My phone buzzed.
What now?
I stopped, grabbed my phone, and read the text.
Xandi: Hell yes! We must meet up tomorrow tonight. Let’s do drinks and food at the Secret Garden.
I picked up the phone and typed back.
Me: Awesome! Let’s meet at 7pm.
Xandi: I’ll be free.
Me: By the way, do you happen to know the Deputy Mayor?
Damn it. What was her name again?
I hurried over to my laptop to find the name I’d read in the article. Before I could, my phone buzzed.
Xandi: Melissa Gorga. Yes, girl. I was actually going to check on her, after work. Jonathan fucked up by firing her. I’m going to blow his election out the water!
Me too.
I stared at the phone and then typed.
Me: Can you invite her?
Xandi: Hell yes! Ladies night!
31
The Twist
Rose
T
he next evening, I sat at the Secret Garden’s bar. It stood on the other side of the VIP area. I hadn’t seen this section when I was here last time.
Last time. . .
I swallowed and pushed back the memory of Dima and how he’d licked my pussy in the powder room.
I should have met Xandi and Melissa at another place. Why did I say yes to here?
I knew the real reason. The true excuse sizzled in my mind. It was the same reason for why I’d put on my special red cocktail dress—the one that made a hot statement to those watching me walk by. Giving a one-shoulder silhouette, it was classy and timeless elegance, falling below the knee. Every inch of fabric hugged my curves.
I’d put my favorite heels on too—shoes that I’d only worn twice in my life. They’d been designed in the 1940s by Red Velvet. The retro pump boasted gold leather with a line of real diamonds lining the center.
My great-great grandmother wore them for Franklin D. Roosevelt’s inaugural ball. According to my grandmother, they’d been the only black people there, besides the staff. When they entered, they’d did so through the back entrance. When photos were taken, they were nicely asked to move out of the way. Additionally, none of the other guests spoke to them. But they’d been proud to be invited, knowing that more blacks would be taken seriously after them.
All that was told to me by my grandmother who constantly spoke to me about my responsibility to uplift not just the Walsh family, but black people.
Somehow our family has lost the way.
I glanced over my bare shoulder, checking to see who entered.
Part of me searched for Melissa and Xandi. The other part hoped to see Dima.
And that’s the reason why I’m here. . .why I’m wearing the dress and heels.
It was childish and ridiculous on my part. I’d broken it off. I claimed to be not interested in more due to his life. And then I got dressed up, hoping to bump into him.
Shaking my head, I turned back to the bar.
You have to get over him. Stop being ridiculous.
The bartender appeared. “Good evening, Ms. Walsh. My name is Drake.”
“Nice to meet you, but how do you know my name?”
“Mrs. Ivanov phoned a few minutes ago and explained that you should not pay for anything and we are supposed to make sure you have an amazing evening.”
“O-kay. While I love the offer, I have guests so I do not want to give Mrs. Ivanov a huge bill.”
“She actually told me that whoever you were meeting would also be covered.” He handed me a menu. His friendly expression shifted to a nervous one. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Are you waiting for anyone?”
Sounds like Mrs. Ivanov asked you to find out that information too.
“Yes. I’m waiting on my two female friends.”
Relief covered his face. “Great. Would you like to wait to order?”
“I would.”
“Then, I’ll wait for your whole party.” Walking off, Drake pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and then placed it on his ear. He spoke as he rounded the corner.
Well, now I know where Dima gets his creepy monitoring from. His mother.
For a minute, I wondered what Mrs. Ivanov would have done if I was waiting for a guy. Would she have cock blocked it like Dima did? Or would she have done nothing and simply reported it back to him?
Only God and Mrs. Ivanov knows.
I scanned the bar, wondering where her other spies could be. I didn’t see any people that looked out of ordinary. However, at least I got a chance to take in the restaurant’s amazing surroundings.
The Secret Garden was truly a flower-packed dream. I looked up at the glass ceiling over the bar. While it resembled Mrs. Ivanov’s glass ceiling from her indoor garden, this one displayed a whimsical pattern of hearts and flower-shaped tiles.
This may end up being one of my favorite eating spots. . .and I haven’t even eaten here yet.
A feminine giggle sounded from my side. “Rose. Rose. Rose.”