Page 15 of Rushed

Keenan

The shower didn’t help. The ice pack Troy brought up didn’t help. And neither did the arnica paste that one of the maids said would‘fix it right up.’ My arm hurts like a son of a bitch, and the bruise is definitely noticeable. The motion of lifting a cup of coffee is like bench pressing twice my weight. Not to ignore the fabulous black eye with perfectly edged finger marks that slash across my cheek, which wasnotvisible last night. I guess I was too tired to see it. Anyway you cut it, it isn’t pretty.

I must say, I’m glad that Rush and his men intervened before Mick had time to think through his second hit. Otherwise, I think I’d be flat on my ass in a hospital bed this morning. Regardless, it happened, and there’s no going back, so I’ll just move on.

It’s Sunday morning. Most of the city is up buzzing around, shopping for Christmas and Hanukkah gifts for their friends or family members. I myself don’t want to think on it. Every time I do, I find myself worrying about what I’m missing out on. Is there a work party that I should have wrapped white elephant gifts for? Is there a niece or nephew that’s missing auntie and her usual fabulous gifts?

I can’t wallow in the what ifs anymore; I need to get out and stop fucking around. I hate feeling incompetent and useless. Therefore, today I’ve decided I need to get off my ass and apply for a job. Even if it’s just a barista at the local coffee shop, I’ve been on my duff for a few months too long. I’m no closer to getting back to what I was, and I can’t sit here, waiting for the memories to mystically appear. The money from insurance is okay, but I need to gain my own way. Time to pull up the big girl panties.

Dressing for the day ahead, I slip on a pair of black tights, a black tank, and an oversized cream knit sweater. A secondhand charcoal leather biker embellished coat, and a silk brick red Turkish scarf, someone was stupid enough to leave behind, finishes off the look. I’ve raided lost and found once or twice, and it just so happens a few have been my size and style. Stepping into the only winter boots I have, I start the day; albeit looking a wreck. I covered the marks up as best I could with the limited makeup I own, and anything left visible is just too dark to do anything about.

Walking out of my room, I take the short elevator ride with unknown hotel patrons. Making my way through the busy lobby, I tromp down the street to take on Manhattan. Maybe having a purpose will be enlightening. Possibly looking at different odd jobs, my limited recollection could spark some memory about my previous profession.

Like the old song says, ‘Start spreading the news…New York, New York.’

?????

Well that was a blasted good idea, but the worst possible timing. New York—Manhattan specifically—is full to the brim with overqualified Starbuck’s barista doctors, Chili’s physiologist's, and the massive amounts of philosophy majors working in Dunkin’ Donuts made me rethink my purpose in the universe. I have no hope in Hades of finding a job when I can’t fill in the application correctly. I have no idea what my past work experience or qualifications are. Hell, even ‘home address and phone number’ Hilton Hotel lookstotallystable on a resume. A bum off the street has a better opportunity getting a position than I do. So it’s back to the same old routine of TV shows, minibar binges and room service.

As I sort through the choices for lunch, I’m just about to toss in the towel and eat cardboard when I’m interrupted by a knock at the door. I wander over to see who has halted my wallowing in self-pity that I had planned out so meticulously, right down to the tears and rom coms.

“Hang on.” I peek through the hole into the hallway. Completely surprised by who’s on the other side, I ask, “Can I help you?”

“Keenan? Can we talk?” he asks through the solid door.

Fuck. “Sure. Hold on.” Peering around the room, I look to see if I’ve left anything horrible lying around. Deciding it’s pretty neat, I release the chain and deadlock, then open the door for Rush. He’s standing there, looking absolutely scrumptious in a plain black shirt and jeans, with no jacket.

“Have you eaten lunch yet?” he asks with a grin, holding up a bag fromThe Leopard.

I can’t help but smile at his overture. “No, I haven’t. As a matter of fact, I was about to order from downstairs.” Liar. I step to the side to let him in.

“Dolmades, peasant salad, calamari in oil, and roasted chicken. For two, of course.” He pulls out the trays, placing each on the table with napkins, cutlery, and a bottle of white wine. “It’s eleven o’clock somewhere, right?”

“Right,” I agree. Taking the wine chiller and glasses that are standard room issue, I hand him the chiller. Without direction, Rush heads out to grab some ice, using the chain lock to hold the door as I pull out the packages. This isn’t how I’d expected my day to be, but I’ll accept the distraction and expensive lunch. As Rush returns, chiller full and dimples in full effect, I’m stunned by his natural beauty. Last night, in the darkness of the club, he was rugged and dark with edges of harshness from the exploits of Mick. But in the light of day, he seems almost relaxed and unassuming—a real life Clark Kent.

I watch as he steps around the room, placing the wine in the cooler, dishing out food, while peering at me through his thick eyelashes every so often. It’s like he’s expecting me to bitch and kick his ass out after what he offered last night. What kind of woman would I be to turn down a lunch date with him?

He pours out our wine and then covers the takeout trays. “Here ya go,” he says with a panty melting smile, handing me a glass. He places the now half empty bottle in the chiller as I smell the wine. Don’t ask why I did this?

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a wine guy.”

“I live in Manhattan, not the sticks. And my little brother’s best friends own a restaurant. How much ribbin’ would I get, crackin’ a beer with every meal?” Tweaking his eyebrows up, I see what he means.

“Duly noted. So, what are we toasting?”

“To a better day?” he states, questioningly.

“I can drink to that, but only if we agree that none of it was your fault.” I await his answer before taking a sip of the drink.

“Let’s agree to disagree. Indirectly, it was my fault, whether by action or design.” He stands resolute in his decision. It’s written on his face. Rush firmly believes it’s his fault.

I place the cup on the table and cross my arms over my chest, holding firm. I’m not wavering in my position either, so we’re at an impasse.

“Look—” he starts.

“No, Rush. You didn’t introduce him to me. He obviously found me by chance. I decided that his smelly, ugly face was not to my liking, and neither was his attitude towards me. I told him off, I tossed my very expensive drink in his face, and bit his lip. And me, not you, planted my heel in his instep. So don’t apologize for his rude behavior on my account. It’s misplaced.”

Rush spews out a rumbling, chest deep laugh as he raises his glass. “Ya are fully right, Kitten. He had no chance against yer sharp little claws. I replayed the scene and saw the whole thing. Ya put that man to shame. I’ll only apologize then for not being there. I shouldn’t have left ya alone.”

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