“No. Not at all. I’m telling you, as someone who knows beef, that is medium-rare.” He caught the open mouth, the wide eyes of disbelief. “But I’ll ask the chef to come out to speak to you if that’s what you want.”
Standing aside while Chef was balled out and told he didn’t know what medium-rare was, watching as Chef picked up the plate and headed back to the kitchen, Chay wondered if waiting tables was the only job he could get for the duration of the two years. He’d have to think. A customer service center? A sales job? Construction? He was a cowboy, after all; nothing in New York City would suit him, he knew that. But some jobs might be better than others. He followed Chef back into the kitchen, watched as the other man cooked a new slab of marinated beef and trailed behind Chef as he brought it back to the women’s table. Chef set it down with a flourish before he beat a retreat to the kitchen.
Chay let the women refill their glasses themselves after that, but eventually headed out in some trepidation to ask if they wanted any dessert.
“No, but could you refill our water glasses; we’ll probably be here a while. And you can bring the check when you’re ready.”
There was no problem with doing either but the words, ‘we’ll probably be here a while’ rang in Chay’s ears. Probably be here a while? It was past midnight now; last orders were at ten and staff expected to be off by 12.30. So how long did this table anticipate staying? When he set down the check with a, ‘whenever you’re ready, ladies’ he wondered when the heck they would be ready. He stood back and watched as a huge discussion took place, heads in, disgruntled words, hand movements expressing dismay, sighs and looks of disagreement. When the fluttering hands stopped and a settlement seemed to be reached, Glassy-Eyes beckoned him over.
“This was not the wine I ordered,” she said.
A cold finger of disbelief went down Chay’s spine. “I beg your pardon?” he managed to get out.
“You heard me: this was not the wine I ordered. I ordered a Sauvignon Blanc listed at forty-five dollars a bottle, and even at that, it was over-priced. You have the nerve to tell me we drank two bottles of a wine priced at one-fifty. That’s ridiculous!”
“Madam. I mentioned the name of the bottle; you told me it was the first Sauvignon Blanc on the list, and I showed you the bottle, which you agreed to. That was the wine. Cloudy Bay Te Koko.”
“You’re the one who’s cloudy. That was not the wine I asked for.”
“May I call over the manager to see if he can rectify the situation?” Chay did not wait for an answer. He explained the situation to the manager who followed him to the table.
The restaurant was now almost empty, a few last patrons just sitting over their coffee or dessert, finishing conversations as they paid their tabs. Chay stared up at the painted angels on the ceiling, the presentations of Italian castles and vineyards he would never see. He listened as the manager explained Chay had brought them the wine they had asked for—the first one on the list—and had showed them the bottle. The woman demanded to see the wine list again and, as she spotted Cloudy Bay Te Koko was, indeed, the first on the list of Sauvignon Blancs, she explained how the wine list was so designed that, in order to hold it, her finger was forced to cover the first entry so she thought Geyser Peak was first. The manager—a man who well knew the various tricks patrons could pull in order to reduce their bills—gave his regrets but the price was the price, and they had to pay. And Chay saw, in that moment, his tip go out the window.
“All right,” Glassy-Eyed, who, for the first time during the entire meal, now seemed wide awake, continued. “We’d like one-forty taken out of this,” she said laying down two hundred-dollar bills, “One-nineteen taken on this Visa, another one-hundred-twenty-nine taken off this Mastercard, and one-hundred-twenty-seven taken out of that.”
Chay waited while Handbag laid down another couple of hundred-dollar bills. He made a few notes on his pad, scooped up the cards and cash, and made his way to the till at the back. Feeling his blood pressure rise to new heights, he almost asked one of the other waiters to take the change and card paperwork back, but he confronted the foursome, leaving them to tip whatever they would, wishing them good-night, and heading off. When they, at last, gathered their bags and managed to sway and stumble to the coat check, he braved returning to the table.
There, among the signed credit card slips in the usual plastic folder, was one twenty laid on the table, one ten-dollar bill, and the two slips. Holding his breath, he picked them up. One had left fifteen dollars.
On the other was written, “I don’t believe in tipping but my telephone number is 646-900-3146.”
* * *
K.C. awoke as Chay slipped into the warm bed and ran a hand down the curves of her body. He snuggled up to her, gathering her into him, and she felt the stirring of his desire and the warmth from his skin. The scent of his manliness moved her to awaken more alert now as his hands hugged her head, pulling her close for a kiss at once soft and sad before it grew in passion, deepening as he released her onto the pillow, his hand trailing the length of her body, caressing it as he sighed.
“I love you.” He pulled back to study her face as if he were memorizing it. “I love you a lot.” Chay tilted his head as if deciding whether those were the right words to use to express his love, then moved in to kiss her once more, brushing his lips against hers before permitting himself to sink into her.
“It’s a good thing,” K.C. whispered against his mouth. “A very good thing. Because I love you, too.” Her body began to react to the closeness, the intimacy of his physique, his bulk, and she slipped down in the bed, raising her arms as Chay danced his fingers down her sides before ruching her nightdress up and over her head. She moved her leg over his to collect him closer, sliding her own hands down the valleys of his back, running a trail back up and into his shaggy hair.
This time his kiss had more urgency as his body grew greedy for her and he edged on top, her legs wrapping him in need as he moved to make his claim. Pulling back on his hands, he studied her face as he entered her and began to move to the rhythm she set, their bodies setting an ever-increasing tempo as he nuzzled into the side of her neck causing her to whimper. His low moan was a breath across her lips.
K.C.’s mind blanked, as her hands traveled the length of him finding the spot low on his back that heightened his need. She saw nothing, experienced only Chay, could not sense where her body ended and his began, felt at one with him before her body lifted into him to meet his ecstasy with her own.
Her body ached for him, seemed to be singing, ‘one, one, one’ as she drifted into sleep.
And neither of them thought about the day they’d had.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Why are you wearing that suit?” K.C. raised an eyebrow, trying not to look too concerned.
“Because it’s the only one I have?”
“Golly, what year is that thing?” Daphne popped some chewing gum into her mouth before reaching for the doorknob. “You two have a great Thanksgiving. I’m off.”
Chay breathed out a deep sigh. “Good-bye, and good riddance,” he mumbled before catching K.C.’s look.
“Again: why are you wearing a suit?”
“You said that suit before. That has a different meaning to a.”
“Chay, please don’t split hairs with me. You know very well what I mean. I know you hate the thought of going to my parents, but at least Mother had the decency to invite you herself—”
“Oh, yes, it was very decent of her: ‘would you like to join K.C. at our house for Thanksgiving? I’m sure she’d love for you to be there.’”
“All right, so it wasn’t the most sincere, warm invitation you’ve ever received—”
“I’d say it ranked pretty low on the Ridgway invite-o-meter. But maybe the Ridgway invite-o-meter has far too high expectations. Such as, I’d love to have you here, or I’d love to see you, Chay.”
K.C. felt her head; she was sure a headache was coming on. “Look. Just chang
e into something you’re comfortable in, try to be yourself, your own charming self, and everything will be fine.”
“Shouldn’t we be bringing them some wine or something? Flowers?”
“It wouldn’t go amiss, I guess. We can pick up something on the way there.”
They stood facing each other, expressionless for a moment before Chay headed back to the bedroom. “Are jeans okay?” he called over his shoulder.
As the bedroom door closed part way so he could get into the closet, K.C. muttered a “yes” and sank onto the sagging sofa. She studied her hands, the bitten nails, peeled polish and chapped skin. Sensing this was going to be the worst Thanksgiving of her life, she took another chomp from the side of a nail as Chay emerged looking somewhat as if he were going to cut cattle for branding. She studied him for a moment, meeting his inquiring gaze. “You don’t happen to own a plain shirt, maybe a button down, or perhaps a sweater?”
Chay shook his head in agreement before traipsing back to their bedroom. When he emerged, he had on a cable-knit crew-neck over his check shirt.
“Fine. Let’s go, I’m phoning Uber.” She turned away to call, hiding the slight worry still niggling at her.
They remained silent standing outside, leaves in small cyclones parading down the sidewalk, the traffic almost nonexistent on their side street. Chay leaned against the neighboring house’s railing, lethargy evident in his stance. K.C. kept checking the progress of the car.
“How are we going to pick up flowers or wine?” he asked, blinking awake.
“Oh, hell. I totally forgot. Well…. Never mind now, here it comes.”
Tension oozed from Chay as they sat at opposite ends of the back seat. K.C. could feel it, like an electric current running from him to her. His arm was up on the backrest, one finger tapping out a tattoo of strain. She knew he hated all of this, hated the pretense of liking her parents for an evening when he didn’t, never could, never would. And she, in turn, hated having to make him go, despaired at putting him through this, dictating the terms by which they now lived. She stuttered in a breath and sighed.
“What’s wrong?” His voice came out almost disinterested, not polite, but as if it was an automatic question.
“I hate making you do this. But Chay—”
He sat up and edged over closer to her. “You’re not making me. I have free will.” He offered her a smile. “I wouldn’t want to spend Thanksgiving on my own. Without you.”
She glanced at him to check his sincerity and accepted his peace treaty with a nod. “If…if you really hate it, if it gets too much, if they get nasty, just let me know. I’ll leave with you.”
Chay snorted. “Okay,” he said in a more upbeat voice. “What’s our signal?”
K.C. took in a deep breath and smiled at last. “Our signal? Our signal is…K.C., are you ready to go home now? Because I am. How’s that?”
“Perfect. Shall I practice that?” He laughed, just as the car pulled up at the apartment building. A doorman stepped to the curb and opened the car door.
She got out and swung to meet him as he emerged from the vehicle and faced her. “No.” She giggled. “If you say it, it needs to sound fresh and original.”
Chay had never encountered this sort of wealth, or at least not this type of display of wealth. Back in Wyoming, if anyone had money like that murderous Jamie’s family did, it might come out in the size of the house, the cars they drove, the type of horses and stock they had. The wives might wear jewels, sure, and for all he knew their clothes might be expensive, but he’d never been invited into a home where recognizable artists’ work hung on the walls, chandeliers hung from the ceiling, silver and crystal, and objects of vertu adorned room after room. He felt like he was in a museum.
Carol had her help in for the evening. The woman kept busy drying glasses as they sauntered past, a person who no doubt needed the pay so much, she was willing to give up holiday time with her own family. Chay felt like spending the evening talking to her, but that wouldn’t happen. As K.C. led him into the living room, Alan and Carol both stood to greet them. Carol’s face was an older version of K.C.’s, but it was Alan’s brown hair and blue eyes K.C. had inherited. Carol was dressed in a white, high collared blouse and navy skirt belted in gold, elegant to the bone.
Another couple completed the party; the man rose to greet them while the woman stayed seated. Chay felt her glare run over him, dismay evident as she crossed her legs and grimaced.
“Good to see you, Charles.” Alan extended his hand.
Chay looked at it for a moment before deciphering the ‘Charles.’ Then he shook hands with as much warmth as he could muster and said, “Uh, Chay actually. No one ever calls me Charles.”
“Fine, fine.” Alan patted him on the back. “These are our dear friends, Alice and John Schofield.”
Chay shook hands with John Schofield and started toward Alice, still seated in her chair, but as he received a rather false smile as encouragement, he nodded at her and put his arm around K.C., who had finished kissing her parents and their friends to say hello. He looked for a place to settle when Alan motioned him to sit, and saw one remaining armchair into which he drooped with K.C. perched on the corner.
“Sooooo.” Alan sounded as if he were more at sea with the situation than Chay. He poured them glasses of champagne to match the others, smiled encouragingly, and offered, “How are things in Wyoming? Or maybe I should say, how were things? Before you left….”
“Oh, you live in Wyoming! That explains it,” Alice drooled. She leaned forward, taking in Chay’s boots for the second time. “I wondered why you were dressed like that!”
For a moment, Chay thought he might say it was the best costume he could come up with, but K.C.’s pat on the knee calmed him down. “Yes,” he responded, his voice quiet. "I’m afraid I’m a bit short of proper New York gear.”
“Well, one thing,” John pointed out to the others, “You’re all gun totin’ Republicans in Wyoming, that’s for sure.”
Chay caught the look on K.C.’s face, the panic, if not horror that exuded dread. He tapped her shoulder in reassurance. “Uh, guns, yes,” he explained. “If you have stock or live somewhere wildlife is plentiful. But not all Republicans, I’m afraid. Or at least, I mean to say, I’m…not…always.”
The four older adults looked at one another. “Well, of course, we may be misinformed,” Carol responded. “No matter. We don’t live in Wyoming anyway!” And she seemed to think this was hysterically funny and laughed.
Chay realized at that point, sometime, during the evening, he was either going to get very angry or puke on their no-doubt-expensive carpets, and the best idea might be to just get as drunk as possible. He looked up at K.C. who, in that moment, he sensed almost read his mind. She lifted another two glasses of champagne from the tray the serving woman brought around and handed him one.
“Enjoy!” she said. “And I do mean, enjoy.”
As the evening progressed, Chay neither vomited nor got angry with his hosts or their other guests. He suffered through, thinking of replies that somehow side-stepped their actual questions and his real answers. He understood this was K.C.’s family, this was her world, and he could not bring it down around her ears. He maintained a stolid and sensible outlook for her sake, explained what being a rancher meant—or tried to—what the differences were between life in the city and life in the country. He knew they weren’t so ignorant as to not know where their food came from, but he found them disinterested in any other lifestyle but their own. Their vacations would be Europe or the Caribbean, he believed, with little interest in their own country other than, perhaps, New Orleans or Charleston. Cities, not countryside, unless it was to ski or escape summer heat by the beach.
As they said their good-nights he apologized to Carol for not having brought her wine or flowers and just got a smile with the tilt of her head. It told him any flowers he could have brought would not have been good enough, any wine not what they drank. Chay watched as K.C.
kissed her parents good-night and said her farewells to their guests, wondering how he had fallen in love with a girl of this background.
And then he remembered her in Wyoming, recalling how they had both been while there, enjoyed themselves together, loved each other, and she had seemed so right.
In Wyoming.
* * *
Daphne’s flick of her hand ‘good-bye’ resembled being given the bird, and K.C.’s quick peck on the cheek as she headed out to classes left Chay feeling deserted and useless. What was his purpose in being here? To study for a high school diploma he had no intention of ever using to get into college? He looked again at the books: ‘A basketball team has won 60 games out of 90….’ Oh, geesh. I can’t do this.
Pushing the books away, he leaned back in his chair, rocking it on two legs, trying to clear his head. He missed the company of men—men who knew him, worked cattle, competed in rodeo, were part of his world. Being dependent on K.C., as a proverbial square peg in a round hole—or was it the other way around?—did not suit him. He wanted his own life. And yet, he knew it was a temporary situation, the best answer for them both, and he could sweat it out. But that dumb test? Did he need that?
The phone jerked him away from his reveries and it took him a moment to focus on the name: Adnan. That’s a surprise.
“Hey, Adnan. I was just thinking of you,” he lied.
“Chay, this is very good to know, but I have bad news.”
“Bad news, Adnan? What sort of bad news?” Chay’s mind whirled trying to think of something Adnan could tell him that would be bad news for him to hear. He rubbed his forehead.
“Ah, my friend Chay. Can we meet now at the Starbucks on Ninth?”
Chay arrived first, pushing the door open into the steam and noise of the busy venue. He got a quick wink from the barista he knew fancied him, observing her as she finished with another patron, her smile creeping up. In the line, he dithered over what to order, attempting to remember Adnan’s complicated mix, and decided on a treat of some nature to fill him up until lunchtime. This was one thing about New York he could tolerate—while it was normal for him to go out mornings on the range with a thick cup of black java, living here had made him a bit more adventurous and ready to try different flavors.
City Boy, Country Heart: Contemporary Western Romance (Heart of the Boy Book 2) Page 4
