Blue Diamond Read online

  Real smooth, Merissa, he probably thinks you’re a crackpot.

  His hair, a rich dark chestnut, short on the sides, longer on top, mussed like he ran his hand through it numerous times.

  His jaw with just a shadow of stubble, a perfectly straight nose, and full lips that must be the softest to kiss…

  I sigh, dramatically. “A girl could dream. His Alice from the Twilight movie lookalike is one lucky B.”

  Not only do my thoughts and actions today confirm that I read way too many romance novels, but that I’ve been sitting with Lucy idling in Graffiti’s back parking lot for God knows how long… and I’m talking to myself.

  I grab my hobo bag off the seat and walk to the back door that leads to the entrance to my staircase without having to walk through the bar. No point in getting my clothes from the back seat until I fetch my laundry basket.

  Turning around, I karate kick the heavy steel door until it makes a loud click.

  Essentially announcing my return to the real world.

  * * *

  BROOK: Hey, Birthday girl! The bottle of bub is getting ready to pop! Move your old ass.

  ME: Gee, thanks.

  BROOK: Come downstairs already!! We need to celebrate!

  ME: On my way down.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Merissa

  Today, March 17th, I celebrate two milestones, my 30th Birthday, and one year since I’ve been on my own—both living and working at Graffiti’s. A year since I packed up Lucy with what little I had in the way of belongings and money. Having driven with no destination in mind, I recollect feeling like I was coasting through a cloud, not a single thought floating around in my brain as if it shut down as some sort of defense mechanism.

  I drove, and I drove—and I kept driving. In retrospect, probably not the smartest thing I could have done in the frame of mind I was in, but as if by chance, luck, or maybe an act of faith, Lucy stalled directly in front of Graffiti’s.

  Feels like a lifetime ago.

  * * *

  Arriving over an hour before my scheduled shift per Brook’s orders, I’m immediately greeted by Mike, Brook and our newest Bartender, Nathan, along with his boyfriend, Bob. These two are like a stand-up comedy duo, and I can’t get enough of the vibrancy they both exude.

  Sitting in their usual spots, are Mr. Huxley, and a few of the regulars, appearing like an opening scene of a sitcom reminiscent of the old show, Cheers.

  My eyes well up observing these crazy wonderful people in front of me singing, “In DA Club” by 50 Cent.

  Laughing as my eyes threaten to spill over, I listen closely as they change the lyrics to better suit the occasion. Watching Mr. Huxley and friends clapping to 50’s words is not only hilarious but priceless.

  I’m handed a fluted glass of bubbly, as promised in Brook’s text, and in unison, while clinking our glasses, they declare together, “To making it count.”

  “‘To making it count,’” I respond quietly.

  Hearing my best-loved quote from Titanic from these kind-hearted people, I can no longer keep my tears at bay, nor do I want to. It feels cleansing, just like new beginnings should feel.

  “You kids singing a song by a half a dollar, I’ll never understand the lot of you.” Mr. Huxley blurts out after the toast.

  We began our shift together in the best way possible, laughing our asses off.

  Just short of an hour into my shift, I wipe my way over to Mr. Huxley, knowing he’ll be getting ready to leave shortly. Routinely, he’ll nurse one drink and stay for an hour, two at the most.

  “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Huxley?” Knowing full well he’ll say no.

  As predicted, he says, “No, honey, I need to get back to my wife before she releases the hounds on me”

  “Ha! I can’t blame her there. Oh, and Mr. Huxley, thanks so much for being a part of my mini birthday celebration, it means a lot to me.” Nervously turning before I become a blubbering idiot, he calls after me.

  “Merissa, excuse this old man’s memory—I almost forgot to give you your birthday present.”

  Standing with my arms hugging my midsection as if they will hold back my emotions, I watch as he reaches his hand into his blazer pocket.

  “This,” he says while holding up a silver necklace, a delicate teardrop locket dangling from it, “was my mothers. My father gave it to her as an engagement…”

  Not allowing him to finish his sentence, I gasp, “Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Huxley, I can’t accept a family heirloom.”

  “You can, honey, and you will. The only time I’ve ever regretted not having children was after I met you. Now, please accept it and make this old crabby man happy.”

  Before I could utter a single word, he places it on the bar and slides it across to me. Seemingly just as uncomfortable with this sentimental exchange, he turns and raises his hand up in a stiff wave before exiting through the door.

  I gather the necklace in my hand, my nails digging uncomfortably into my palm and watch the kindest grumpy man walk out the door.

  Clutching the necklace over my heart in a last ditch effort to keep my emotions in check, I take a deep breath in through my nose and blow the air out slowly from my mouth.

  Releasing my grip, I place the locket between my fingers and read the front inscription…

  My darling. Little darling

  Seth

  Sitting behind my Jonathan Charles mahogany desk with my elbows leaning on its rich surface, I rub the tips of my fingers over the two-day-old stubble I’m sporting, while trying to focus on the computer screen directly in front of me. Try, being the key word here. I’ve been here since the ass crack of dawn, preparing, for tomorrows conference call that has millions of dollars on the line.

  As CEO and owner of the largest Commercial Real Estate Brokerage in the United States, success hasn’t come without sacrifice, as the saying goes, but I’ve always found creative solutions to the work-life balance. My personal life is far from exciting, a romantic life… non-existent, and if it weren’t for my family, it would be somewhat of a yawn fest.

  Run. Work. Gym. Home.

  Wash… and repeat.

  Add in the occasional fuck and that’s pretty much my routine. Speaking of which, no woman has never spent the night, not due to their lack of wanting to, but because I know why they’re in my bed in the first place, and it’s not to get to know the man, but the millionaire.

  Then again, I have no room to talk, because as much as they’re using me, I’m using them, too—to get laid, plain and simple… and they know it, and don’t give two shits.

  In my early twenties, I was climbing the ladder of success two rungs at a time, and I’m proud of the hard work it took to get to where I am today, by doing honest business—still the only way I’ll do it. Only I didn’t heed what are now my two cardinal rules.

  Never sleep with an employee.

  Keep business and pleasure separate

  Simply said, I don’t shit where I eat. End of the fuckin’ story.

  On the flip side of the same coin, because of my status, it’s tough to tell who’s being genuine, and who wants what they believe I can provide them… a piece of my pie. I’m highly guarded, keeping relationships, both platonic, and romantic at a safe distance. If you do manage to get through my barriers, which very few do aside from blood, it’s because I’ve made the obstacle easier for you, not because you pushed your way through.

  Loyalty and trust, the deciding factors.

  Thinking about my stance on relationships brings to mind lines from one of my favorite movie, Goodfellas, where Tommy’s mom says to him, “When are you going to find yourself a nice girl.” and his response was, “I get a nice one almost every night, Ma.” Remembering when my mother asked me a similar question a few months ago, and I made the mistake of quoting Tommy’s line… earning myself a slap right across the head.

  I said to her, “Tell me how you really feel, Mom.”

  Her response, “You’re never too old, or
too big for your mother to hit you.”

  Chuckling out loud, I position both of my hands on my desktop and rotate my chair to face the floor to ceiling wall of windows directly behind me.

  Located on the highest floor, the 42nd affords me a panoramic view of downtown Ft. Lauderdale, the intercoastal waterway, and the Atlantic Ocean—a perfect trifecta right outside my window.

  Resting my chin on my palm, I can’t help but marvel at the beauty of this city. Although I’ve lived here my entire life, it never gets old. My parents moved here from Brooklyn, NY after my mother became pregnant with me, never looking back. I would never consider living elsewhere.

  Just as I lift myself out of my chair, there’s a soft knock on my door.

  “Enter,” I say in a level tone, knowing it’s my personal assistant, Janine.

  Her timid knocks do not match that of her bold demeanor.

  “Good afternoon, Seth, I scheduled the conference call with the Meyer Group for 10 A.M tomorrow, so you’ll have plenty of time to unwind on your morning run.”

  Hearing my first name being uttered from her lips, rattles my cage. Bottom line… I’m her boss. Do I call her, by her first name, Janine? Absolutely. Why? Because, Janine isn’t my goddamn boss.

  Shaking it off to avoid confrontation, “Alright, thanks, I’m going to take off for the day. If anything, important requires my attention, just let me know.” I lift my suit jacket off the back of my chair.

  Janine takes a short couple of steps towards me and drags her long red talons up my forearm. In response, my back goes ramrod straight—it’s my equivalent to nails on a blackboard.

  Annoying. As. Fuck.

  “I will handle it all, Seth, don’t you worry about a single tap, little tap, thing tap,” she replies in her usual saccharine sweet tone, while her nails play an unwelcome melody on my arm.

  Most men would find her to be endearing—attractive even. All that I see is an overly made up plastic Barbie doll, complete with fake tits and a Botox injected face.

  Glowering down at her claws still lingering on my shirtsleeve, I jerk my arm away as if it just grazed a hot burner. “Good, see you tomorrow,” I murmur as I walk long strides out the door.

  * * *

  Exiting my personal elevator, I walk the short distance to the designated parking space in the Vas Enterprises underground parking garage. I hit the key fob to my new custom Mercedes Coupe. The contrast between its black matte paint and the two wide polished gold racing stripes on the hood made it impossible for me to resist.

  I practically groan out loud as my large frame molds into the soft buttery leather seat. Feeling the vibrating power as I press the ignition button, I shift the gear into reverse. The loud squeal of the tires echoes throughout the concrete space as I round the corner and make my way up to the ground level exit in record time.

  Even though it’s been a long ass day, I still head in the direction of Gym Works for my mental release, especially since I missed my morning run. My penthouse building has a high-tech gym with all the bells and whistles, but it’s usually devoid of life, and I prefer to feed off other peoples’ adrenaline.

  As I pull into the back lot I remind myself to ask Mike, the owner, about the bar he works in on the weekends, remembering that it’s in the neighborhood I’ve got my sites on.

  Next to the coffee shop—where you saw the woman of your dreams… and let her just walk away.

  I walk down the gyms expansive hallway and push the door open to the Mens’ locker room. Finally, able to shed my business attire, I neatly fold the articles onto the bench next to me in exchange for a pair of gray sweats, a white tank, and a pair of gray Nikes.

  Reaching into my duffle’s side pocket, I fish out my Beats earbuds and phone. Deciding to forgo lifting weights today, I make my way to the area where just the treadmills are.

  The raw feel of this place is conducive to a great workout, and that’s another reason why I’d rather come here. Mike left the exposed pipes, beams, and ductwork, opting for a complete industrial style interior.

  After slipping my iPhone into my bicep armband holder, I set the treadmill program for a 10-minute warm up. This piece of machinery does serve its purpose, but it’s like night and day when compared to my jog along A1A with the ocean by my side, the sun on my skin, and the gentle warm morning breeze.

  It cleanses my fuckin’ psyche.

  Just as I’m about to put my earbuds in and hit play, Mike walks over, and I begin to walk.

  “Seth how ya doin' man?” he says as he steps in front of me.

  “Can’t complain, you?”

  “Life is good, brother. Haven’t seen you on the tread in a while. Thought you ran before work.”

  “Normally I do, but I had to forfeit this morning’s run—through my whole fuckin’ day off.”

  “I hear ya, if I miss that first-morning cup of coffee, I’m like a fuckin’ bear, dude.” He holds his arms up like a bear attacking its prey, for effect.

  I’ve known Mike for a few months, ever since I started coming here, and in that amount of time, I’ve determined that he’s a good guy. I consider him a friend, which says a lot.

  I ask, “Hey, you got a few minutes?”

  “Sure man, what’s on your mind?”

  “I remember you telling me that you bounce at a bar on the West end of Las Olas?”

  A smirk spreads across his face. “Yeah, the West end, ugly sister to the East side. I work at a bar called Graffiti’s, bouncing on the weekends only. I started working there to keep an eye on my girl, Brook.”

  “Is it dangerous or something?”

  “Na, man, we’re packin’ them in over there, but it’s safe. Especially with me there.” A sly grin crosses his face.

  “How about the rest of the neighborhood?”

  “Well, a few new places are poppin’ up here and there, but there are a lot of vacancies. You thinking of buying some property?”

  “Most definitely, I could potentially rent some of those spaces to restaurants and retailers—maybe even keep a couple for myself. You know, make the area look more like the attractive twin sister,” I say with a laugh.

  “That would be awesome, man. You should talk to Jim, the owner of Graffiti’s. He could give a crap about owning the place. He just wants to do jack-shit and collect his money. I’m sure he’d jump at the chance to cash out. Good fuckin’ riddance, if you ask me. The guy’s an asshole.”

  “Appreciate it, Mike. Thanks.” Holding my fist out, he meets it with a fist bump.

  “Anytime, bro.” Walking a few steps away, he turns back around with a big smile. “Now get your pansy ass running on that thing.”

  Letting out a chuckle, I position my earbuds back in my ears and press my playlist. Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” begins playing with its distinctive guitar riffs.

  Now, it’s time to fuckin’ run.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Merissa

  Returning from depositing my paycheck, I glance at my phone to see that it’s almost 9:30, about an hour before I’m to meet Brook in front of Perks. I’m so excited about our girl’s spa day! When I went back to my apartment the night of my birthday, a card was taped to my door and a potted lavender plant sat on the floor.

  Happy 30th Birthday, Rissy!

  Mike & I love you, sweet girl, and we wanted to do something special for you, and I just so happen to be included in your gift, too. Can you say, Spa day?! We are going to get manis, pedis, and facials, followed by lunch at the Riverside Hotel.

  P.S. Mike picked out the lavender plant, which I’m sure you’ll dry in small bundles to make hippy potpourri or healing potions. xoxo

  I take a leisurely stroll on the cobblestone walkway and window- shop along the way. Since I have champagne taste on a beer budget, that’s all I will be doing and that’s okay. I’m a simple girl, with simple needs. But I could appreciate the finer things showcased in the windows resembling museum pieces.

  My sundress blows gently across my legs as I sa
unter over and sit on an iron bench that’s placed in a shady spot right under an architectural portico. I cross my legs and interlock my hands over my knees, watching as couples and families walk past. Saturday has always been the busiest day of the week down here. A cute little girl with pigtails pulls her mother’s arm in the direction of the ice cream shop, a huge smile brightening her little face.

  “Come on, Ma, we’re going to miss the start of the fireworks if we don’t hurry.” I pull her through the sand to the only empty spot left on the beach. She’s carrying a large blanket tucked under her arm, a mini cooler in her left hand, and me pulling on her right arm.

  “We don’t need to be over there to see the fireworks, silly girl. Just gaze up at the sky, little darling.”

  We each held the corners and spread the blanket out, securing them with our sandals so the wind wouldn’t lift it.

  Just seconds after we sat, the first bursts of color made their appearance in the night sky and my mother whispers in my ear, “Always remember to lift your chin up to the sky, Riss. Gaze up at our solar system because it’s always there to offer you protection and guidance, but don’t forget, that there’s an entire universe beyond it.”

  My eyes come back into focus, and I sweep my fingers over the tattoo I have just under my collarbone of our planets. Glancing at the time, I still have about 10 minutes left to meet Brook, which is about how long it will take me to walk back up the street.

  * * *

  Just as I approach, Perks, Mike’s red Ford F-450 pulls up alongside it, the truck so huge it barely fits into the dividing lines of the parking space.

  Boys and their toys.

  Mike waves to me with a smile on his handsome face as he makes his way over to the passenger side to open the door for Brook. I watch as he carefully reaches his hand out to guide her the long way down to ground level.