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I chuckle. “You think he’d know better than to ask at Club Red.” How stupid can one guy be? Asking at my friend's club for somebody to cause me trouble elevates him to a new level of profound stupidity I hadn’t thought possible before now.
“You’d think, but clearly not. Just watch your back.” Arson sounds concerned as I continue my workout, feeling the blazing white-hot pain tearing through my arms. “I told him to go home to his wife instead of trying to harass you.”
“I’ll watch my back, thanks.” I say with effort. “I bet he didn’t like you telling him to go home to his wife.” What the fuck is a married man doing at Club Red, anyway? It's one thing if somebody works there, but he doesn't, which means he's there for other reasons. I highly doubt the only reason he is there is to hire someone to fuck with me.
“No, he didn't like it one bit.” Arson chuckles.
I wish I could have been there to see his face when Arson said those words. And I have no idea why he's been after me so hard. Maybe he’s just pissed he lost millions to a bad investment, but didn't talk me into doing the same? Some people get pissed when they can't drag others down with them.
Still, the fact that he wants somebody to beat me up or wants to slash my tires leaves me more furious with him.
“I just need you to make sure you don't attack him on Club Red property, okay? I don't want to have to kick you out.” Arson's serious tone warns me of the gravity of the situation.
“I know, man. I'll do my best to behave myself.” I continue my workout even though my body feels stiff and unable to keep going. Though I’m enjoying our conversation, I know it’s about time to wrap up our talk. “I'll be at that party; thanks for the invite. And congratulations again.”
“Thanks, man. And good talk.”
With that, we both say our goodbyes and hang up the call. The line goes silent in my ear, but only for a moment before my music starts up again. I continue my workout, feeling my body overheating and the sweat rolling down my skin.
As I work out, I try to solve the puzzle of who to bring to the party. While I could go alone, I'd rather not. I'm not a fan of parties to begin with, and I don't want to show up alone. Still, I had already said that I'd be there, and I wouldn't dream of bailing on my friend.
Again, the only person that comes to mind is Alisha, but I can't imagine she'd go with me, and it seems rude - and wrong - to ask. She's my cook; she's going to feel obligated to say yes because she works for me and I’m her boss. To be completely honest with myself, I don't want her to go because she feels like she has to; I want her to go with me because she wants to go with me.
I keep punishing my body while searching for an answer, but none comes.
I can't stop watching Alisha as she moves around the kitchen. My mother stands near the cook, as if waiting to help with something, and I lean against the cabinets not far away.
“So tell me more about this man you met?” I cross my arms and watch my mother. I love her very much, but I can't help but feel like she's moving way too fast with this new man in her life. It’s not my place to say anything, but I'm genuinely concerned for her safety.
She lets out a sigh. “Harvey is a very nice man and I plan on taking him on vacation. We’re going to go on a week-long cruise.”
“Going with a near stranger on a cruise? That sounds like a great way to wind up on Dateline NBC.” I let out a slight snort and Alisha glances at me over her shoulder. I can't quite read her thoughts in the expression before she turns back to the food. I also can't help but wonder if we're annoying her by hanging out in the kitchen while she works. Both my mother and I offered to help her, but she didn’t have anything for us to do. So instead, my mother and I are just standing around talking.
“You're being silly. I'm a grown woman and I will be just fine.” My mother rolls her eyes at me, clearly tired of having this conversation, even though it's only the second time we've discussed her going on vacation with this guy.
“I don't know. What do you think, Alisha?” As I say the words, the cook’s spine straightens up, and she seems to hesitate for a moment.
Alisha turns to face me, her eyes filled with surprise as she glances at me, then at my mother, then turns back to the food she’s preparing.
“You don't need to bother dear Alisha about this. I'm not stupid or naive, and I'm not going to wind up murdered.” My mother sounds even more annoyed that I pulled the cook into this conversation. Still, I want somebody else's perspective.
“It’s okay, Beverly.” Alisha sounds thoughtful, as if she’s really putting effort into her reply, which I'm grateful for. The fact that she's actually willing to think about it and give a well-rounded answer makes me confident she’ll see my point of view and agree with me.
She seems to find a chance to take a break from working on food and turns to face both of us while leaning back against the counter. Her hands fidget with a damp washcloth, and she wipes her hands absentmindedly before tossing the cloth into the sink and walking over and turning on the water. She puts soap into her palm and begins to meticulously wash her hands, scrubbing with the zealousness and precision of a surgeon prepping for surgery. “Beverly is smart and capable, and I'm actually more afraid for Harvey if he does something stupid.”
My mother's eyes light up and she lets out a chuckle. I know for a fact that Alisha has just made my mother super happy with her accurate assessment.
I find myself almost agreeing with her, before remembering that we're at opposite ends of the argument. “You may have a point. So what's for dinner?”
She smiles. “I think you very well know what's for dinner.” With that, she turns back to the steaks that she's been watching.
“Well, I know about the steaks. I was curious about what you have cooking in the pot.” Whatever she's cooking, it smells absolutely delicious, as usual. I don't think she's made anything that I don't like at this point, and I'm excited for whatever's for dinner.
She lights up and I see her doing a slight dance with her shoulders. “Come look,” she says, gesturing with one hand as my mother moves in closer. She tilts the lid on the pot as I walk over and peek into the pot alongside my mother.
“This is my creamy snap peas with bacon and parmesan.”
As she speaks, I can't help but inhale the tantalizing scent of the food while she explains further. “Imagine an Alfredo except with no noodles; instead, it has snap peas and carrots, along with bacon and Parmesan. It's a really rich dish, but pairs beautifully with steak and a good red wine.”
