Page 14 of Ruthless Serenade

My mind is spinning, and my thoughts are jumbled. My brain has shut down, I feel like I’ve mentally checked out, and left my body behind. I can’t possibly listen to any of this anymore.

As Nesbit continues talking, I feel a chill on my spine. The same chill I felt when I was walking back from the bathroom. Is someone watching me?

I instinctively turn around, but all I see is the same woman I met in the restroom. She is walking toward the other end of the restaurant and sits down at a table. Her eyes are locked on someone sitting opposite her. But her expression is far from joyful. I don’t know what it is about that scene that draws me, but I find myself straining to see who she’s looking at. Maybe I’m just so bored with Nesbit’s ranting that I’m trying to find myself a distraction.

"That’s great," I say turning back to Nesbit, trying to feign interest. "And what do you like to do for fun?"

Come on, Bets!

What’s taking you so long?

Nesbit looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. "Fun? Mindy, time is money. I don’t have time for things like fun. Every waking moment is an opportunity to make cash."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Oh, right. How silly of me."

The waiter arrives with our drinks, and I’m grateful for the momentary distraction. But as soon as he leaves, Nesbit launches into another monologue about his latest investment strategy. I take a sip of my wine, wishing it was something stronger.

"You, my dear, need a man like me. A self-made entrepreneur," Nesbit boasts for what feels like the hundredth time. "Someone who knows how to pursue his goals." He grins. "And someone who has expertise in the bedroom as well."

I nearly choke on my drink. What the hell is Betty doing? I’m sure we’re past five minutes already!

When my phone finally starts ringing, it feels like the second arrival of the Messiah.

"Sorry, I have to take this," I say. "Must be the babysitter."

"Oh, you have a kid?" Nesbit's eyes open like saucers. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

"I didn’t get the chance," I mumble and speak into the phone. "Hey, Tania. Is everything okay?"

"Not really," I hear Betty’s voice. "I’m afraid you have to come home. Sharon has a fever."

"A what? Oh, my God," I say and stand up. "Don’t worry, Tania. I’m on my way."

"Hurry up, Mindy," Betty says, urgency in her tone. "It looks pretty serious!"

I hang up the call and slide the phone into my purse. "Sorry, I have to go," I say to Nesbit. "Thank you for your time. And the lesson about investing."

"Oh, when is our next one?" Nesbit asks. "We haven’t even gone to first base yet."

"Um… sorry, Nesbit," I tell him, not feeling sorry at all. "I’ll be very busy in the coming weeks. Months, I mean.” Years, decades, light-years. "Bye!" With that, I turn around and head to the exit as fast as my feet can carry me.

"I’ll send you my account details," I hear him call out. "You have to pay half of the bill!"

Jesus Christ, what a douchebag!

I storm toward the exit - as far away from Nesbit McCullan as possible - and only stop when the noise of the restaurant fades and the door is shut behind me. Once outside, I pause for a moment, taking a deep breath of the crispy air. The evening is chilly but the weather is nice, with only a few clouds staining the starry night sky.

Another disastrous date bites the dust, making it three in a row. The guy before Nesbit turned out to be gay and was only looking for a fake wife. The one before that was the textbook version of a sociopath.

As I make my way towards my car, for the third time tonight, a strange feeling catches my attention. Why do I feel like someone’s watching me? Am I becoming paranoid?

I look around me and my eyes land on a large black car. It is parked right next to mine. It is a robust, expensive-looking vehicle that probably belongs to a celebrity or a millionaire. I briefly catch a glimpse of someone sitting in the driver’s seat, just before the window is pulled up.

Strange. I remember Maron used to have a similar car. It had the same tinted windows just like this one. Even the license number seems familiar.

Shit!

ThisisMaron’s old car! I glance at the registration number again and my knees go weak for a moment. The car was probably sold after his death. It must be a cruel twist of fate that it is here now, bringing back unwanted memories of the man I once loved.

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