Perpetuate Read online

  “Actually, I really don’t give a flying monkey one way or the other so long as his money’s good, but you know how I feel about the staff bringing in personal drama to the workplace. That would be a big fat don’t. So make him happy.”

  I grit my teeth and nod.

  As soon as I finish delivering the order Angie saddles up next to me. “Sorry, Gem. I tried, but he wouldn’t even order and was very insistent about only having you. I got him the drink, though.”

  Of course, he was. The jerk likes to throw his weight around. “No problem,” I tell her with a note of remorse. After all, it’s not her fault the guy is difficult. “I’ll just suck it up and take care of it.” On a quiet sigh, I take out the pencil and notepad from my apron pocket before rounding to his table. “What will it be?” It wasn’t an unfriendly voice, but it certainly wasn’t my customer first tone either.

  To his credit, he doesn’t gloat. “What’s your favorite?”

  Pencil poised at the ready, I keep my gaze on some mundane point over his shoulder. “Turkey burger with provolone,” I recite, mimicking iBuilt 3000 from his office. He should appreciate that.

  “Turkey burger with provolone sounds good.”

  Naturally. Who doesn’t pair turkey burger with white wine? “Anything else?” A side of horse laxative?

  “Not at the moment.” He holds out the plastic-coated menu. “Thanks.”

  It wouldn’t do to snatch that out of his pretentious fingers. Pretending he doesn’t exist, I enter his order in the system before heading back to the kitchen. The next fifteen minutes I utilize by doing my job hopping from table to table, briskly bringing out more greasy orders and rainbow drinks, and swiping credit card after credit card, blatantly ignoring twenty-eight. I swear I can feel his steady gaze stalking me, assessing me quietly while I scramble to keep up with the crazy night’s demands. When the heat gets too intense and I glimpse his way, it’s to find him engrossed on his smartphone, tap, tap, tapping away on the screen. Probably making millions by a simple swipe of his thumb.

  By the time his burger is ready I’m convinced he wouldn’t even notice if I plunk it on his table with an annoyed clatter. Mutely I slide the plate along with a paper condiment cup of ketchup in front of him and leave him to his food.

  It’s not that I forgot about him. It’s just that he’s been so quiet, so low maintenance, that the more demanding customers become a priority. By the time I’m able to make my rounds and circle back to twenty-eight to see if he needs anything else, he’s done with his meal and is fishing out his designer leather wallet.

  There’s maybe a couple of crumbs on the plate and a stray pickle, but the wine looks untouched.

  As though taking my cue, he offers the matte black credit card without a word, without even asking for the bill or a glance in my direction.

  Fine by me.

  I take the card along with the soiled dish. For a malicious, childish, weak moment, I fleetingly consider running three times the amount on the check on the credit card but refrain myself. Not that it’d make a dent in his wallet or that he’d even notice, but I believe what goes around comes around.

  Once the card goes through, I stick it along with the two receipts and a pen into the vinyl billfold. He’s still focused on his phone when I place it on his table, so I mutter a thanks and more or less decide to write him off to take care of other patrons vying for attention.

  And it’s not until a few minutes later when I notice the table is about to be reseated with a group of late teens that I reclaim the billfold, absently flipping it open.

  And nearly drop the whole thing on my halted feet.

  Because five one hundred-dollar bills are staring back at me.

  Along with his business card.

  With a handwritten phone number on it.

  And call if you need anything scribbled just below the number.

  This can’t be right. He made a mistake. Perhaps he thought the hundreds were ones. It can happen. Rich people are kooky that way. Not that I know a lot of wealthy folks, but still…

  I don’t have to think about it. Weaving between people and tables with the billfold clutched in my nervous hand, I rush to the front of the restaurant until I’m at the hostess station. “Kay, did you see a customer with a blue button shirt and dark slacks? Tall.” I stretch my arm up a full head and a half above mine. “Brown hair. Green eyes.”

  “Oh yeah, the hottie. He left a few minutes ago. Why?”

  Not bothering to answer her because I’m already racing past the throng of waiting guests and shoving my way through the glass door. I’m instantly slapped by the cool night air and bombarded with the sound of traffic and anticipating customers spilling out into the vast parking area.

  There’s no sign of him, and since I don’t know what type of car he drives, my fraught gaze scans the vicinity ineptly.

  Five

  Brad

  “Is everything set for Peter?”

  Carlson nods from the driver’s seat, his gaze on maneuvering around heavy traffic. “Everything taken care of. Just say the word, and we’ll move forward with the plan.” When I don’t offer anything else, he doesn’t pretend to hide his impatience. “Should we proceed as discussed?”

  “Not yet. Wait a few days. Switch it up. I don’t want her to have a hint of it until the deeds are done.”

  “How much?”

  “Stick with five for now. Then double it by month’s end.”

  “And what of Peter Warton?”

  “Finalize the arrangements. I want him gone.”

  “You got it.” With a long, thick finger, he lazily scratches at the lively tattoo on the side of his thick neck. “You been waiting a long time to make contact, Hawkes.”

  Brooding, I stare out of the window from the rear passenger seat. Carlson’s assumed nonchalance doesn’t fool me for a second. “And?”

  “Aren’t you going to do more than stand around?”

  No one dares to question me this way. No one dares to even think of it. No one but Carlson. And he’s the one person I can have this conversation with. “Things are… complicated.”

  “You’re the best guy I know at un-complicating things,” he counters readily.

  “It’s more than that.” I sigh again. Tonight I’m restless. Edgy. “She doesn’t know me.”

  “So change it.”

  I have to remind myself Carlson doesn’t know Gemma. Only the basics. Only what I could disclose even after all these years. “You’re getting annoying in your old age, Carlson. Perhaps you should take up a hobby so you’d stop nagging me.”

  “That is a hobby.”

  I shake my head. “Didn’t I fire you yesterday? And the day before, come to think of it? Why do you keep showing up?”

  That rumbling voice booms out without hesitation. “’Cause you can’t live without me.”

  “I can do without having to look at your ugly face all the time,” I retort and rest back on the seat, staring blankly at the hectic city wheezing by. “Maybe her not remembering me is a good thing. Maybe it’s time to move on with life. “

  Carlson doesn’t say anything for a minute, but I can practically feel his mind spinning. He’s incapable of relaxing or even trying to look relaxed, though to my renewed dismay and annoyance, he drives like a fucking eighty-year-old.

  “And I’ve heard that one before, but you always end up back where you started. Obsessing over Gemma Warton. Hell, you employed her useless father for years just so she can go to school and not starve.” He holds up a meaty and marked hand. “Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t do that – and a lot more – for her.”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  “Yes. And as usual, I have to beat you over the fucking head with it,” he mocks, carefully taking the time to look over his shoulder before diligently flicking on the turn signal to change lanes. “You need closure, Hawkes. That’s what it is, otherwise you’ll spend the rest of your lucid days hung up on this girl like you are now.”r />
  For fuck sakes. “Closure, Carlson? Are you shitting me with this? Are you some demented chick playing head shrink?”

  “Look, man, all I’m saying is you were taken away from her when you were both kids, and she’s done everything to remember you don’t exist. Your subconscious can’t stand it, so you do whatever you can think of to be in her life, waiting for her to realize you’re still breathing.”

  “What’s this subconscious shit you’re babbling about?”

  With another steady peek over his shoulder, he flips the blinker on and studiously prepares to turn. “There was this dude. A doctor. Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalysis. I’m reading about his theories. He believed our conscious – basically our mind - is motivated by our subconscious – thoughts, memories, desires - which influences our behavior.”

  Da fuck? “You been inking your own head again?”

  “Deny it all you want, but way the fuck down there, you know it’s true.”

  “I know you’ve lost your conscious.”

  Reading is Carlson’s thing. He doesn’t watch television. Doesn’t waste time in a movie theater or surfing the internet. This titan of a man enjoys being contradictory. Just because I’m big doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Carlson isn’t even close to being stupid.

  Ignoring my dig, he goes on, “Anyway, your subconscious is driving your behavior,” he insists in his dark voice, “because of all those fucked up memories from when you were a kid. When you were both kids.”

  “I’ve got fucked up memories of you. We’re creating one right now. You don’t see me preoccupied with you.”

  “Whatever, man. I’m just saying. Maybe if you come clean with Gemma Warton, tell her who you really are, you’ll get over this crazy shit with her. It’s worth a shot. Besides, how long do you think you can play Brad Hawkes, Peter Warton’s asshole boss?”

  “I am Brad Hawkes, Peter Warton’s asshole boss. And your asshole boss, so shut the fuck up for once and drive like a normal person, Dr. Freud.”

  Six

  Gemma

  Thus a pattern formed – if a pattern can be both irregular and predictable at the same time. Every week, at least once a week but usually more, a customer at one of my tables would leave me a five-hundred-dollar tip. Cash. The time and day of the week, the customer, and the order were always different and unexpected so that I couldn’t know until I retrieved the billfold after the customer left did I find the surprise. It was a different person every time, but whether it was a man or a woman, the customer was always solo and knew when I was on the clock. The only thing that was always consistent was the amount of the gratuity.

  Which dispelled my belief it was left in error.

  Then even that changed. Just this week, a thousand dollars in cash were stuffed in a plain envelope and jammed into the cracked vinyl billfold. By the time I discovered it, the patron was long gone.

  I’ve not seen Mr. Brad Hawkes since that first time at Conyers over three weeks ago. It wasn’t that I was looking for him, exactly. I just wanted a chance to return the money. All three thousand, five hundred dollars. I’m not sure why he would do something like this. Guilt over firing my dad? Too much money and too little time? Showing off?

  The guy does like to throw his money around.

  Well, I’m not one of his peasants that’ll suck up to him and do anything and everything he so much as hints at just for a few bucks. If he thinks he can buy me off just to appease whatever the hell he thinks need pacifying, he can think again.

  Even though it’s getting harder and harder to make ends meet, I haven’t touched a penny of it.

  Maybe because he no longer has a job that my dad doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to sober up and find another post. Or perhaps that’s just the nature of the beast. I don’t know, but my finances are definitely starting to strain. They weren’t so great to start, but now that I’m helping my dad instead of the other way around, I’m starting to dig into a deeper hole than the one I was already in with my student life demands. Up until now I didn’t have to worry about paying for tuition, books, and other academic necessities since my dad made it clear he would have that end cover for me. With him unemployed, two low paying part-time jobs are not exactly covering all the staggering expenses of school. Though it’s wrapping up, there are graduation fees and rent, food, transportation, in addition to the cost of caring for him. The meager savings he had were already used for next month’s rent, which means utilities and food are all coming out of what I can shrewdly squeeze out of my tips.

  A third job is starting to look like a necessity rather than a passing thought.

  Where would I find the time? There are classes the first part of the day. From early to late afternoon I’m at the university library, then I’m at Conyers in the evening. Any “spare” minute in between I’m nose deep in schoolwork. I get a day off from the restaurant, sure, and classes aren’t every day, but who would hire me for the occasional few hours I have free? As it is, I can’t care for my dad the way he needs. Where would that put him if I add on another obligation?

  “What are you thinking about over there that has you frowning so?” Jamie peeks over at me over his plain white mug. “The fact that you’re pining for me?”

  I grin at his striking profile. “Every second of every day.”

  Reaching over, he lightly flicks a finger at my nose. “If only.”

  “Don’t you mean if only I were a big, gorgeous man?”

  “Goes without saying.” His full lips tilt roguishly up at one side, and not for the first time I loosely wonder why that magnificent face is not on the cover of a magazine. “And the bigger, the better.”

  “Well, yeah. What’s the point otherwise?” That gets a full-on smile from him. I use the time to sip at my own coffee, eying the bowl of grapefruit in front of me with distaste.

  “You’re worrying about your dad again, aren’t you?”

  The air back into my lungs slowly before it escapes on an exhausted exhale. “I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s a taxed and sore subject between us. Jamie is one of those people in my life that insists I let my dad claw his way out on his own with no help from me. I love Jamie like he’s my brother, but when it comes to my dad and his drinking, we can’t seem to agree. “I’m hanging in there, that’s all that matters for now.”

  Knowing how sensitive and frustrated I am to the whole issue, Jamie softens his voice. “I know all about destructive behavior. Let him ride it out.”

  Yes, Jamie is very familiar with destructive behavior, having desperately fought his way out of suicidal proclivities and clinical depression.

  “He’s got no one else. It’s my job to take care of him.”

  “It’s not your job, buttercup. It’s his.” He sighs when my mouth remains stubbornly shut. “You already went out of your way for him, Gem. I mean, what daughter would seek out her dad’s boss to beg for his job back? That’s going above and beyond. What’s more, your dad has no clue what you’re doing for him.” He shakes his head in bafflement before setting the cup down on the scarred table.

  “I didn’t beg,” I correct. “Not that it did me any good any way. That jerk still refused.”

  “He did what he felt was right.”

  I frown. “Whose side are you on?

  “Yours. Always.” Rising, Jamie takes his empty cup to the sink and begin rinsing. “Craig told me he’s a rather attractive man.”

  That mild assessment has the corners of my mouth lifting despite the circumstances. “Were those hard up Craig’s exact words?”

  He tosses a glance over at me. “I believe his exact words were, ‘He’s hot and he’s hung.’”

  “Hmm.” My lips purse with consideration. “I don’t know about the hung part, and frankly I doubt Craig was able to adequately conclude that from the few minutes he was around, but the hot part I might’ve heard used to describe Brad Hawkes before.”

  The faucet is cut off with a quick flip as Jamie turns fully to me. “We both
know Craig enough to know he can and have made that same asset appraisal of others before and was, as we were so helpfully informed later, dead on.”

  Having been living with these two men who are comfortable in their own skin and comfortable discussing other people’s skin – among additional body parts – you would think I’d cease the ability to flush, but that’s exactly what I feel creeping onto my heated cheeks at the thought of Brad Hawkes’s asset. Jamie is in the process of drying the mug with the kitchen towel when he happens to glimpse up and catches the telltale tint on my face. It’s at the swift double take that I wish I can tactfully crawl under the table.

  Jamie tilts his head to one side, his sun-kissed tresses shining carelessly under the slant of morning rays through the kitchen window. Delighted, his handsome features light up with dawning comprehension. “Gemma Warton. You’re crushing on him.”

  “I am not,” I counter quickly. Too quickly. Shit on it.

  “Ah-huh.” Unconsciously, Jamie does his trademark nose wrinkling. “Well, I say it’s about time someone catches your eye. He must be special to have captured the heart of our oblivious, can-care-less-about-men Gemma. So what do you intent to do about it?” he teases as he fights back – quite unsuccessfully – a smirk.

  I stuff my mouth with sour grapefruit and scowl at my roommate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I argue around a mouthful. “I can’t stand the pompous jerk. If I never see him again, it would be too soon.”

  Except to return his money.

  “Riiiggght.” Before I can jam another fruit in my mouth just so I have something to do with my hands, Jamie snags my hand and crams it in his with relish. Chomping down with enthusiasm, he grins at me with unreserved delight. “This is great,” he admits after he gulps down. “I can’t wait until you give up your v-card. It’s about time you start putting some effort into that aspect of your life.”