Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

I suddenly notice that I’ve been standing silently for far too long and find my voice. “Gentleman, can I get you anything else, or should I close out the bill?”

In unison, they all answer something different. Shaw scowls at them and tells me to close out the bill.

“Be right back.”

Standing, Shaw says, “I’ll come with you.”

“Not necessary,” I answer as I turn and walk away. When I briefly glance over my shoulder, I see he’s following me. No surprise there. Is it all the blows to the head he’s sustained or hearing loss, I wonder?

At the bar, as I’m waiting for one of the bartenders to charge his card, I watch Shaw part the crowd three rows deep like he’s Moses. He walks up to me and stands way too close, close enough that I know he’s doing it on purpose. Then he places his large, tan hand next to my elbow on the bar, a mere breath away from touching me. Like I said, I’m not a small woman by any means, and yet at the moment I feel dwarfed and crowded. If he steps one inch closer, I may have to “accidentally” kick his shins. His intense gaze bears down on me from his lofty height. While I look everywhere but up, my heart starts to pump heavily for reasons which I can’t figure out.

“What’s it going to take?” he murmurs in that insanely smooth baritone. It’s another perfect example of the heinous injustice of life that this guy has such an amazing voice. His pushiness raises my hackles. I’ve felt so powerless over the last couple of years, robbed of the ability to make choices about the trajectory of my life, that his attitude launches me from irritation into rage. It doesn’t take much for the devil in me to make an appearance.

“Something you don’t posses––a time machine,” I say and hand him the bill one of the male bartenders has dropped off. He opens the folder, signs his name with a flourish, and hands it back to me. Without another word, he turns and disappears into the crowd. A momentary pang of guilt hits me that I may have hurt his feelings. It doesn’t take much for me to shake it off, however. All I have to do is remind myself what a self-centered jerk this guy is. Absently, I open the folder with the signed slip and my eyes bug out. He left a two thousand dollar tip on a four thousand dollar bill––and he never even touched the champagne.

The rest of the week flies by uneventfully. I don’t give Shaw more than a cursory thought. I have more pressing issues to consider. If I don’t get another job soon or pick up more shifts, I’ll be broke once again after I pay my medical insurance. This feeling of hanging on the edge of a cliff by my fingernails, I realize, will become a constant unwanted companion for the foreseeable future and the urge to become an alcoholic grows stronger. Too bad I can’t handle my liquor. I usually get a migraine before even the slightest buzz takes hold. Once again, shortchanged by life. An image of the hundred grand flashes through my mind and I decide to go for a run. I need to clear my head before I start smashing things I don’t have the money to replace.

The lifeless, taupe gray landscape matches my mood. I run to the point of exhaustion to block out the million emotions I’m not ready to deal with. Entering through the back door, I’m shrugging out of my Patagonia jacket when I hear my mother’s shrilly laughter emanating from the dining room. Angelina DeSantis, a woman who has been happily married for forty years, positively melts around attractive men so I know there’s one in the house by the tone of her voice. I walk into the room to find her having coffee with none other than Ethan Vaughn. Wow. She broke out the linen napkins and good cookies.

“Cami, Mr. Vaughn has been waiting for you for twenty minutes,” she scolds, as if somehow I’m the one that forgot the appointment. Mr. Perfect hands me a friendly smile. Then, turning the power of those hypnotic brown eyes on my mother, he says, “Has it been twenty minutes? I’ve been enjoying our conversation so much I must’ve lost track of time.”

I throw up a little in my mouth while my mother titters like a teenage girl. “I’ll walk you out, Mr. Vaughn,” I announce, my voice clipped, and get both their blank stares.

“Camilla Ava Maria DeSantis––” she says in a hushed voice. And I’m instantly five again. “That is not how I raised you to treat guests.”

“He’s not a guest, Mother, he’s a lawyer.”

She plants a hand on her chest like I’ve just mortally wounded her. “Did you know that Mr. Vaughn went to Harvard?” Her dark blue eyes bore into mine.