Chapter Six
Charles
I glance down at the treadmill and realize I've been jogging for nearly double my typical distance at a higher speed than usual. So I slow the pace to a walk to cool down my muscles while thinking about how great I feel.
I'm not winded. I’m not sore. I don't feel like I've been running for longer than usual. I don't even feel like I need this cool down walk, but, of course, I'm not going to be irresponsible about my workout like that.
Uncomfortable, I think about the other day when I’d grabbed heavier weights than usual and didn’t even notice the change. I know that I definitely have more energy and my body feels better. Picking up my water bottle, I take a deep drink before putting the black bottle back in the cupholder.
The room is absolutely quiet, which is how I prefer my in-home private gym and my reflection looks no different in the mirrors. Maybe I look a bit better rested, but I am. I’ve been sleeping better, deeper, and for longer than my previous four hours a night.
Now I'm getting between six and the recommended eight hours - something I’d long considered impossible for me. As much as I want to say the reason I'm sleeping more is the inevitable brain death of not getting enough protein to fuel my gray matter, I honestly think that this diet has had positive impacts on my health.
But the second those thoughts start, I bring them to a grinding halt.
For now, I feel a lot more comfortable saying that I've been drinking more water, or getting more exercise, and that’s why I feel better and am sleeping more soundly. The treadmill comes to a halt, and I step off of the belt before making my way to the gym shower to clean up, change, and get ready for the next leg of my journey today - going to Club Red.
I make my way into the club to meet up with Arson. In the front room, women dance, drinks flow, and the overwhelming sounds and smells assault my senses. Taking this place over was an excellent choice for Arson and he's been rolling in the money since.
He and Hunter made too many changes to count and now the place rakes in the money, which certainly makes the previous owner happy, since he’d negotiated a cut of profits. Smart businessman made a smart deal that’s paying off in dividends. I know a lot of the guys around here are friends, but I'm one of the newest on the scene so I haven't quite made a bro bond with the crew yet.
As I keep walking, the music fades into the background of my mind. The red lights of the club give the place an unearthly glow and I scan the faces until I spot Arson at the bar talking to someone I don’t recognize.
Before I can make my way to him, an unwelcome figure blocks my path, crossing his beefy arms and glares at me. I can say he's quite easily one of the last people I want to deal with right now... or ever.
“Fancy seeing you here.” Methew chuckles at his own words like the knucklehead he is, and I bite back any words that might try to escape.
Without saying a word, I try to skirt around him, but he takes a step to the side, effectively blocking my path. I know there's no way this encounter can end well; last time we did this dance, we almost got into a fistfight.
“Too good to talk to me?” Methew cracks his knuckles, and I wonder if he'll ever let go of the past. Nothing that fantastic even happened; I turned down a bad business deal he offered me, and then when things went belly up, I didn't so much as bat an eye.
“Just not interested in anything you have to say and I have things to do.” Just about the last thing I want to do is give him a moment to bring up any investment opportunity he's thinking about. The guy fails spectacularly at business in all forms. If he didn't have his parents’ money, he'd be up a bad creek right now without a paddle... or a boat for that matter.
Some people have all the luck. I built myself from the ground up, but he was built from the ground up with every luxury money could afford from the time he was born. One good thing is that at the end of the day, I can be proud of what I’ve built; whereas, he just has to crawl back to mom and dad on his belly and beg for more money to get him out of the latest hole he’s dug himself into. Imagine how much of an embarrassment it must be to have groomed a child from a young age for great things, only for him to be a complete flop.
“Sounds like you're just mad you missed out on a good deal.” As he says the words, I glance at his face, trying to figure out if he's joking. Judging by the look on his face, he is absolutely not joking, but I have no idea what good deal he thinks I missed out on. Is the man so delusional that he doesn't even understand that he is a complete failure in the business world? Does he calm himself to sleep at night by saying he did a good job?
He doesn't seem to like my stare and puffs up his chest. “What’s your problem?” He throws those words while reaching out and shoving my shoulders. I don't so much as budge, but I do glance down where he touched me.
“Keep your hands to yourself.” As I say the words, I take another step to the side, trying to walk around him. Because if I don't get away from this bastard right now, I might just break his nose, and I don't need to deal with any of that shit right now.
“Or you'll what?” Once again, he blocks my path, his two friends backing up the stuff with nervous expressions on their face, as if they know their ringleader is fucking up. Not because of what I'm about to do, but because they probably don't want to get thrown out of the club for good.
“Man, I really think you've got me confused with someone else.” This guy has way too much hate in his heart for somebody he’s only met a handful of times who turned him down once for a bad business deal.
“No, Charles, I don't have you confused with anyone else. I know exactly who the fuck you are.” He takes a step toward me as he says the words, getting up in my face, and I try to hold back a sigh because the last thing I want to do is get in a fight right now.
All of a sudden a hand claps down on my shoulder and I'm guided away from Methew. Arson glances at me, then at Methew.
“You, leave, right now.” He makes a hand gesture with his middle and index finger, moving back and forth like a person walking away.
Methew’s friends guide him off, but I can see the tension in his shoulders and know he wants to stay and fight.
“Why does Daddy's Money always gravitate toward you?” Arson seems more amused than upset as he guides me toward the front door.
“Just lucky, I guess.”
He chuckles. “We'll have to catch up later. Why don't you duck out for the night, though?”
I nod, recognizing the warning for what it is. “I'll make myself scarce for the night. Catch you around later.” I know that if I really wanted to talk to him, he would likely make some time, but at the moment I'm not really feeling on my game and now doesn't seem like the right time anyway.
“Good. Good. Looking forward to it.” With that, he slaps me on the shoulder as I make my way to the front door as he makes a U-turn back into the club.
It's the first time I've been unceremoniously asked to leave the club, but I don't mind because Arson’s method lets me know that I'm not the problem, Methew is the issue. One of these days I’m going to pummel the shit out of him and it’ll be cathartic. I don’t know why he has a problem with me, or even why I have a problem with him; he just has one of those punchable faces.
I make my way back to my car and before I know it, I'm behind the wheel. Feeling both tired and keyed up, I park in my usual spot, then get out to make my way to the front door with quick steps.
Once inside, I can hear noises coming from the kitchen and I'm not sure why. She's not supposed to be here right now; she was supposed to leave after breakfast. I make my way to the kitchen and find her on her hands and knees, cleaning up the floor.
The trash is right next to her, and every once in a while she tosses something in and the unmistakable clink of glass on glass rattles.
“Are you okay?” As I say the words, she nearly jumps out of her skin, spinning to face me.
“You scared me!” She sounds out of breath as she speaks, then guilt colors her features. “I broke a glass casserole dish, I’m sorry. You can take it out of my pay.” As the words flood out of her, I lift a hand and shake my head.
“Mistakes happen. I'm not going to charge you for something breaking.” I'm not that kind of person and never have been. “However, it's not your job to be cleaning up, so leave it. Go home, and we’ll let the cleaning crew take care of it.”
For the first time, I notice that my kitchen looks like a crime scene. There's red splattered everywhere, and I wonder what was in the casserole dish that fell and broke.
She shakes her head. “It's my mess. I'm not going to leave it for anyone else to clean.” Well, it's a very commendable stance for her to take. It's frustrating that she's not listening to me, so I figure the best thing I can do to make her want to leave sooner is to get on my hands and knees right beside her and help.
I do just that, moving to her side and getting on my knees, immediately feeling the wet tomato base seep into my clothing while she stares at me.
“What are you doing?”
I glance over at her, aware that we're very, very close, nearly shoulder to shoulder. “Helping you clean.”
“I don't like that either. If I wanted someone else to clean my mess, I'd just leave it for the cleaning crew. You're defeating the whole point.” She seems surprised, though, by my gesture, and I pick up a piece of glass and toss the shard into the trash.
“Well, I don't like the thought of you in here on your hands and knees cleaning up broken glass, but here we are.” I grab the cloth out of the bucket sitting in front of us and wring the moisture out. While I wait for her to think of her reply, I begin to scrub the tomato off the cabinet face. Working my way from top to bottom, I dip the cloth back in the bucket and squeeze out the water again, watching the liquid stain even darker.
But instead of saying anything, she really shrugs her shoulders and begins picking up more shards of glass. “It was a really nice casserole dish.” She sounds almost sad and I can't help myself.
“Let me know what kind it was, and I'll order a new one immediately.” I don't think I could care less about dishes, but if it's important to her, I'm happy to make sure she has what she needs to do her job in comfort for as long as she's here.
“I already feel bad enough breaking it. I'm not going to ask you to buy another one.”
But she's missing the point. “If you truly like that dish, if it makes your job better, easier, or even nicer, I’d rather purchase another than have you go without.”
She pauses for a moment, then speaks in a thoughtful tone, settling back on her heels as I continue to clean up red sauce. “That might be the nicest thing an employer has ever said to me.”
I hold back a chuckle. “Obviously you've worked for some really miserable bastards.”
“Present company excluded, of course?” she asks, arching an eyebrow at me. This time, I let the laugh come.
“Absolutely not.” I know I’m a miserable bastard, and I’m likely a nightmare to work for. Lord knows I’ve given her enough grief since she started. Hell, I might be the most miserable bastard of them all. And I realize I’m enjoying this back and forth. I’m enjoying being on my knees, cleaning up broken glass and tomato from the floor and cabinets. I’m enjoying her .
This does not bode well for our working relationship, so I’d be better off putting all of those thoughts in a box and sinking them to the bottom of the ocean, along with the accompanying feelings. I have no right to enjoy her company - she’s hired help. Anything else I feel is inappropriate and unwelcome and best kept to myself.
Besides, we’re clearly from different worlds. And I don’t mean that in a disparaging way, simply in our lives could never line up enough for a relationship to work kind of way.
“Thank you for this,” she says, her voice suddenly soft.
“For what?” I ask, startled out of my thoughts.
She nods at the floor. “For helping me clean up.”
Her words send an unexpected wave of warmth through me. “Of course.” For once, I’m not sure what else to say, so I pick up another bit of glass and drop the shard in the trash.
“Want me to make you another steak?”
I glance at her, surprised. She’s not supposed to be here, much less be making me food. I’m fully expecting her to laugh, tell me she’s joking, and tease me for thinking she meant her words, but she doesn't.
“Are you supposed to be home right now?”
She nods. “But I want to properly thank you for your help.” The second she says those words, her cheeks go red and my body reacts. We both freeze, as if shocked by our reactions, and I quickly respond.
“I’d like that, thank you.”
Together, we put the last of the glass in the garbage and she wipes up a huge glob of red sauce. I put a hand on hers. “I’ll get the mop.”
Her gaze meets mine and her throat flexes as she swallows hard. She nods, and I leave the room to get the promised mop, well aware that if I don’t get out now, I might do something I’ll regret later... like kiss her.