
Landing at 4 p.m. I’ll send a driver to pick you up.
What the fuck? Controlling, much? Would it kill him to ask?
No, I have to work tonight. And we need to have a discussion about boundaries.
Several minutes pass before he answers and I drift off to sleep. The chime wakes me up though.
Do you work tomorrow?
It’s a relief that he’s not going to try and convince me to skip work. Because I want to…God, I want to call Phil and tell him to go fuck himself. But I can’t. I can’t become dependent on Gabe for anything except sexual gratification. And if I start jeopardizing my job—shitty though it is—to spend time with him, I’m afraid I’ll go back to trying to be just a wife and mommy again.
And I will never fucking do that. I will always work, will always have a back-up plan, and will not depend on a man for my happiness and well-being. If Gabe had pressed, tried to convince me to skip work, I would have had to end it. So I’m glad he didn’t, so glad, because I want to see this through to the natural end, which is probably quickly approaching anyway.
Yes. But I have the weekend free, unless the girls’ dad forgets again.
I use the word ‘forgets’ like he doesn’t make a conscious choice not to see his children. But that’s not Gabe’s business. His only concern is whether or not I can see him this weekend. And I’ve already given Jessica my shifts, even though the weekend crowd means better tips. I want to see him.
What time do you get off Friday?
2 AM
Can I pick you up?
Well at least he asked.
Sure, if the girls go to their father’s. I will give Dad a weekend by himself too, which I know he desperately needs even if he’d never ask in a million years.
See you then.
I drop the phone onto the pillow beside me and burrow under the blankets to try and catch another hour of sleep. It’s useless though, and after about fifteen minutes of squeezing my eyes closed I get up to make a pot of coffee. Maybe I can grab a nap later.
While the coffee pot gurgles, I sift through the mail on the counter. Junk mail, junk mail, junk mail, tuition statement…I stop at a mysterious cream colored envelope. It’s addressed to me and the return address reads “The Bryant Clinic” with a Mobile address. I slide my finger beneath the flap and unfold the stapled group of papers and read.
Mr. O’Malley,
The Bryant Clinic would like to extend our deepest gratitude for your continued contribution and patronage.
The results of the tests you requested can be found on the attached documents. All test show normal results, with no positive readings on any common sexually transmitted diseases.
While this is wonderful news, here at The Bryant Clinic, we encourage you to continue to practice safe sex and responsible birth control to ensure your continued good health.
As requested, we will provide the results of this test to yourself as well as one “Luna Harmon” of Corybelle.
Again, we thank you sincerely for your patronage and support. If you have any further questions, please feel free to contact us.
Regards,
Dr. Amanda Bryant-Banks, MD
I flip to the next page and can’t make much sense out of the numbers and letters denoting levels of this and that. But the really important ones read “NEG” so I’m comforted. I’ll call Sierra later and read it off to her just to be sure. S
he read mine to me, after all. I frown as I realize I didn’t send him a copy of my blood tests. The results are folded up and stuffed in my purse. Everything’s negative, of course, and I make a mental note to dig them out before Friday so I can give it to him. I hope he doesn’t want proof that I have an IUD, because if he can’t trust me that much, then there’s no need to keep going. Then again…how many women would try to get pregnant with a rich man’s baby?
I might give my gynecologist a call, just in case. I understand how he might be hesitant to believe a woman’s on birth control without proof. He has nothing to fear from me though: I don’t want any more children. But he doesn’t know me well enough to have that kind of trust. So yeah, I’m okay proving it for now.
An unwelcome thrill of excitement shivers up my spine. I stifle it and carefully fold the results up to shove them back in the envelope. I have no business getting excited about a relationship that’s only going to last until Dan can come back home.
I pour an unhealthy amount of creamer into a cup and pour my coffee, then sip it slowly as I wait for the house to wake up.
* * * *
Deshawn is waiting for me when I get to Sammy’s, leaning against the wall at the employee entrance, looking for all the world like an older Jimi Hendrix. He shakes his head at me as I approach.
“Girl, you’re walking into some drama.”
Drama? Of course there’s drama. It’s Sammy’s, and the wait staff thrives on it. I shrug. “What’s new?”
“This time it involves you.” He puts an arm across the door to stop me. “And it’s kind of my fault.”
“Dee, you didn’t tell anyone where the car…”
“No, girl.” He interrupts me. “I told him. I told him that Phil got a little rough with you.”
I jerk my eyes to his and glower at him. “Dammit, Deshawn. Why would you do that? Is he in there?”
Deshawn shakes his head. “No, and neither is Phil.”
I actually feel my face to pale. “Is Phil…Did he…” I gulp. “Is Phil dead?” I whisper. God, I’ve been reading too many books, because right now I’m picturing Phil’s greasy hair floating down the river, a macabre cap on a blue, bloated body.
Deshawn laughs and says, “Nah, girl. He left his wife by the light of the moon and skipped to South Carolina with Ramona. Gretchen’s in there cleaning out his office and making changes.”
I try not to be happy Phil’s gone, but I can’t manage it. Gretchen’s his wife, and we’ve all said too many times to count that we’d be a lot better off and Sammy’s would make a lot more money if she ran things. But that still doesn’t explain…
“What do you mean the drama involves me?” I take a step back and watch Deshawn try to tame his almost-afro.
“Gretchen thinks you’re the reason Phil left—and she’s right.” He gives me a meaningful look. “And she also thinks you’re the best thing that’s happened in more than twenty years.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and stoops down until we’re eye to eye. “She’s not after blood, baby girl. She’s glad Phil’s gone and is trying to figure out how to thank you for it. It’s good drama.”
I shake my head and look away. How can any of this be good? Gabe’s behind it, I know he is. And while we’ll all be happier working for Gretchen, I still can’t manage to muster any gratitude for the interference.
Who the fuck does that? What kind of mobster—for lack of a better word—makes someone leave in the middle of the night just because he was a dick? I rub my forehead gingerly, trying to come to terms with it.
“Look at it like this, Luna.” Deshawn opens the door and turns to me before walking inside. “He wants to take care of you; to protect you. Even if you don’t want him to.”
I shake my head violently. “No, Dee. This is controlling and creepy as fuck.” I take an unsteady breath and make a decision.
No more Gabe. I can’t bring this level of crazy, domineering manipulation anywhere close to my children, and I won’t spend every spare minute worrying that he’s going to “take care of” every person that pisses me off or is rude to me. I jerk my phone out and send him a text, ready to be done with it. No need to drag this out.
Don’t come by. I don’t want to see you anymore.
Yes, I’m dumping him by text. But it’s not like he’s my boyfriend, right? No. Gabe’s just someone I fucked a couple of times.
* * * *
Four hours into my shift Gretchen shocks the shit out of me by telling me to take a lunch break. A paid lunch break no less, and to have Dee whip me up whatever I want from the kitchen. At first I think it’s the gratitude for Phil’s sudden disappearance. Then I realize that everyone is getting a lunch break in staggering shifts.
It boggles the fucking mind.
I ask for a cheeseburger and wait as Dee pats one out and cooks it for me, whistling. Fucking whistling.
I toss the buns on the grill to toast because I love toasting them in that awful, fattening grease then feeling guilty about it for the next four days. Dee bumps his hips against mine and starts to sing, tapping his spatula and tongs for a beat.
I join in and sway my hips along with him, so that we bump with each beat.
Jess pokes her head in the window and waves an order ticket, singing her order.
“I need a double cheese no onions. I need a chicken plain on wheat. I need two corn dogs for the kiddos. Oh and I can’t forget the fries.”
The customers at the bar laugh at our antics, and Rachel swings the kitchen door open and bounces in, her ample figure jiggling happily.
“Don’t forget the fries or I’m bound to hmm hmm hmm. There’s a hmm hmm on the rise.”
A few scattered people laugh good naturedly and sing along, some using the real words and some making them up.
Dee finishes making my cheeseburger and slaps it on the plate for me, mimicking the clang of cymbals as he holds it out to me. I give him a peck on the cheek and squeeze by Rachel, still dancing and humming in the doorway.
As soon as I make the turn in the hallway to head into the pathetically small employee break/locker room, I almost collide with a hard chest. Big, strong hands grip my shoulders until I’m steady and I look up, and up, and up past a loosened red power tie and black jacket, into ice blue eyes.
Oh, he’s pissed. He is so pissed and isn’t even trying to hide it.
Through clenched teeth he grinds out, “You will have the courage to at least break up with me to my face and tell me why.” He takes the plate from me and leads me into the break room, closing the door and locking it behind him before handing the plate back to me.
My mouth goes dry as I carefully place the plate on the tiny table and sit in one of the two chairs identical to the ones in the dining area. Gabe glares at me, his eyebrows lowered and his hands behind his back, waiting.
I clear my throat nervously. I don’t like angry men, can’t stand the way my stomach bottoms out when I’m confronted with real, almost tangible anger. For all my bluster I’m kind of easily intimidated, though I try my damnedest not to show it. I’ve seen anger turn a man, seen how it can rob a man of all reason. But I try to hide that, and wait for him to speak.
“If you have something to say to me, Luna, have the class to do it in a better way than a text message.” He practically spits the last two words at me and I look away.
My words come out a little shaky and completely unconvincing. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“Why?” The fury I hear in that one word is unsettling, but there’s an undertone of something else…something I don’t want to acknowledge. Something a little too close to hurt for my comfort, and I lash out in sheer self-preservation. I can’t afford to give in, and even though my voice shakes with edgy fear, I speak my mind because I don’t really think Gabe would hurt me.
“Phil might have been a remarkable piece of shit, but that doesn’t give you the right to send him running out of state. For Christ’s sake, Gabe, this is borderline stalking! You’re too controll
ing.”
He narrows his eyes and takes a step toward me. “What the hell are you talking about, Luna? Who the fuck is Phil?” He closes the distance between us and puts one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the table, cornering me, trapping me with his body.
I try to call my conviction to the surface again, remind myself why Gabriel O’Malley is a psycho and I have to refuse to have anything else to do with him. A tiny amount of the former ire sparks in my chest and I snap, “I’m talking about you paying Deshawn to watch me. That’s low, Gabe. Paying my friends to keep an eye on me because you know they’re so hard up that they can’t turn it down? You want to tell someone to have class, look in the mirror when you do it. And figuring out how to have Phil—my boss—leave his wife and restaurant just because he got a little mad at me? That’s some Godfather type shit, and I don’t want anything to do with it.” I stand, pushing him out of the way.
He staggers back a couple of steps and holds both palms up in entreaty, eyes wide and serious. “Luna, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t paid anyone to watch you, and I certainly haven’t sent anyone out of state. I’ve got money, but Jesus…not that much. Not the kind of money that makes people disappear. Not without begging Sam for a loan.” He pauses and looks down at his shoes. I just stare, not sure if I believe him or not. “All I’ve done is give you a car and…” He trails off and I wonder what else there is that I don’t know about yet.
“What, Gabe? You gave me a car and…what?”
His jaw tightens and he looks back up at me, the blue ice of his eyes freezing in its intensity. “I brought your name and…situation to the attention of an organization that provides aid to single mothers who are trying to further their education. That’s all.”
I snort. An organization he either funds or directs, I’m sure.
“What we need to be concerned about,” he says, his voice dropping an octave and his teeth gritting, “is who is paying to have you watched and getting rid of assholes that probably deserve to be gotten rid of.”
“You expect me to believe it’s not you? Seriously?” I roll my eyes, even though I hate it when people do that. It’s so juvenile.
Luna Exposed Page 14
