“I’ve never been on a motorcycle. To be honest, they kind of scare the crap out of me. You know, the whole insane speeds and nothing to protect you.”
“That’s maybe more true of a superbike. They’re built for an adrenaline rush; this baby’s built for cruising. You want to hop on? I promise to drive slow.”
When he offered me a lift home, I almost said no. Now I wish I had.
“Come on, you’ll love it,” he urges, and I figure he’s going out of his way to help me, the least can do is accept.
“Okay.”
He tosses me a helmet and puts my bag under his seat as I fiddle with the strap under my chin.
“Jump on behind me and hold on. If you really don’t like it, just tap me and I’ll pull over and let you off. Sound good?”
“Not really, but I’ll trust you anyway.”
He laughs and pats the space behind him. I’m not laughing, though. The thought of being pressed up behind my hot boss is almost as flustering as the thought of how embarrassing it’s going to be when he sets off and I squeal like a little girl and cry to get off.
“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” he smiles as I climb off the back of his bike and stretch like a lazy house cat.
“It was fun…well, it was after I opened my eyes. You said you wouldn’t go fast,” I scold jokingly.
“I wasn’t! We didn’t breach the speed limit once. In fact, I don’t even think we managed to reach the limit.”
“Is it normal to walk like John Wayne after dismounting a bike?” I say, bending my legs a little and exaggerating the ache from having them spread for so long.
“That’s what all the women say after I’ve been between their legs!”
“Oh my God, you’re my boss! You didn’t just say that!” I can feel my face flaming and I can’t look him in the eye.
His laughter rings out above the busy streets, and the stir it provokes deep inside is unnerving.
“It’s a joke, Tweet. I’ll see you at work later.”
With a loud rev of his engine he speeds away, leaving me at the door to my apartment complex with Mrs. Heckles sitting at the entrance smoking.
“Robyn, sweetheart, how are you?” she asks, patting a spot next to her.
“You heard anything back from that darn boy of yours?”
“Daniel? No, not a word. I’m not going to hold my breath—I’d suffocate.”
“Well,” she says shaking her head. “More fool him, I say. Stupid boy will regret it, I’m sure. A nice pretty young thing like you doesn’t stay single for long.”
She blows out a puff of smoke and the scent of pot hits me full force.
“Um, Mrs. Heckles, are you smoking marijuana?”
“It’s medicinal honey, for my arthritis.” She giggles and scrunches her eyes up. I can’t help but laugh. “It’s wonderful…I have a little smoke and then when Stanly from 4b comes to play bridge, I can just about tolerate his jokes. I wish I’d started smoking these years ago. It would have made my Arthur, God rest his soul, so much more interesting.” A slow smile crosses her face, and I return it, knowing full well how in love Mrs. Heckles was with her late husband.
When I first moved in and was midway through unpacking, she’d ushered me over to her apartment. She’d insisted on feeding me sweet tea and macaroons while telling me all about her Arthur. I remember going back across the hall to Danny and telling him that I wanted us to be just like the Heckles when we were old and had lost the ability to care if you were interrupting someone. He laughed and joked that I was aspiring to be a crazy old lady with no filter. I’d playfully smacked him for being so crass, and we’d ended up having sex in the living room amidst all the half-opened boxes and mess. Later that afternoon, Mrs. Heckles had passed Danny in the hall and mentioned something about youth being wasted on the young and missing nooners. From that point on I’ve loved her. She’s the eccentric old Grandma I never had.
“Trouble with smoking though, Robyn,” she interrupts and pulls me from the memories suddenly weighing heavily in the bottom of my heart, “is that I’ve gained almost fifteen pounds.” She reaches beside her and lifts her purse, retrieving a pack of half-eaten Oreos.
“Ah, the munchies…maybe you should cut some fruit up and keep it in a little tub to snack on when you finish your medication,” I smirk.
“Where’s the fun in that?” She smiles. “Speaking of fun, did I see you leave with a dashing young man in a dinner suit last week?” She nudges me. “And if I’m not mistaken, the equally handsome chap whose motorcycle you just climbed from is someone different.”
“Nothing gets past you, huh?”
“Not if I can help it, dear. Now my sister always used to say that the best way to get over a man is to get under a new one, so which one are you getting under—or maybe it’s both?”
I choke on nothing but air and the smoke billowing from her doobie. She seems to think it’s hilarious, and I’m sure to anyone passing by, a high eighty-five-year-old woman trying to get the lowdown her neighbor’s sex life would be pretty funny. Mrs. Heckles on a normal day has no filter; stoned she’s flat-out rude and yet completely endearing.
“I’m not under either of them,” I tell her and her face falls a little.
“Why ever not, dear? If I were twenty years younger there’d be no stopping me,” she announces, stomping out her joint and immediately reaching for an Oreo.
“You want one?”
I take a cookie and nibble the edge.
“The guy in the dinner suit is a man I met by chance last week in Starbucks. He’s called Cole. I spilled my coffee on him and he asked if he could take me out to dinner, that’s all.” I take another bite of the cookie and continue. “You’d like him. He’s a nice guy. The man that just brought me home is my new boss, Callum. There’ll be no getting under him. You’d like him, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure the two of you would get on like a house on fire. You both say whatever passes through your mind.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with that, Robyn. When you get to be my age, you’ll look back and wish you’d spoken your mind more often.”
I stop looking at her and stare out at the street, watching the waves ripple as the traffic moves through the puddles left behind from the earlier rainfall. I can’t help wishing that Danny had that attitude. At least then I could maybe understand what went wrong.
Friday nights at Reveal are brutal. Annie had told me to prepare for a busy shift, and I should have taken her warning more seriously. My feet ache like hell today from running drinks back and forth wearing heels. A requirement and staple of the uniform, Zane had said. Flapper-style fringed red dress, black gloves, and matching black pumps. I have to admit, the girls waiting tables look equally as good as the ones on stage. Everyone plays their part and keeps up the speakeasy theme the club adopts. Everything from the table decor to the uniforms and the music, it all plays a part in pulling the customers back in time to an age where women were ladies, guys were gentlemen and everything had an air of grandeur to it. With last night’s tips, I’m only $300 short of the money I need to pay back Mr. Carter. Zane had said that I could wait tables between performances tonight, so I’m hoping I can make the full amount and buy myself more time before the next installment is due.
I’m stunned when I walk into Reveal before it opens tonight. The whole place has transformed. The Gatsby styling has made way for the carnival theme that happens once a month.
“You’re here! Give me a hand, will you?” Annie asks, passing me a pile of brightly-colored organza.
“Zane and Callum are in the back, and nobody set up the booth for the tarot reader. She’s in the bathroom at the moment. Everyone’s busy, would you mind decorating that booth over there? Just throw the material around the table and the back of the booth—you know, make it look gypsy-ish.”