Chapter 4 Ribbed for Our Pleasure #2
Till eleventh grade, he’d been a scrawny late bloomer with braces, massive feet, and insane levels of ADHD.
But when his height grew to match his feet (six foot four), his braces came off, and he’d filled out to lean, mean, broad-shouldered proportions, he found himself the object of a weird amount of lusty energy.
(Though his personality, which resembled that of a boisterous Labrador puppy no one bothered to crate train, hadn’t changed.) His transformation did come in handy, though, once he started working as a detective.
For whatever reason, his looks made people feel safe—which gained him access to places, informants, and secrets.
During a short, post-detective stint as a physical trainer, one of his female clients put it into perspective.
“You have pretty privilege, just accept it,” the fifty-year-old minx said shortly before blowing him to absolute smithereens. Point, taken.
The vapidity of his new life was healing, after years of taking his sometimes dark, heavy, depressing detective work home. Also, he suspected that it did feed his ego. After all, if he didn’t enjoy the attention, would he have agreed to such a slutty logo?
Wes felt lucky that he’d finally stumbled upon professional success, post-detective life.
And he was proud of what he’d created. Natural Born Griller had character.
More importantly, it had a good-natured owner who made everyone feel special.
Because he genuinely, generally, felt like most people were.
Most significantly, it was powered by the single-minded focus and uncompromising passion of a thirty-two-year-old man on his third professional pivot after quitting investigative work.
Running the food truck was the only thing that stuck.
It was a low-stakes, high-reward, nonemotionally taxing job. It was healing.
Detective Wes had a stomach ulcer. Grillmaster Wes slept like a baby.
He was never forced to make morally gray decisions.
He hadn’t had a tortured thought in, damn, who knew how long?
These days, his thoughts went no deeper than marinades and rubs.
Detective Wes had been a nervous wreck. But Grillmaster Wes was floating on air.
He felt in control. Stable. Centered. And he had time to Wordle.
“Who’s next?” he said, brandishing a metal spatula.
“Little ol’ me,” trilled a bright-eyed older lady with a salt-and-pepper pixie cut.
Nana was a sixty-year-old, notoriously bawdy Haitian woman who ran a women’s health center.
She spent her free time doing one of two things: organizing protest marches and stressing out Flatbush’s most eligible Boomer men. “How you doing, young man?”
“Just laboring under capitalism, Ms. Nana. They let you out?”
Last weekend, Nana was arrested at a book-banning protest and spent two nights in jail before her Flatbush community banded together to make bail.
“You heard I was arrested?”
“You kidding? I pitched in for bail. Stay on their necks, ma’am. I’d expect nothing less.”
“Always.” She raised a Black Power fist. “I was arrested in a lace cardigan. So at least I was the most fashionable person in my cell.”
“Look at you,” he said, his tone admiring and jokey. “Gonna have to call you Mitochondria.”
“What?”
“The powerhouse of the cell.”
“All right now, AP Biology!” Nana laughed, clapping her hands. “That was a good one.”
Wes beamed proudly.
“Baby, I’m starving. You got any smoked wings left?”
“How many you want?”
“Sixty-nine,” she said with a wink.
“Ms. Nana, behave yourself,” he said, shaking his head. “How ’bout sixty-eight and I’ll owe you one?”
She giggled girlishly, bought her wings, and sashayed away.
“Who’s next?” he called out.
The next customer was a tall, thirtysomething woman with dark, flowing hair and a pink miniskirt. “Hi! Do you have goat curry?”
“No, actually I only make American barbecue. Soul food by way of Brooklyn,” he apologized. “How about ribs?” he offered. “Do you like brisket?”
She lit up at the mention of brisket. “Oooh. Sounds good.”
“So,” he started, preparing the dish, “when did you move here from Guyana?”
Startled, the woman took her plate. “Wait. Have we met? How’d you know I was Guyanese?”
“Because Caribbeans say ‘curried goat.’ Guyanese people say ‘goat curry.’ ”
“Stop. You have a crazy attention to detail.”
“I know.” Wes poured barbecue sauce into a tiny cup for her. “It’s a gift and a curse.”
It was the only part of detective work that Wes missed.
It was fun, using the details he noticed to disarm.
Sometimes, like now, he turned it on just to see what happened.
He could also tell from the tan line on her finger that she’d removed her wedding ring.
And she paid with a man’s credit card. Could be nothing. Could be suspicious.
But it was none of his business. Data collecting was just for fun, now.
The beautiful Guyanese woman smiled and moved on.
Sighing pleasantly, Wes looked out into the crowd.
It really was a gorgeous day. God, he felt so centered.
He was absolutely at peace. But the sun was at its zenith now, truly blazing.
From the glare, he could barely see who was in front of him.
“Who’s next?” he called out, twisting the top back on the sauce bottle.
“Me.” The voice was hesitant, unsure, and familiar as hell.
“Me who?”
Squinting, Wes cocked his head to the side.
Then, the person stepped a bit closer. And he saw who it was.
But he already knew. It couldn’t have been anyone else, with that signature throaty voice.
And he would’ve recognized the sylphy contours of her silhouette anywhere.
Her hair was different, shorter, but undoubtedly—it was her.
He hadn’t laid eyes on her in five years.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She’d snuck into his dreams. Often.
Sometimes she blended into the background, sometimes she was the star; but no matter what, she left him utterly dismantled.
It was Sasha Cruz. Again.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groaned, dropping the bottle in a mighty crash.
And that’s how, in the blink of an eye, Wes’s past came charging at his present.