Page 2 of Xavier

“If they were recently fertilized a with truckload of chicken manure!”

“Hey, I’m Thai, we don’t have the same propensity for paying for and dousing ourselves in glorified flower water with the names of celebrities printed on the bottle, ‘mkay?”

“Jesus. Again, with the ‘propensity’? What, you only use one square of toilet paper a day?”

“What can I say, maybe I just have a propensity for ‘propensity’?” He grins and gives me a look of pity. “Don’t feel bad because I’m becoming more educated than you.”

“Yeah, I think my law degree can handle your overuse of one word. Now get your ass in the fucking shower!” I grab our bags and walk to the changing room in the back, satisfied with the sound of his canoe-sized feet dragging behind me.

“Fine, but don’t be getting any tawdry ideas when you see my naked body in there. Like I said, I’m on a strict, no pleasure diet until after my fight.”

I turn around, just in time to see him whip his shorts and underwear off and twirl them over his head as he tries to run past me.

The last thing I hear as he pushes through the shower doors is the sound of him squealing as the shoe I fling at him leaves a big red welt on his left butt cheek.

***

A gust of wind lifts the flaps of my shirt collar up against my face as I step out of the restaurant and onto the street. Ram jumps into a waiting Uber and waves to me as it drives off. As the car’s back lights fade into the distance, I can’t help but ponder his last words to me.

“There was something a little too dark in your eyes during the fight. You trying to exercise some demons?” he’d asked, uncharacteristically insightful for someone with a neck that’s bigger than his head.

I had brushed it off with a comment about spinach in his teeth but now, walking the streets alone back to my apartment, it’s hard to pretend I didn’t know exactly what he was talking about. Why today, of all days, I was a little too focused on destruction.

Don’t go there, the warning voice inside my head tells me. And I know better than to ignore it. I shake my head, shove my hands into my trench coat’s pockets, and turn the corner, one block closer to my destination.

I had refused Ram’s offer to share the ride back to my building because I love this time of night. It’s not true that New York is a city that never sleeps; it’s actually the city that never rests. You can close your eyes, turn off the lights, and even drift off into dreamland. But the heart of the city never stops beating, never stops buzzing with life, with excitement.

Even now, if I look around me, front and back, it looks like there’s no one within a hundred feet of me. And there isn’t, not on the streets anyway, but the landscape of New York is not two-dimensional. All you have to do is look up. Laughter, tears, broken promises, sweet nothings, rise like hot air, up and up and up, tens and hundreds of feet reaching up to the sky.

Skyscraper after skyscraper. Housing an entire community made famous for its toughness, its tenacity.

I get to another corner and turn. Through the gaps of the other high-rises I can just make out the bright, neon sign spelling out ASH. The headquarters of ASH industries. It’s been my true north for almost five years now. I’ve lived and breathed it, from the purchase of the land to watching the two sides of the inauguration ribbon fall away when it was cut, the ASH building has been my life. And Kaine Ashley, the CEO and founder of ASH Industries, has been my home.

There is a sharp buzzing in my left pocket and I don’t have to take it out to know; it’s a case of speak of the devil.

“Yes, boss?” I answer.

“Quiet.” He’s not a man of too many words, my best friend.

“What? You’re not my boss? Who’s the one paying me all this money to be their bitch, then?

“Is that your official title now? Because you’re going to have to get new business cards made up.”

I can’t help but grin. He gives as good as he gets.

“Why are you calling me at 1:13 a.m.? Shouldn’t you be in marital bliss?” I ask, knowing his marriage isn’t the problem.

“My marital bed is currently occupied by my spouse and my new-born child. There is no room for me,” he replies. Seemingly grumpy but the voice is filled with pride.

“No wonder you’re calling me. Are there special bitch responsibilities you want me to take on?” I cross the street through a gap in the traffic.

“I need the Kensington contract signed tomorrow. He’s wavering, so we’ve got to lock it down. Address and contracts are in your suitcase. He leaves his house at 6:45 a.m. on the dot every morning. Your car’s going to pick you up at 6:20, don’t be late.” His voice is tense. I know how important this deal is for him.

“What contract in my suitcase? I didn’t put anything in there. And who booked the car?”

There is no sound on the other side of the line. But I can imagine some eye rolling.

“Oh.” It dawns on me. “Never mind. Patricia. I forget.”