I pulled in a breath, tried to shake off what was happening all around me, who I figured was responsible for it and what that might mean and started, “Honey –”
“I helped him clean up for… like, three hours, in, like, the wee morning hours,” she reminded me of something she’d already shared several times. Then told me something that made my breath catch. Something she hadn’t yet shared in her two days of bitching about Nick Sebring. “His brother came back, was a total, freaking asshole to both of us, and I took that, I cleaned and after that I gave him all my good moves which means he got off twice plus twice more on Sunday. He promised he’d call and he hasn’t. Player zone I get, it could take two days. Even three. But four?”
I powered through the knowledge that Knight was Nick’s brother and reminded her, “Sandrine, this guy has jerk written all over him.”
“I gave him my best moves and four orgasms!” she shouted and I winced.
Then I settled in and I did it silently. She had to work this out and I had to let her even though I didn’t have time. I had groceries to put away. I had a freak out about the possibility that Knight had roughed up my landlord and sent me an extortionately expensive cell phone to recommence and figure out my next move. I had to make a sandwich and get on the road so I didn’t miss class. I had things to do.
“Now, I know, I know, no one gave him that,” Sandrine informed me. “No way. And no way he was faking it. I know that too.”
Men, for obvious reasons, couldn’t fake it so I didn’t know why she felt the need to point this out and I didn’t ask. I kept silent.
Sandrine didn’t.
“And he doesn’t come back for seconds? He doesn’t ask me out? He doesn’t do anything?” she asked and kept ranting. “I’ve called him four times and, as you know, this breaks my golden rule of one call only. Four times! Four voicemails! And, I will add, two texts. And nothing.”
She shut up. I gave her a beat.
Then I told her, “Honey, I’m sorry. He’s a jerk. They’re all jerks. And we’ll gab about this but you know I have to get to class.”
“Anya, this guy is The One,” she told me.
“No, Sandrine, he’s an asshole and I’ll point out one of his obvious asshole traits and that was he suggested a three-way with you and your best friend.”
“Guys are into that shit,” she dismissed.
“Yeah, definitely, but guys who could be The One most certainly aren’t.”
She had no reply and never did when I was right.
So I said yet again, “I have to get to class.”
“Fuck me,” she muttered and I recognized she was sliding into self-absorbed, poor me zone. I had to take evasive maneuvers and fast or I’d miss class or be seriously late.
“Sandrine, this weekend, your appointment, we’ll talk,” I promised.
“Right, and maybe we should hit it Saturday night, see if he’s out.”
God, seriously?
“We’ll talk about it while I do your nails on Saturday. Now I gotta go.”
“Four days, Anya,” she whispered, sliding straight into the zone and holding on tight to take me with her.
I pulled in a steadying breath.
Then I said firmly, “Saturday, Sandrine.”
Pause then, “Right, I’ll call Viv. Laters.”
Then she was gone.
God, Sandrine.
As I beeped off my phone, I reminded myself that there were things to love about her.
For instance, when Viv had that bad breakup that she didn’t want to talk about, I was too busy with class and work to give her my attention like I'd want to. But Sandrine called her every day and went over to her house nearly every night to check in, keep her company and she didn’t pry. And when I sprained my ankle badly, it was Sandrine who dropped everything and came to get me at the doctor then made everything easy for me to negotiate at my apartment. And Sandrine not only was a client of mine, she also talked me up to all her friends and co-workers in an attempt to help me build my clientele. And when Viv’s Mom got that terrible, weird pneumonia that didn’t seem to want to let her go, both Sandrine and I were at Viv’s side when it looked like it was going to go south. And we both celebrated with her when it didn’t.
Right, so Sandrine was a pain in the ass. But there were times that pain eased.
I put the phone in its charger and immediately began multitasking. Freaking out about Knight’s possible activities at the same time putting away groceries. Then I freaked out at the same time I made a sandwich. Then I freaked out at the same time I ate my sandwich and changed clothes. Then I freaked out as I walked out to my car and continued to freak out as I drove to class.
And luckily I’d freaked out enough that by the time I hit class I could set it aside and concentrate.
Unfortunately, by the time I got home from class, I was back to freaking out. Which meant I found it hard to sleep.
And it further meant when I finally slept, my dreams were filled with Knight.
* * * * *
The next evening, I had little time. I had a client, she was showing at my house at her six thirty slot and I had to be home and set up in time. But I also had to do what I had to do.
And I was going to do it.
It was after work. I had a full-time job as a file clerk in a medical office that had six doctors and four nurse practitioners. I made shit money but the job wasn’t taxing, the office ladies were funny and they had excellent benefits. These included kick-butt insurance and, if you worked there for two years, partial payment on any further education you wanted to take even if it was beauty school.
And beauty school was where I decided to go so, three years ago, I went. I’d already completed my nail technician certification and was building a clientele whose appointments I had to take in the evenings and on weekends. The goal was to have enough to go full-time therefore be able to rent a station in a decent salon. This was difficult, what with a job and school, but I was doing it.
Since, I’d finished classes in applying makeup and now I was close to completing a course to be a certified skin technician. I liked nails and I liked chattering to my clients. It was cool, seriously low stress and it actually paid pretty well. But I knew that I’d lose my mind sitting around doing nails forty hours a week so I had to diversify.
That was why I took classes to be a makeup artist and was close to completing my course as a skin technician. I liked doing facials the best. It was the quiet. It wasn’t only relaxing to the client but also me. And I liked the bright but tranquil look my test subjects gave me when I was done. Not only was I making their skin look great, I was making them feel good. And that was cool.
But this wasn’t my life’s dream. In fact, I didn’t have a life’s dream. I’d learned that living a dream, finding a dream or having a dream find me was not in my future and I’d learned this early.
That said, I was ambitious.
I didn’t want to rule the world.
I wanted to own my own spa.
A good one that was all about relaxation, pampering and beautification in a peaceful, safe, gorgeous setting. Maybe up in the mountains somewhere. It would look good. It would smell good. And it would be a treat for anyone who opened the doors and walked in.
Including me.
So I had a plan. Nails, makeup and facials down (nearly), building up a clientele as I went along and finding a salon or spa that would rent me space or take me on as an employee in the meantime. Then move onto the whopper deluxe, massage therapy. I was doing all this while saving to open my own place. Living frugal. Being smart. Getting educated. Building a clientele and providing excellent service to keep them so whenever I moved and when I settled, they’d follow me.
Then be my own boss and that boss was the boss of indulgence.
How freaking awesome would that be?
Perfect. With my life, facing the rest of it filled with offering tranquility and indulgence was perfect for me.
This was on my mind
instead of what I didn’t want to be on my mind as I found a spot somewhat close to the front doors to the high-rise complex. It took me three attempts before I did a terrible job at parallel parking my car. It didn’t matter, I wouldn’t be there long. I got out, fed a nickel into the meter which gave me a nanosecond (not really) but enough time to do what I needed to do.
Then I dashed into the building and went to the doorman’s desk.
When we were there on Saturday, there was no doorman on duty which meant day and evening hours. But the door had been locked (as it now wasn’t) and we’d had to buzz up. However, I’d seen the desk so I’d hoped it had someone behind it sometime and luckily I was right.
I smiled at him and he smiled at me as I walked up to him.
Then I stopped at the desk, put the taped down, bubble wrap envelope on it and asked, “Can I leave that and you’ll give it to Knight, I think his last name is Sebring, in apartment 15A?”
His brows went up. “Mr. Sebring? Unit 15A? Sure,” he replied. “But you want, I can call up. See if he’s here.”
His hand was drifting to the phone so I lifted mine swiftly and shook my head. “No, thanks. I’m in a rush and he needs that but I have to dash. Can you just make sure he gets it?”
He nodded again. “Sure.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
He smiled back.
I skedaddled.
Right, that down, point made, note written, Thanks, Knight. That’s very kind and generous but I can’t accept. Be well, Anya.
And that was it. The end.
The end.
I drove home thinking of the end of Knight Sebring at the same time wishing, with what I knew was sheer lunacy and I didn’t get it at all, was that it was the beginning.
* * * * *
The next night, it was late and I was coming home from class thinking about my weekend. Four clients on Saturday including Sandrine who I knew would stay through the client after her and bitch about Nick (who still hadn’t called, not surprisingly to anyone but Sandrine) and stay even after that trying to convince me to go out with her to the clubs that evening in search of him.
Because this wasn’t an eventuality but a certainty, Viv and I had already formed a plan of attack. Viv was making her world famous (not really but it should be) chicken, lemon and asparagus risotto. I was bringing a bottle of wine, my facial gear and my copy of Thor. We were going to eat, I was going to give Vivica and Sandrine, if she was smart enough to bag on the Nick hunt, a facial then we were going to perv on Chris Hemsworth.
The perfect evening.
Don’t get me wrong, there was a time when I liked to go out mostly because I liked music but I loved dancing. And even though I didn’t have the greatest clothes, I chose selectively, liked what I chose and they suited me. I liked to get all dressed up, made up, hair out to there, heels even higher, go out, have a few drinks, loosen up, flirt a little, maybe get asked out on a date but especially, dance.
But now I was twenty-seven, not twenty-two (or three or four) and this happening every weekend with a wild party thrown in here and there was wearing. I was never out to be part of the scene. And I wasn’t on the hunt for a man. I dated. A couple of times I dated a guy for a while before I broke it off. So I was open to meeting men and exploring things. But I hadn’t found anyone who struck me. I wasn’t desperate. If it happened, it happened. If it didn’t, I could take care of myself. But if it happened, it had to be right.
“Anya?”
I knew that smooth, deep voice like I’d heard it every day hundreds of times a day since birth. So I stopped mid-punching in of new security code and woodenly twisted to see Knight Sebring striding up the steps of my apartment building toward me.
Okay, um…
Crap!
I pulled it together and greeted, “Hey,” then added, “What are you doing here?”
I didn’t need to ask. I was taking in his face, his well-cut, dark suit, his shirt that was the color of moss and it suited him, even with blue eyes, to perfection and the fact that he seemed mildly annoyed. But I didn’t miss the glossy black box he held in one long-fingered hand.
He made it to me and held up the box. “Take it,” he ordered, no greeting, no smile, nothing but those two words.
I looked down at the box then up to his eyes.
“Knight, I can’t,” I said softly.
His head tipped slightly to the side and his brows drew together as he asked, “Why the fuck not?”
“Because I looked it up at work and I know it costs nine hundred and eighty-nine dollars.”
“So?” he returned instantly.
I stared at him.
Then I repeated his, “So?”
“Yeah, babe. So?”
I turned fully to him. “So, I don’t know you.”
“So?”
“So?” I again repeated his repeat.
“Jesus, fuck, babe,” he jerked the box to me sounding impatient, “got shit to do. Take it.”
“Knight, I can’t,” I reiterated.
“Anya, babe,” he leaned in and reiterated back with some scary emphasis, “why the fuck not?”
I stared into his eyes. He was impatient. He was annoyed. I did not know this man and he was trying to give me a nearly one thousand dollar phone like it was nothing.
“Why are you pressing this phone on me?” I asked quietly and he leaned back.
“Told you in the note, you read?” he asked, this sarcasm not amusing but I didn’t call him on that. I nodded. “Then you know, woman needs a functioning phone.”
“I’m saving,” I shared. “I’ll have one in a couple of weeks.”
His eyes held mine.
Then he whispered, “Saving?”
Crap. Crap!
I ignored that and all it exposed and assured him, “Anyway, I’m fine. Good. Or I will be on the phone front in a couple of weeks.”
He didn’t say anything for a few beats then, softly, he ordered, “Anya, take the phone.”
“Knight –”
“Take the phone.”
“I don’t –”
“Babe, take the fucking phone.”
“Did you beat up Steve?”
I blurted that and I didn’t know why. If he didn’t, it was a rude thing to assume. If he did, I didn’t want to know.
But he didn’t hesitate to reply, “No.”
I felt relief sweep through me.
“But I sent the boys who did,” he finished.
My entire body got tight but I forced through stiff lips my, “What?”
“Though,” he amended, “it wasn’t me taking shots at that motherfucker only because I had other shit to do.”
I said nothing and stared.
Knight got more impatient. “Anya, got shit to do now too. Take the fuckin’ phone.”
“Why’d you have boys beat up Steve?” I asked and again didn’t know why. I didn’t want to know. But I asked anyway and he answered.
“Babe, your building, a fire hazard. One flight of steps for a building that size? Fuck no,” he bit out, now not sounding impatient but pissed. “A fire could cut off from your escape route, you only got one. And the door open for any motherfucker to walk through? They see you, trail you, you’re fucked. Totally. Not only because you only got one set of stairs, and it’s the one furthest away from the front door, but also, once you get up to your hall, it’s dark and your door’s got a lock, one boot to it, it’ll pop right open. That’s bullshit. Your rent isn’t steep but it isn’t shit either. You pay for a workin’ fuckin’ elevator and a secured door. I sent my boys to have a word. The words your landlord returned they didn’t like much. They gave me a call, I gave them the go-ahead, you got a secured door, lighting and a fucking lock that might give you enough time to at least dial 911 before some motherfucker is on you.”
Okay, that explained that.
At the same time it absolutely did not.
“Why?” I whispered.
“What?” Knight didn’t whis
per.
“Why? Why did you take that trouble or, I mean, send boys to do it? You barely know me.”
And that was when Knight Sebring laid it out and when he did, I didn’t feel tingles. I felt shivers. I just didn’t know what the shivers meant.
“Babe, your clothes. Shit. But you work ‘em and you do because you’ve got one serious fantastic body, your hair is even better and your face is a face that launches a thousand hard-ons. Trust me, any man you’ve looked at probably since you were thirteen has jacked off thinkin’ of you. All this is a recipe for disaster if you live alone in an unsecured building with a lock like the one you got. Someone had to step up. Seein’ as you aren’t the only one who lives here and my guess, at least one person in that building bitched and nothin’ got done, so I stepped up. It took my boys an hour. Your landlord was a dick so it was an hour they enjoyed. Not a big deal. Now take the fuckin’ phone.”
“Trust me, any man you’ve looked at probably since you were thirteen has jacked off thinkin’ of you.”
Did this mean him too?
Oh my God!
“Anya,” he growled, it was a scary growl so I lifted my hand immediately and took the box.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
“I don’t know what to do to thank you,” I muttered back.
“I ask for gratitude?” he asked and I shook my head so he went on, “Then, I will now. Use that phone. Don’t sell it. Don’t set it aside. Take it upstairs. Charge it. Use the piece a’ shit you got, if it works long enough, to tell your people your new number which is written in the shit in the box. Then use the phone. That’s how you can thank me.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Fuck,” he whispered back then he turned to leave.
To leave!
Was that it?
All this effort, money and a vulgar compliment that still managed to be a whopper and he just leaves?
I turned to watch him go and found my voice calling, “Knight?”
One step from the sidewalk, he halted, twisting his torso to look up at me.
I didn’t know what to say. He laid the terms out for his “gratitude” but I got more out of them than he did so I felt some other gesture was in order. I doubted he’d want a manicure or facial so I was at a loss.
Knight Page 5
