Chapter 6
Alex
That didn’t go the way I expected.
And even less did I expect to run into HER in that shop. What are the odds.
And yet: she’s so beautiful! Even more beautiful than I remembered. And that fire in her eyes. You’d think she was about to go for my throat. I like women with fire in their gaze, and the fire in Beth’s eyes seems to burn especially bright.
Honk honk hoooonk
"Hey, man, the light’s been green forever, you rich bastard in your Bentley," yells a New York cabbie behind me, sticking his arm out the window and gesturing wildly.
I shake my head, look at the light, and drive off. That unexpected reunion with Beth has me drifting into a daydream right in the middle of city traffic.
Okay, maybe I should face the truth: she hates me.
And I can’t blame her, because a year ago it must have looked to her like I coldly dumped her.
Jealous Dilara probably wasn’t especially kind to her when she escorted Beth out of the house.
I only know her version, which said Beth stormed out.
But I can’t and won’t ask Dilara anymore.
It was way too long ago anyway; she probably remembers even fewer details than I do.
But why is the beautiful Beth—whose breasts looked even fuller—making such a fuss? Sure, I hurt her, but why turn down the dinner invitation? If that isn’t internationally recognized as an apologetic gesture, I don’t know what is.
Oh, those breasts...
My mind wanders again and I see her standing in front of me in her green florist’s apron that perfectly shows off her gorgeous curves and...
"Damn," I mutter, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. I’m probably chronically sex-deprived. But that’s not the point right now. What’s dawning on me is that the whole thing with the shop just got a lot more complicated. Or maybe a lot simpler, because...
RING RING RING
The ringing of my phone cuts off my train of thought. My display flashes my assistant Eric’s name in all caps. Either he has a question, or he wants to put someone through.
"Eric, what’s up?" I ask, skipping the niceties. That’s the great thing about male assistants. Working together is so much more relaxed. Then again, maybe it’s the same with women you don’t want to fuck or haven’t fucked. Point is: Eric was a good choice.
"Did you have any luck, boss? Any progress with the shop?" he asks, and I instantly hear the nervous undertone in his voice.
"Help me out here, Eric," I say with a grin. "Is my assistant calling me to ask about the progress of my work? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?"
"Sorry, boss, I just wanted to..."
"Just kidding, Eric. It’s fine. What’s going on?" I cut him off and start to worry a little. He usually gets those kinds of jabs. Why not now? What does he want to tell me? He doesn’t have someone on the line—he would’ve said that first.
"Jake’s company. They want the shop and..."
"I know, Eric. We talked about that at the office earlier—that’s why I drove out here. What’s the matter?" I ask.
"Yeah, sorry, boss. I know. I mean, they don’t just want the shop." He hesitates again. "Remember our shopping mall plans for Manhattan?"
"Yeah, what about them?" I ask, a bad feeling creeping in. I’d developed the idea to build a shopping mall in Manhattan and put one of my stores in it. The plan had just cleared the city council. It was going to be a smash; all the experts involved were sure.
"I just found out. It’s only part of a bigger plan. They want to buy the entire block and put a mall on it."
For a moment, there’s silence on the line. I have to let the words sink in to grasp what they mean. That bastard Jake copies everything he can get his hands on.
"That’s..." I begin, but this time it’s Eric who cuts me off.
"...brilliant," he adds.
"I wouldn’t call it that. But did you check how far away the nearest malls are?"
"Of course, that’s why I’m calling. The location is perfect. It’s going to be a smash. Visitors will pour in, and I don’t have to tell you what that means for traffic at his burger place." He pauses to let it land.
"And we can guess three times which burger franchise won’t get a license for a spot in there. That bastard."
"What are you going to do now, boss?"
"As it happens, I know where the fancy Jake Ruddell always eats lunch." I check the time. "And as it happens, I’m right nearby."
We end the call; I signal, change lanes, and hit the gas, feeling my hands tighten around the steering wheel.
Jake can’t get Beth’s shop. Ever.
Then another voice pipes up in my head. A strange voice I’ve never heard before, asking me: Are you any better if you take the shop away from her?
I shove the thought aside, convincing myself my intentions are better and she’ll understand. But will she really?
******
"So, enjoying the chicken nuggets off the kids’ menu?" I call out when I find Jake—of course with my ex-assistant Dilara—at a table in one of the best restaurants around, not too proud to shout it across the entire place so investment bankers, brokers, and other suits turn their heads in confusion.
"Bro, what a nice surprise," he says after almost choking on a bit of—oh my God, is he eating caviar for lunch? How pretentious is this guy?—caviar. "Right, Dilara?" he asks his assistant.
"Not so much," she says, shoots me a disapproving look, folds her arms, and looks away.
I know him too well and can see in his eyes how insanely annoyed he is by my surprise visit.
Without asking, I grab the empty chair between them and sit. "Oh, I’m not interrupting a date, am I?" I ask, pointing my finger back and forth between them.
"You little comedian," Jake replies, laughing affectedly before turning back to his caviar.
"Really, Jake? Fish eggs for lunch?"
"Successful men have taste, Alex. No wonder you wouldn’t know, because—" he starts, but I cut him off.
"And here I thought I knew you better. I’d have thought if anyone here had balls for lunch, it’d be Dilara. Along with a stinking, slimy eel she shoves into her mouth and..."
"Shut your mouth, Alex," Jake suddenly roars, slamming his fist on the table. Again, all the other guests turn toward us. For a moment, the restaurant goes dead quiet, at least until the whispering starts back up.
I grin, satisfied, because I know I’ve got him by the balls now. I’ve found his weak spot.
"Dilara, wait outside," he snaps, flicking his hand to send her away.
"But I... my food..." she stammers nervously, her cheeks clearly flushed since my comment.
"I don’t give a shit. Go now," he snaps again, slamming his fist on the table.
She pauses for a moment, and I wonder how great it would be if she just spat in his face for his condescending tone. But that’s not her. Dilara has no class. Beth has class and... damn, I’m drifting.
Once Dilara’s out of earshot, Jake leans in toward me. "So, what do you want?"
"You know exactly what I want: to put you in your place. Your business only got big because you copy every idea and..."
"...I made the copy better than the original, you mean?" he says in that typically laid-back, condescending way that gets on my nerves so damn much. Shame the stunned silence didn’t last longer.
"This is about you having no decency. You take my ideas and... oh, whatever, you wouldn’t get it," I say, shaking my head. It’s just part of the tactic, because I’m not going to ask him to leave Beth’s shop alone. He’ll never do that. I have to draw him out.
"I want to talk about the plans for the mall," I say. "You know..."
"Yeah, sure. My new favorite project. And the shop owner of the place on 4th Street is one hot piece. Bet she gives a great blowjob, don’t you think, bro?"
A wave of rage slams into me. Scalding fire rises from my gut and spreads to every corner of my body. All because of that degrading comment. I can feel myself losing my composure, unable to stomach him talking about Beth like that. Has he already hit on her and... shit... maybe even asked her out?
"Let’s make a bet," I snap, the words out of my mouth before I think. I already regret it, but I can’t back down now—that would make me look weak. I know Jake loves betting on any kind of crap, and his eyes light up with interest.
"I’m listening," he says.
"Whoever gets the property with the flower shop gets to build the mall there. And he gets one million from the other."
"Tsk... tsk... a bet for pocket change," Jake says, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
"But fine. Seems you care about the woman, so the stakes are apparently higher. Let’s make it a little more interesting: whoever wraps her around his finger first and spends a night with her gets the million and the shop. "
Everything in me screams NO. But I can’t help it. I can’t back out now. I’ve always gotten what I wanted, and I want this shop—but I also want Beth, and more than anything I want to protect her from that obnoxious blowhard Jake. So I hold out my hand.
"Deal," we say, and shake on it.
Without another word, I get up and go.
"Oh, Alex," Jake calls after me. "Send Dilara back in, will you? She’s into eel, you know?"
As I walk, I toss my hand back, flip him the bird, and hear only a cheap laugh in response.
Damn, what have I gotten myself into? That did not go the way I wanted at all.
******
I’ve moved the rest of today’s work home. I’m in my living room, swirling a whiskey on the rocks in my hand while poring over some documents, but in my head I’m stuck on that stupid bet I agreed to, wondering what my next steps are.
Then it hits me I must look like one of those ridiculous, stereotypical Hollywood billionaires who wander around their mansions bored, knocking back whiskey. I set the glass aside, pack up the papers, and check my messages again.
Nothing.
That’s a good sign, because after leaving the restaurant I called Eric right away and asked him to hire a private investigator to keep an eye on Beth’s shop. He should contact me immediately if Jake shows up there, because then...
RIIINNNNNG
My doorbell. I head to the video intercom. There’s nothing to see at the street, and the image from the camera at the door is—once again—not visible because some joker has parked a flowerpot with one of the plants right in front of it.
Another one of those doorbell pranks. They’ve tapered off since last year, but I still haven’t found the culprit. Upgrading the camera so I can watch the footage from before the ring didn’t help either. Most of the time it was just a masked figure who then hustled off.
I suspected my neighbors. But they live in houses as big as mine.
Why the hell would they waste time with doorbell pranks when they’re pro athletes, CEOs, or the like?
It made no sense. Maybe one of their kids?
Rich kids do get bored. But am I supposed to just call every neighbor and ask: "Excuse me, does your kid like wearing balaclavas and pulling doorbell pranks? "
Who would admit that? The parents would probably just shove their kid’s elite-school report card under my nose and I’d have to sit through lectures about the golf handicap their children already have. I swore that if I ever had kids, they’d grow up grounded, go to a normal school, and...
I brush the thought aside as I walk to the door, wondering what’s waiting for me today. Me as a father figure... that was way too far off.
When I open the door, I let out a breath, because I’m greeted by a pitiful meow. In front of me isn’t a flaming paper bag filled with dog crap but a sweet little black-and-gray mottled kitten looking up at me and...
Oh God, is it bleeding from one of its paws?
"Where are you, you pig?" I shout, looking around, but of course there’s no one there.
"It’s okay, little one," I say, bending down and carefully extending my hand. The kitten trembles at first, then calms as I pet it. "Don’t be scared."
"I’m taking you inside now," I say, gently lifting the kitten into my arms, and I wonder how twisted someone can be. Flaming bags of dog crap were one thing. But deliberately injuring a cat and dropping it off—that was clearly too far.
"I’ll call a vet to take care of you. Want something to drink in the meantime?" I ask the sweet little thing looking up at me with big, innocent eyes. "I’m sure you do. Hang on a sec. And I’ll call Eric—he should send someone to bring you something decent to eat. You must be hungry."
I get a meow in response and can’t help grinning.
After I set a bowl of water in front of her, I dial Eric’s number.
"Boss, good thing you’re calling, I—"
"Let me go first," I cut him off and lay out my request.
"Okay, boss. Got it. I’ll handle it myself. But there’s something else..."
"What is it?" I ask.
"Jake... he’s in front of the shop on 4th Street. He’s still in the car, our guy on site says."
"Why the hell didn’t you say that right away?" I snap at him.
"But you wanted to handle the things for your cat first. Sir, I was just..." he stammers.
"I’m sorry, Eric. You’re right," I say evenly, thinking about Jake and how he treated Dilara. Am I really any different? I should treat my people better.
"Sorry about the tone. I’ll head out right away. The chopper’s still busted, I assume, so I’ll take the car. Can you take care of the cat? Her name is Cutie," I add.
"Will do, boss," Eric replies after a beat. "Are you okay?"
"You mean because I sound like a human right now, Eric? Yeah, thanks for asking. I’ve rarely been better," I reply.
Then we end the call, I grab the keys, run to the car, and kick myself for not going straight to Beth after the bet. It should’ve been obvious Jake would show up there right away. But what would I have said? Ask her to dinner again?
I had no plan and, for the moment, only one goal: Jake couldn’t have Beth. I just couldn’t stand the thought.