by Dorlana Vann
Zadora stood up. “Are you ready?”
“Now?”
Zadora nodded.
Brenda’s stomach rumbled in acceptance.
Chapter 4
Neal didn’t know if his turkey street tacos would be enough to impress Brenda. She was sure to have a sophisticated palate. However, he didn’t have any other food on hand, and even if he had, he needed something he could make in a hurry.
He really hoped this plan worked because he didn’t have a lot of options. He’d screwed up his credit trying to save his dad’s company, which, unbeknownst to him, had died years before his dad had. Now he had a bankruptcy on his credit, which was the reason he hadn’t applied for a school loan in the first place. Besides, when he finished school, he didn’t want to have to pay back another huge loan.
He wished he’d followed his gut when he’d first graduated high school. But growing up, his dad had given him a hard time about cooking. “Whatcha doing in there, son? Men don’t cook. Let the women do their job and come watch the game with your old man.” That had been the main, if not the only, reason he’d decided to go on to a university instead of culinary school in the first place.
After he’d cooked the ground turkey with cilantro, onion, bell pepper, and spices in olive oil, he added lemon juice and butter to deglaze the meat and give it a mock greasiness that reminded him of his mom’s tacos. He tasted it and then placed the half-squeezed lemon in the pan to retain moisture and put the lid on the pan to let the flavors marry as he diced tomatoes, avocado, cilantro, and jalapeño. He would mix these with lime juice and salt to make a chunky guacamole/pico de gallo garnish.
As he heated the corn tortillas, he heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” he hollered. After he heard the door open and shut, he said, “I’m in the kitchen. Make yourselves at home.”
Neal checked everything before gathering and placing all the food on a tray and carrying it to the living room. The dining room had been taken over by a huge desk, but he didn’t feel as if he had the right to go and rearrange anything since technically he was only borrowing the apartment. If it had been his home, that useless thing would’ve been gone a long time ago and replaced by his childhood table: a rustic, rectangular antique table that had been passed down from his grandmother. But it really didn’t matter—the table was being stored at his mom’s house, along with some other things from his old rent house, and there was no way he was going to go to his mom’s house to retrieve it anyway.
The ladies stood awkwardly by the door, and he told them to have a seat as he set the food out on the coffee table.
“Thanks for inviting me to lunch, Mr. Parker.” Brenda crossed the room to the couch and sat down.
“Call me Neal . . . please.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything else.
Zadora hadn’t moved, and her eyes were wider than normal. Neal felt a little bad because he knew how difficult it had probably been for her to lie.
“Oh my,” Zadora said, staring at Neal. “I forgot I have some work to do.” She turned and walked out the door, exactly as they had planned. Neal had promised to save her some food.
Brenda frowned. “Now why do I get the feeling I’ve been set up?”
Neal smiled. “You’re paranoid.”
“Am I? Okay, I’ll play along for a bit but only because I’m starving.”
Neal sat down in the recliner across from Brenda. Her hair was short, at her chin, and straight. She moved elegantly, with purpose, as if each action had been rehearsed in her mind. No one would catch her slouching or biting her French-manicured nails. She wore no jewelry except for stud earrings, which sparkled when she moved her head, diamonds most likely. Flashy would never be a word to describe Brenda Fisher. Too perfect, uptight, yes. Boring possibly, but that still remained to be seen.
“What is this?” she asked, glancing at the food on the coffee table.
“I hope you’re not afraid of a little heat,” he said in his sexiest voice.
She glared at him with contempt. “Really? Look, I’m not going to play your little euphemism game. Now tell me, what’s going on? What do you want, Neal?”
“Nothing. I like to cook, and I thought you might be hungry. And I felt a little bad about earlier. I apologize for calling you a bitch. I’ve had a chance to think about everything, and you’re right. This is your place. You can do what you want, like you said.”
She gave a nod and put her attention back on the food. “Tacos?” She gave a throaty scoff. “You’ve got to be joking. I thought you said you wanted to be chef.”
Neal’s muscles tighten. “It’s TexMex,” he said through his teeth. “My specialty is Texas food. It’s from my childhood. It’s not a fucking joke.”
“Obviously, I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to.”
Neal forced himself to relax.
“It smells really good.”
He nodded, realizing he had done a terrible job at keeping his cool, especially when his goal was to get this woman on his good side. Great start. “No, I’m sorry. I overreacted.”
“Well, I can’t wait to taste something from someone with so much passion. Would you make one for me?”
Neal opened the container which held the soft corn tortillas. The smell of the tortillas always brought back memories of sitting around the table with his mom and dad on Saturday nights. His mom had made them with ground beef and a seasoning mix, and they’d been very greasy, but he’d loved them and could remember eating them until he’d lost count.
If Neal had had time, he would’ve made flour tortillas from scratch. He’d bought these from the store, but after that outburst, he wasn’t about to tell that to Brenda.
Neal placed two tortillas onto his plate and two on Brenda’s. “This here is my famous chipotle and cilantro sour cream.” He spread it across the shells. “Cheese is always next, not on top,” he said as he sprinkled the thickly shredded sharp cheddar. “You want it to be slightly melted by the meat. You don’t want cold, hard cheese.”
He then scooped the meat onto each taco. “I use turkey meat. It has a milder taste than ground beef and really captures the seasonings and acid if it’s cooked correctly. And last but not least . . .” He placed the avocado and tomato pico on top. “There you go.”
He handed her the plate and then opened the Dos Equis beers he had brought with the food, putting a lime slice on the top of each one, and placed one in front of Brenda.
She had already folded up the taco and brought it to her mouth. He watched. As she placed the food in her mouth, she closed her eyes. Neal enjoyed that second, watching her inhale through her nose as a small moan escaped. Then the second passed, her eyes popped open, and she looked directly at him as if to see if he had noticed.
Their eyes locked and his heart beat a little faster, enjoying this strange chemistry his food had invoked. He let her know that he had witnessed her pleasure as well by offering a slight grin. “Well?”
“I’ve had better,” she said.
“Was that a euphemism?”
Brenda’s eyes softened and even though the smile on her lips was small, it was flirty.
Neal relaxed for a moment, taking her in, remembering the morning with her standing there by his shower. Wishing all of a sudden that she had been there for him, not for Larry. He shook his head and dropped his attention to the plate of food he hadn’t touched. He picked up his taco and took a bite, eyeing Brenda at the same time.
She chewed and stared right back at him. She seemed at ease.
They stared at one another for a moment and then Brenda said, “You’re a big guy. One might even say intimidating.”
“Thanks?” Neal played it cool. Come to Papa.
“No, I mean, I bet other men would think twice about a confrontation with you.”
N
eal shrugged. “I can hold my own.”
“Have you ever heard of a scarecrow?”
“Uh, yeah . . . farmers use them to keep their crops bird-free.”
“No, no, no. I mean in terms of dating. Apparently, women use men as decoys, shooing away the riffraff so that the decent ones can get through. Ever heard of such a thing?”
“Nope. Never.”
She nodded. “Hmmm.”
“What?”
“Oh, never mind. It’s ridiculous. I don’t even know why I listened to her.”
“No, what is it?”
Brenda bobbed her head from side-to-side. “Well, I sort of called Zadora on her psychic abilities, and she gave me a bit of advice.”
“She’s very good at what she does.”
Brenda frowned. “Really? Has she ever helped you?”
“Sure, sure she has. So what was her advice?”
“To use one of those scarecrows.”
“I see,” Neal said.
“You know, it’s funny, but the way she described scarecrows kind of reminds me of you.”
“Really? How exactly was that?”
She sat back for a moment and crossed her legs. Resting her elbow on the arm of the couch, she traced her chin with her index finger. “Big and tall. You know, scary-looking. Like a bodyguard, a caveman, or . . . Frankenstein.”
“Really? Frankenstein.”
“I was wondering if you would be interested.” She actually smiled a nice smile: confident, arrogant, sexy.
“Well, I don’t know. What exactly would I do?”
She reached for her taco again. “I don’t know. Sit with me, and if I become surrounded by jerks, like I often do, you can shoo them away.”
“What’s in it for me?”
She took a bite and chewed as she thought, and then said, “Drinks?”
“That’s an idea, or . . . maybe you could wait to sell the house.”
Brenda’s face fell. “What?”
“You know,” he said easily. “As sort of a trade for services.”
She threw her taco on the plate and then sat straight up. “Shit. Why didn’t I see this? How the hell could I let this get by me?”
“What are you talking about?” Neal said, but he knew the gig was up. He had blown it. But he had to say it, for himself and for Zadora. That had been the plan. Not a very good one, obviously, but it was all he had.
“How. Dare. You! How dare you use my private conversation with that girl to set me up? Did she come over here and tell you everything I said? Isn’t there some psychic/customer confidentiality?”
“That’s a lawyer.”
“Is she even psychic?”
Neal wasn’t sure what to say to this. Zadora didn’t want anyone to think she was psychic, but now might not be the right time to come clean about that.
“She’s not, is she?” Brenda had come to her own conclusion. “What is she? A con artist? What the hell?” She jumped up. “I want you out, and I want her out.”
“No!” Neal said and stood up too, following her to the front door. “This isn’t her fault. She’s innocent. Okay, she’s not psychic. I really thought she was when I told you that, but she’s not. This was all my idea. I was trying to help all of us. Even you, by helping you move on. You really need to get over Larry because you are obviously still obsessed with him.”
“What?” Brenda had her hand on the doorknob but wheeled around to face Neal, her mouth tight, her head about to explode.
He took a step back. “Zadora is not a con artist,” he said slowly. “She sees dead people, that’s all.”
Brenda narrowed her eyes. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I know it sounds weird, but she says ghosts appear whenever she’s around. She can’t help it. She didn’t want anyone to know, but she did try and tell you she wasn’t a psychic but didn’t get a chance. After you told her all that stuff, she didn’t know what to do, so she came to me—”
“And told you everything.”
“Just enough to tell me you could really use a scarecrow. It’s a real thing, I swear. My cousin Rocky told me about it. He helps his friends out all the time.”
She pointed, inches away from his nose. “You are idiot if you think I’m going to believe your fabrications.”
He slowly moved her hand away from his face. “I just wanted to help you get over Larry.”
“More like you wanted to save your own skin.”
“Okay sure, maybe there was a little in it for me. But can you blame me? I can’t afford to move.”
Brenda raised her chin. “Technically, neither one of you have a signed lease. Maximilian’s is the only signature I have. So now I want both of y’all out of here by this weekend. Since you are accepting all the blame for this little charade, I’ll let you tell Zadora you screwed up.”
“What? You told me we had two weeks!”
“That was before you tried to manipulate me.” Brenda turned on her heel and stomped out, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter 5
“Ahhh!” Brenda screamed as she slammed her apartment door shut. The very idea! The nerve! She couldn’t believe that they had stooped so low as to use her personal life to con her. What was wrong with these people? And why hadn’t she noticed it as soon as it had happened? The charade was all so obvious now. You need a scarecrow who looks exactly like Neal. “Stupid. She sees dead people! How stupid do they think I am? Ridiculous.”
Her stomach grumbled as she acknowledged the cumin, cilantro, and citrus that lingered on her tongue. “It doesn’t matter how good of a cook he is,” she said as she went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Or how insanely yummy he is.”
She stared, lost in thought, into the cold, empty refrigerator for a good two minutes before shutting it. The grocery store. She needed to go to the stupid grocery store. But first, a bath. She wanted to wash her hair and put on fresh makeup before going out in public. There was no telling who she might run into. Besides, a nice, long, hot bubble bath would be heaven. And maybe she would treat herself to lunch at Ruth’s Chris Steak House before she went shopping. Who wanted simple turkey tacos, which even sounded cheap, when she could get a chilled shellfish salad?
Brenda entered the pink zebra-decorated restroom and shook her head. Not that it surprised her, it just hurt her eyes. She would start on this apartment in the morning by clearing it out and taking all the junk down to the trash bin. But for now, the clawfoot bathtub stood out like a rose in a weed garden. Maybe she would take it back to her apartment.
However, she had to clean the tub before she would set a foot inside of it. Finding some cleaner and a sponge under the sink, she first sprayed the bathtub and then turned on the faucet. It made an awful loud moaning sound and then a squeaking noise that she could almost follow through the pipes. Finally, water made its way out of the faucet.
She scrubbed quickly, wishing she had called Hillary, her cleaning lady, to come by and pre-clean the apartment. The idea that maybe Hillary would meet her for a drink ran through her mind, but she immediately thought better of it, remembering their last conversation where Brenda might have accused her of stealing her Dior lipstick, which she later found melted in her car. Even though Brenda had apologized, any type of friendship had been lost and now it felt awkward. Maybe she should get a new cleaning lady. Sometimes she wished she had the ability to sense her post-emotions of sympathy and regret. But for some reason, these feelings were rarely preconceived. But then again, because of her job, she had to be able to separate logic from feelings, so it would be career suicide to get all mushy.
After she had finished cleaning the tub, Brenda let the water run while she took off her dress. She stood in her underclothes as she turned the middle handle, and the shower worked li
ke a shower should work . . . for a second. All of a sudden, water burst out of the wall, spraying up, down, and into her face.
She screamed and frantically tried to get to the handles to turn off the water. She turned her head sideways and headed into the blast to locate the knobs. The water flooded her eyes and mouth and nose. She had to back off for a second.
Already drenched, she screamed again as she went back in, this time locating the shower handle. She turned it, and it popped right off.
“Oh shit!” Brenda heard Neal say from behind her.
She turned around. “Don’t just stand there!”
Neal ran toward her and the bathtub, slipped in the water on the floor, and before Brenda could get out of the way, smacked right into her, sending them both into the tub. Somehow she ended up length-wise, with him on top of her. On impact she’d hit the back of her head and now all she could do was squeeze her eyes together and wait for the pain to subside.
Neal had caught himself with his hands, and luckily hadn’t landed fully on top of her. But the wind had still been knocked out of her, and she tried to catch her breath.
She was barely able to open her eyes because the water was rushing past Neal’s head and into her face. Neal stared down at her, his eyes wide and his mouth open in an apologetic O.
The entire day manifested into a loud fit of laughter that she couldn’t control. The more she laughed, the more the water got in her mouth and made her gag and laugh. She was so pissed, and she wanted to cry but the stubborn anger refused to come out any other way than a hysterical laugh.
“Get off of me,” she finally managed to say.
