“Dryer. Didn’t want a stain.”
“You washed my clothes?”
“Of course.” He kisses my nose.
Inside, I cringe. IthinkI had my one good pair of underwear on today. At least, I hope so since he saw them.
Matt kisses me again, then sits up. “You shower. I’ll go get your clothes.”
It’s such an offhand offer, but I’m not about to turn down good soap and hot water.
Yesterday was so good, but I have a huge feeling of foreboding the next morning as I hop on the bus for Dillon. I didn’t sleep well in my place, not like I did during the quick nap with Matt.
Dillon sits right off the interstate, a busy hub of activity, with people constantly traveling in and out. A few blocks from the bus stop, down narrow streets with thin mobile homes stacked right on each other, is the part of town not for visitors to see.
The one-lane road twists and turns to a bar for locals only. It sits in the back of a gas station and lacks the welcoming neon of the bars close to the interstate. If it has a name, I don’t know it, and it isn’t advertised anywhere. No signage. Nothing to encourage anyone unknown to enter.
I make my way in, the light almost dark in this place, despite it being daytime. I’m always anxious to get this over with and get to work. I always make sure I have a shift at Black Diamond after meeting Deny, just to believe someone might try and find me if I don’t show up. Logically, no one will be looking in the back-alleys of Dillon for me, but it’s a small bit of comfort.
Some guy stops me, tailored to the nines in a suit, and takes his time patting me down while Deny watches with a leer. The guy shoves me toward Deny with a hand between the shoulder blades that will leave bruises.
After I catch myself, I hand Deny the money for this month before he can even ask. The gleam in his beady eyes sharpens as he counts it quickly.
Deny is not yet middle-aged. He’s muscular, like he spends all of his time at an MMA gym, and trust me, he knows how to land a punch.
“More than needed.” Deny flips through the cash easily. “Second month in a row, now.”
Shouldn’t the guy I owe money be happy about that fact? Instead, Deny gets up in my face. I brace for impact, but it doesn’t come. His eyes rake over me. He smells like expensive cologne, a sharp contrast to this place where we always meet. It’s the same Tom Ford I once wore. “I own you, Theo. You know that, don’t you?”
I nod because he is right. If that ego stroke is what he needs, giving it to him is nothing to me.
He looks over to one of the guys with him, always the same two, one older and one younger. I don’t know their names, and I never ask or even look too closely at their faces. They are more like distinct shapes that move around in the dark bar than actual people.
“Okay, then. You came. You paid. I guess that is all I need, right, Theo?”
“Yes,” I agree, finding my voice. This is by far the oddest meeting I have ever had with Deny. Sometimes, Deny rants at me, half drunk. Others, he hits first and says nothing. Today, he is sneering at me but isn’t touching me.
I’ve never had a meeting where he doesn’t hit me or have his men rough me up. The lack of violence shakes me up more than those nights I drag myself to Black Diamond with bruises smarting under my clothes. Several nights, I wasn’t sure my battered body could take the physical toll of a long shift on my feet.
I’m unceremoniously shoved out the door with a push, and my feet are swept out from under me. I land hard on the dirty, icy gravel of the parking lot, but that’s it.
All the way to the bus stop, I watch my back, stopping only to clean the cuts on my hands in the bathroom of a well-lit and busy convenience store. My head swivels, looking over my shoulder the whole way onto the bus and then back to Bear Valley and Maxine’s.
Maxine’s closes about one in the afternoon. Personally, I would leave it open until later, but Maxine didn’t hire me to make decisions like that. Instead, she hired me to bake.
I let myself in the back, where there is just enough kitchen to work in. After my meeting with Deny, I feel odd and out of sorts, and no better way to help than to get baking.
I can still hear my grandfather’s gentle encouragement as my hands move in the dough. In the kitchen, with my hands full, is when I feel him the most. Today, I almost catch a whiff of his vanilla-and-tea scent, like he is working right behind me. Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I look up and breathe out.
In a fit of pique, I make lavender-hazelnut biscotti, something Frank never would have allowed in his kitchen, much less on his shelves. That’s fine, though. It will sell in this season to the skiers—lavender is all the rage right now. Not to mention hazelnut and coffee is almost a perfect flavor pairing. The flavor also gives that nod to classics I try to incorporate for her. Maxine’s could have competition, if space was available, but they couldn’t beat her coffee, as those who have tried have found out the hard way.
Biscotti is perfect for my musings. It keeps my hands busy and myself occupied as I puzzle out what is going on with Deny. I don’t like changes to our dynamic. Not at all. In a way, this uncertainty is worse than if he had beat the shit out of me.
However, I can’t untangle that mental knot or do anything about it. A bad mood won’t get me the tips I need at Black Diamond tonight. Not only that, but I don’t need Quinn to worry about me if he is there or say something to Matt. A laugh escapes. Most likely, I’m a distraction for him and nothing more. I jumpedhim,for goodness sake, not the other way around.
I let my mind drift, trying to pull some nostalgia to ease my jitters. The purple of the lavender reminds me of the Little Rock riverfront and Donahue’s Bakery in its prime spot, a block from the state capitol grounds. My mind never goes to Glazed, my first job out of culinary school in Salt Lake. Instead, it always visits Donahue’s, where I learned to love baking.
I think of a Sunday afternoon, all the tourists gone, and downtown Little Rock belonging once again to the people who live there. Monday morning means traffic and fast-moving people in suits, unleashed from their weekend in the suburbs or the Heights. They arrive, coffee in hand, converging back on the stretch of city blocks lining the river, that holds state government offices and the smattering of truly tall buildings the Little Rock skyline boasts of. The weekend probably had plays, and concerts, and sporting events in the downtown convention center. Maybe a marathon or a food festival downtown, too. All those events driving people to pack the hotels, bars, and streets of the riverfront on a Saturday night.
