Because right now all I feel like doing is putting on a dress, pouring Roman a drink, cooking his dinner, lighting a cigarette, and waiting for him to get home from work like one of those good little 1950s housewives.
To hell with Beyonce.
CHAPTER SIX
ELIZABETH
As soon as we walk inside of Java, the smell of freshly roasted coffee hits me like a ton of bricks. My stomach begins to growl in angry protest. It wants caffeine. And what's interesting is that I'm not a huge coffee drinker, but I think alcohol does weird things to my body and makes me crave things I normally wouldn't desire.
"Seriously?" I rhetorically ask the cashier.
It's just my luck that Java is out of caramel drizzle, so both Sloan and I are going to have to order some other sort of specialty drink. I had my mouth all set for an extra hot caramel macchiato, but now I'm just annoyed. And it gets even better.
It looks like Java has recently redecorated the interior of the shop, eliminating all the comfy club chair seating they used to have. Now there are more places to sit, but it's all hard, wooden chairs with metal legs. Totally practical but terribly uncomfortable. This wasn't a good idea. I want to get back into bed.
"Let's just take our drinks and head back to your place." I suggest.
"Let's just sit here for a few minutes. You never know who we might see."
"Exactly. I look and feel like death warmed over. I don't want to see anyone I know."
Sloan ignores my complaining, as usual, and grabs us two chairs at a small circular table in the far corner of the shop.
"Just for a few minutes. To celebrate my promotion. And we'll be able to people watch at this table without people really being able to see us."
"And just how long are we going to celebrate this promotion of yours."
"Don't be a hater, Bitsy."
"Who's hating? I have no interest in selling Viagra to horny old men like you do. I just want to get back into bed."
"Remind me never to drink with you again. You are so damn cranky on the hangover day."
"Whatever. So just tell me, who exactly are we waiting for?" I ask suspiciously.
"No one in particular, inspector gadget. I just wanted to get out of the house."
"Yeah right," I mumble.
Sloan and I spend the next few minutes debriefing each other about the previous night's escapades. She tells me about a guy she met at the second bar we visited last night, and how they flirted with each other for a while then exchanged numbers. Now she's waiting to see how long it will take him to call her, and wonders if this one's going to blow her off too.
I, on the other hand evidently spent a lot of time at the last bar we stopped at talking to a bartender named Mark. A conversation that I have very little recollection of.
"How do you know his name was Mark?" I ask Sloan in an attempt to remember what ridiculous things I may have said last night.
My memory is spotty, but when I concentrate really carefully, I think that I can remember bits and pieces of a conversation between the two of us. I'm pretty sure Mark and I attempted to have some sort of philosophical debate about the liberal agenda in Hollywood, bad reality TV, and maybe something about a kitten he adopted; but I'm not one hundred percent sure. I lost chunks of our conversation to plenty of red wine by the time I woke up this morning. Similar to waking up from a dream that you can only remember snippets of.
"How on earth can you not remember him? Every time you asked him a question you drawled out his name like you were Scarlet O'Hara holding court before the big ball."
"If you actually watched the movie, you'd know that Scarlet O'Hara didn't ever drawl her words out. She was actually a fast talker."
"Whatever." She quickly cuts me off. "You were like Marrrrk how long have you been a bartender? Marrrrk, is the house merlot good? Marrrrrk, can you ask the deejay to change the song?"
Oh crap. Did I say all of that?
"You're such a little flirt once you get some vino traveling through those Type A veins of yours, Babygirl. I think it helps to clear out all the Dark Knight cobwebs from your brain, and you start seeing the world for all that it truly has to offer and not just what's inside your little love bubble."
"Oh please. There's no flirting involved. I just become a Chatty Cathy when I drink. I like to talk to people. I'm not always on the prowl like some people I know."
"Then why do you end up chatting up only hot looking bartenders everywhere you go? Why didn't you talk to the humongous guy who was sitting right next to you, and staring you down the whole time we were there?"
"Was he hot?"
"The big guy?"
"No, ding-dong, the bartender."
"Absofuckinglutely, but how convenient of you to not recall that part of the evening. So I guess when your boyfriend asks you what you did last night, you won't bother to make mention of Marrrrrk will you, because you don't remember. How very convenient."
I roll my eyes upward in exasperation.
"Everyone has their weird thing, Sloan. I think flirting with bartenders may be mine."
"Either that or you've figured out the smartest way to drink for free all night."
We both start cracking up, but then I shut my mouth instantly once I hear it.
"Grab that chair over there."
My ears must be playing tricks on me.
"Why do you have that look on your face all of a sudden?" Sloan inquires.
I'm staring blankly inside my coffee cup.
I can't speak.
I can barely breathe.
I'm waiting to hear it again. To make sure.
That voice.
I don't want to do it, but I have to. I turn my head and scan the room looking for it. I need to be sure, before I lose it right in the middle of Java.
Sloan shifts nervously in her seat.
"You're freaking me out, Bitsy," she whispers quietly. "What the hell is it?"
The voice speaks again.
There's a low, callous timber to it. It's familiar and frightening. And when I hear it for the second time my blood runs ice cold.
"That one there, dumb ass."
I pray it isn't, but I think that I know that voice.
Shrek.
"Let's get out of here, Sloan," I speak quietly.
"Not until you tell me why right now," she says while looking around the room frantically for the cause of my distress.
"Don't turn your head!"
Sloan's eyes bug out.
"What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On. Dammit?!"
"He's here," I whisper with a voice dripping in fear.
"Who's here?"
"The guy who attacked me."
"Where?"
Sloan is about to pivot her head once again, until I move across the table and firmly grab her forearm to stop her.
"I said stop turning your head. He knows what I look like, Sloan, and I have no idea what he looks like. Only his voice. We have to get out of here ... now."
Sloan nods her head finally in realization. She knows more than anyone how my life was turned inside out after the assault, and she definitely knows just how frightened I am of my attacker. It's the sole reason why I immediately picked up and moved in with my aunt.
Like a guardian angel on my shoulder, Roman's face pops into my head. If he were here, he'd know exactly what to do and what to say to make me feel safe. Of course, if he was here, there's also the chance that he would put himself in harms way, and I definitely don't want that either.
While my man is a badass, Shrek is no joke either. He's a drug dealer, a woman beater, and bottom of the barrel scum. I've always imagined that a beast like him, with virtually no conscience, must drink snake venom for breakfast. Certainly not a hot cup of civilized coffee from Java The Hut. What on earth is he doing in a coffee shop filled with college kids?
Coincidence or not, contemplating why Shrek may be in the same coffee shop as me is not what I should be doing right now. Right now I need to concentrate on
getting the hell out of here. Quietly and cautiously. So that's what I'm going to do. That's what I'm pretty sure Roman would advise me to do.
I think carefully about that. I've learned a lot these last few months talking to Roman about his many adventures when fixing issues for clients. Sticky situations he's found himself in. One of the first things he taught me was to always be diligent about assessing my surroundings as quickly and quietly as possible. Whether I felt I was in imminent danger or not.
I notice that there are two doors to Java. The glass double doors in the front and the single glass door side entrance that leads to the small parking lot. I don't know what Shrek looks like, but his voice came from the direction of the front door, and I can see with my peripheral vision that there are two large, plainly dressed men in sweats and sneakers sitting near that door. The stature of the guy in the gray sweats seems slightly familiar, and it very well could be Shrek, although I couldn't swear to it in a line-up. But just the slight peek I did get of him is setting off all sorts of inner alarms and red flags. My gut is telling me to get the hell out of here fast. Another lesson Roman has been trying to teach me.
"Listen to your gut Duchess and not your head."
I look to my left and make the decision that Sloan and I could probably exit the side door undetected if we're careful. Luckily I have on Sloan's oversized, dark blue hoodie, which acts almost as a shield of sorts. I look just like any other random, nondescript college student.
I pull the hood up, grab my latte, and try to leave as casually as I can without bringing any attention to myself. Java is bubbling with patrons, and Shrek seems to be quite engrossed with something he's either watching or reading on his cell phone.
"Now," I speak softly to Sloan. "And walk casually."
As we start moving to the door my cell phone rings.
"Hell," I fuss as I fumble to answer it.
I forgot to put it on vibrate, and I'm afraid that the volume may turn someone's head towards our direction, so I abruptly answer it without even looking to see who's calling.
"Yes," I whisper curtly.
"Elizabeth?"
Holy hell, it's my father, and he's calling from a number I don't recognize.
"Dad?" I answer the phone quietly, as Sloan and I continue to hightail it out of Java.
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes."
My father never calls. "Is everything all right with you?"
By this point, we've exited Java and have approached Sloan's new company car. Another one of the perks of her promotion. I don't dare look back inside the shop, but I just have a feeling that someone has their eyes on me through the glass pane, so I do it. My stomach still rolling with nervous energy.
What I see are a pair of eyes staring through the glass ... and straight through me.
Dead eyes.
And now I know for frackin' sure.
It's him.
I quickly divert my eyes away from his dead fish ones, while Sloan begins to pull out of the parking lot. I'm so rattled that I totally forgot I was on the phone with my father.
"You sound like you can't talk. Is that gangster with you?" my father asks abruptly snapping me back into the moment.
That gangster would be Roman, and of course my father's first thought is to blame any perceived distress I may be under on him. My father's opinion of Roman and Uncle Joseph hasn't waivered one single iota since the blow up at my birthday dinner. In fact, I'd venture to say that his imagination has only made his terrible opinion of both of them to become even worse. He imagines Joseph and Roman to be hard-core gangsters. Killers. Thugs. Seducing his only sister and daughter with money and sex. Needless to say, I think my father watches way too many mob movies and organized crime documentaries.
"What do you need, Dad?" I ask looking back at Java as Sloan pulls out of the lot.
"I'm calling to find out what your plans are for the holidays."
That's odd. Why didn't Mom ask me?
"You're asking?" I ask incredulously.
"Yes, I'm asking. Is it so strange for your father to ask if you're planning on coming home to have dinner with your family? Your uncles plan on coming this year, so your mom is going all out. Just wanted to know if you wanted to show your face for once."
Oh that explains it. He wants to put on a happy family front for my uncles.
"Are you inviting Aunt Juliette too?" I challenge.
"No, Elizabeth. You know that's not going to happen. She won't come without that husband of hers."
"Well yeah, Dad, that is pretty common with married folks. They spend the holidays together."
"Well not in my house. Not those two. I can't do it, and I won't do it. Your uncles don't want to see him either. Hell, one of them might knock Joseph out for the ridiculousness going on down there with you and that boy."
"You told them?"
"About you playing house with your cousin? I sure as hell did. And like I said, you're lucky that they didn't drive to the city the night I told them. They were ready to. Baseball bats and all."
"How very old school gangster of them."
I hear my father sigh heavily. "I didn't call to argue with you, Bitsy. I called to find out your plans for the holidays. That's it."
"For Thanksgiving or Christmas?"
Honestly, I didn't feel like going home for either if my father was still so dead set against my relationship. And he was right. My uncles were ten times worse than him. I'd probably get the third degree through dinner, dessert and football. Not my idea of a good time. Plus, I hadn't even talked about the holidays with Roman. I just assumed we'd spend them together, and I know he doesn't want to spend it with me in Penn-Washington. That would just be my birthday dinner all over again.
"Both."
"I don't think I can make it for Thanksgiving. Maybe Christmas. I'll let you know." I just felt like telling him something somewhat believable, so I could get off of the phone.
"Your mother really wants you to come."
"And I'd really like to come, but I'd like to bring my boyfriend."
"That's not happening."
"Then I'm pretty sure I'm not coming."
"Think about what you're saying, Elizabeth. You've known this guy for less than a year, and I've known that family of his for most of your life. You need to consider for just a moment that I may know what I'm talking about. He's going to hurt you or worse get you hurt."
"Dad, he manages a major league baseball player and a nightclub. That's it. He's not the Godfather or a Goodfella."
"He's your cousin."
"By marriage, not by blood, and it's a marriage that you don't even acknowledge by the way. So don't force me to make a choice, Dad, because I will choose Roman. I am in love with him."
"I know you think you're in love with him, but time has a way of revealing the truth about people and their intentions. You don't know him yet. I'm just asking for you to give this some time. Don't make any rash decisions, like cutting your mother and me out of your life, until you've really gotten to know him. I'm still learning new things about your mother all the time, and we've been married for over twenty-seven damn years."
"I haven't cut you out of my life, Dad. I'd say that you are the one pushing that agenda. And I didn't say that Roman and I were getting married tomorrow. All I said was that we're together, and at some point you and mom are going to need to get on board with that, if we're going to be in each other's lives in any sort of healthy way."
Sloan starts to give me a narrow glare, which is a long time signal between the two of us for me to get off of the phone. I think our stealth like departure from Java has rattled her, and she needs the two of us to debrief.
"I have to go, Dad."
"Just think about Christmas if you can't do Thanksgiving. Think about us, Elizabeth. The people who raised you. Who have supported everything you've ever done. We've never spent both holidays apart."
This conversation is getting way too uncomfortable for me. My father an
d I never talk like this. My mother yes, but not us.
"Are you sick?" I ask in my attempt to understand where this is coming from.
"Sick?"
"Do you have cancer or something?"
"Oh good lord, Elizabeth, no."
"Okay then good. I'll call you guys later, Dad. I promise."
"Bye, sweetie."
It hits me hard after the call disconnects. I think I'm starting to realize just how big the chasm between my parents and I is growing. Even though my mother and I communicate semi-regularly through texts, she must have put my dad up to that call, because she is still worried about me.
Great.
And now I feel guilty.
My father sounded really disappointed towards the end of our conversation. I know that he's right to some extent. Eventually I'm going to have to do something about it. I can't just let my relationship with my parents disintegrate. I mean they're my parents for God's sake. But what about Roman?
"Earth to Bitsy." Sloan snaps her fingers near my ear. "Hello? Earth to damn Bitsy!"
"Oh, my bad."
"Yeah, your bad. I get you have daddy issues, but what just happened back there at Java is way the hell more important for us to discuss right now. We need to tell somebody what just went down."
"Tell somebody? Tell who?"
"Are you on crack?! The police for starters, and then maybe the Dark Knight. Hell, let's tell everybody."
"Uh, that would be a no and a hell no."
I haven't involved the police (stupidly) in this thing from the beginning. I guess it was my way of protecting my ex-boyfriend Ethan at the time. I knew on some level in my gut that he had something to do with the attack based on his reaction or rather his lack of one. So bringing the police in at this point would probably raise more questions than it would solve.
Why didn't I call 911? Why didn't I report the assault? Why didn't I go to a hospital? Why did I keep so much cash in the house? All very valid questions with no logical answers, other than I was a blooming idiot.
And telling Roman? I'm petrified of pulling him into this. It's been a while now since he and the Kings have had a new client to fix something for, and it's so obvious that he's itching for a new challenge. Especially a confrontational one. If I told him about this, he'd definitely go looking for Shrek. He'd probably kill him or come very close to it.
The Cousins Series Boxed Set Page 42
