“You knew she had the water on behind the bar, didn’t you?” I sputter as I pull the soaking wet bar towel from my face.
Gordon, my friend, the man I love more than a brother, is unable to answer. He’s doubled over, laughing, barely able to keep himself propped up with an arm on the bar as he tries to catch a breath.
Just as he is about to get control of himself, I put on a serious face and say, “Go ahead and laugh you miserable—” And a fresh bout of laughter erupts and he’s bent over nearly double again. The bartender returns with a fresh, dry, towel.
“You had it coming,” she says. “You were showing off too much and you should know better than to hit on a hardworking woman with four kids at home. And since when does one of Gordon’s employees make enough to buy even one Tesla, let alone two?”
Shrugging, I say, “You don’t know what he pays me?”
She cocks an eyebrow. Her expression is 25 percent flirty (never piss off a customer) and 75 percent put me in my place. “You know,” she says, “you’re just a little too full or yourself. I’m thinking that, whatever he pays you, it just may be too much.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m being rude, and I apologize. As someone like you who has to work for a living, I should have known better.”
Her smile triples in wattage. I stick out a hand. “I’m Trey.”
“Veronica,” she replies while taking my hand. “I’m glad you’re a good sport.”
Laughing, I say, “It was more than worth it to see the boss laughing so hard.”
“Did Gordon really buy two bottles of Henri IV?” I ask. “Just to play a joke on me?”
“No.” She cuts her eyes to Gordon and, smiling, says, “The tightwad has only been pretending to drink cognac worth $500 a pour.”
By now, Gordon has recovered enough to speak and, wiping tears from his eyes, says, “Hey, I may own the place but the quantoids are as brutal with me about expenses as they are everyone else in the company.” His face getting more serious, he then says, “How are things, Ronnie?”
The woman’s face falls, the smile fades a notch, and she says, “Okay.” I suddenly see the picture and know she’s one of our projects.
Straightening and, again, dialing up that smile, she says, “Look, Gord, I gotta get back to work. I’ve got your card, let me know when you want me to run it.”
“No problem,” he replies. “Thanks, Ronnie. It didn’t work out the way we thought it would, but the towel was priceless.”
Once the bartender is far enough away, I turn to Gordon and say quietly, “She wouldn’t accept any direct help from you?”
Clearing his throat and lowering his own voice, he says, “Breanna and I didn’t know how bad things were. All we ever got was a vibe but nothing we could pin down. Ronnie’s a proud, smart woman who works impossibly hard and wants to make it on her own. We found out about her situation through one of the clubs we’ve set up out in Gresham that calls itself Single Moms Strong. Ronnie threw out her husband after she found out all their money was going to drugs. The counselor for the group referred her to one of our job placement services and childcare was arranged so she could take this gig. Our service reimburses the owner of this club to help pay for her wages, which are better than average, and her tips are such that she makes enough here part time so she has more time for kids and school. Of course, I know nothing about that.”
“Right,” I say. “And she’ll get a nice tip, I assume.”
“Yeah, she’ll bitch about it being too big to take from a friend but, eventually, she’ll grudgingly agree. Breanna will see to that. And it’s been so worth it.”
Dabbing with the dry towel at a wet spot I’d missed, I say, “I can see why you’d think so.”
Turning to scan the room, I say, “There is little chance we can improve on the evening so we might as well—”
My words are cut short by a little black dress.
Whatever the size, some women just have it regardless of how it’s packaged. In this case, the package is plus sized with all the curves precisely where they belong.
For me, the right woman isn’t someone on my arm to give my ego a bump. It’s the right mix of crackling intelligence between the ears that shines through eyes that pull me straight down into their depths. Put that with the way this woman seems to carry her raw sexuality within a controlled exterior that only comes off at a time and place of her own choosing and you know you’re in the presence of the exceptional.
Or it could be I’m just horny as hell.
When our eyes lock, the air in the room is suddenly charged with millions of volts of electricity that lights up my libido.
And then it’s over. She throws the switch into the off position with one of those little crook her finger come here big boy moves that tells me I had her all wrong. She’s really one of those who sees sex as power and that turns me off as if the sex hormones have been drained from my body.
She’s sensed the change in my mood and her eyes widen as I approach. She doesn’t back up an inch though. Instead, she stands more erect and her eyes become challenging. She’s got guts.
Leaning in close to her ear, I say, “You know sweety, for a second, I thought you were something special but it’s obvious to me now that I was wrong. Don’t catch anything during one of your hookups tonight in the men’s bathroom.”
Spinning to make my dramatic exit, I’m pretty good at those when I want to be, the pain in my bicep as she spins me back around makes it plain that she is no stranger to the gym.
“Listen, hotshot,” she says, “you don’t you ever talk to me that way.”
Resisting the urge to rub my arm, I say, “Oh, don’t worry, I don’t intend to ever talk to you again about any—”
“Shut up.” she says. “I’m not done yet. If a woman offers you the courtesy of her company and you’re not interested, don’t be such a asshole. Just tell her you need to run off home to jack off to your porn collection because you aren’t man enough to handle the real thing, okay?” Then, with a shooing motion of her hand, she says, “You can go now. You have a nice evening, Mister Madison.”
It’s her turn to spin into a dramatic exit but as she does so, I say, “Wait, how do you know my—”
Before I can finish the sentence, my other bicep feels an acute pain as I am spun back around toward the door. It’s Raphael who always takes it upon himself to be nearby when I’m not safely in my headquarters we call The Fort.
As he leads me to the door, I say, “Hey, Raff, she knew my—”
“We know,” he replies. “That’s why we’re leaving right now. Gray is already pulling up to the curb.”
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