A Hire Love (7 page)

W
hen Fatima decided to hang out with Mya, that was my get-out-of-jail-free card. Though I had thoroughly studied the script, I was rather rusty on the investment requirements. If I’m going to do this, I plan to be the best. I chuckled to myself as I reaffirmed my father’s words of wisdom: “If you’re going to pick up trash, I want you to be the best damn trashman you can be.”

I stood in Barnes & Noble searching for books on investing, home improvement, and real estate. When I paged through some of the home renovation books, it surprised me how much I already knew. My summers laying concrete and putting up Sheetrock in Trinidad would come in handy for something.

I proceeded to the investment and real estate sections. The two topics seemed to correlate. Buy low, sell high. Real estate was the primary focus in the investment section. As I flew through the pages, it was like reading a good script and I was inspired to play the investor.

Though I was tempted to call Fatima and spit out verbatim what I’d just absorbed, I resisted. Instead, I spent my last three hundred bucks on books. Is it inappropriate to ask when do I get my bonus? I trotted home excited about finishing my reading.

When I entered the apartment with a goofy grin, my mother looked up inquisitively. I bent down to give her a kiss. She asked, “Why are you so happy, boy?”

“I got a gig.”

“What kind of gig?”

“Well, it’s like an assistant to a movie director.”

“So, you aren’t going to be in the movie. You’ll just be running around for some director, buying coffee, getting lunch, and kissing his behind?”

“Exactly, but they’re paying well.”

“I guess that’s a start.” She snickered. “My son, the ass-wipe.”

“Ma, why do you always have to go there?”

“Because I love you. I send you to college and you have to kiss some director’s ass. That’s not fair. They should see how good you are.”

She acted as if I were the only man in New York trying to get a job. Did she ever think about the competition? I know she wants the best for me, but damn. She called one of her many phone buddies and I heard her talking:
Why can’t that boy just work a regular job? Do you know he graduated magna cum laude? He’s just like his father.

She lived in the past and it troubled her that I have yet to amount to her expectations. It hurt me to hurt her, but ultimately I have to be happy. It’s one thing to try and fail, but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t commit at least five years to this. I pulled out a book and plopped on the bed. I folded a pillow around my ears to drown out my mother’s negativity.

Fatima called around nine to say she would see me in the morning and to remind me that we forgot to get the HIV test. Considering I haven’t had sex since my last test, I wasn’t worried about the results.

When my alarm clock went off at six-thirty in the morning, I rolled back and forth. Damn if I wanted to get up just to get coffee. After a ten-minute internal debate about whether I could really be a servant, I got up, showered, and was out the door in fifteen minutes. As I stood in line at Starbucks, the aroma refreshed my excitement. My heart raced as I anticipated knocking on the door. What do I say?

She opened the first of the double doors.
Action.
The second door swung open. I hugged her and inhaled her freshness. “Good morning. You smell good.”

“Thank you. I just got out the shower.”

Her peach terrycloth robe was drawn tightly and accentuated her hourglass figure. She looked to be just a little over five feet with her heels off, yet she sashayed like a model even in her fluffy slippers. Something about her long ponytail flopping up and down made me less intimidated. She spun around to the sound of my chuckle. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m just admiring how adorable you are this early in the morning.”

She reached for the cup of coffee. “Thank you.”

“Certainly.”

When she plopped down on the couch, she kicked her feet up on the coffee table, which was covered with tabloid magazines. Before I sat, I picked up this week’s
inTouch.
“Don’t tell me that you read this trash.”

“Every day.”

As I flipped through the pages, I shook my head at her. “This stuff doesn’t change. It’s the same thing every week.”

“Well, I still like it. Actually, I’m addicted.”

“Addicted?”

She nodded bashfully. “It’s like a good soap opera to me.”

“You’re like the girl on MTV.”

She impersonated the commercial and pretended to cry: “Jen and Brad. Nick and Jessica. Paris and Paris. Where do broken hearts go?”

I laughed. “That commercial cracks me up.”

“The bad part about it is that I really get all involved in their lives just like that. I can’t tell you how many nights I sit here pissed about something I read in a magazine.” She poked at a picture of Paris Hilton. “This chick does something every week to make me mad.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I guess it’s because I haven’t had much excitement in a long time.”

Her body stiffened after she revealed her vulnerability. I wanted her to understand that I understood so I massaged her knee. “Hopefully that will change soon.”

She stared off into space and I wondered what had abducted her. The “Today Show” entertained me while I awaited her return. My eyes toured her spacious, modern apartment. Her eclectic style gave me deeper insight into Fatima. It takes a special personality to coordinate gold, purple, and red and pieces from different eras. The décor depicted a person that was adventurous, explorative, and fearless. Suddenly, I remembered that she didn’t always live here alone. Was this style Fatima’s or her husband’s?

As I wondered about him, he stared down at me. Their poster-size wedding portrait on the opposite wall disrupted my observations. I froze. What am I doing here? Why am I in this man’s house? As my ego fueled my apprehension, her husband’s pupils trailed me. When I leaned left, they followed. When I leaned right, they darted in my direction. As I played peekaboo with the portrait, Fatima nudged me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure? You seem uncomfortable.”

“Nah, I’m okay.”

How could I explain that her husband was harassing me? She smiled. “I’m going to get ready. I’ll be back,” she said as she walked downstairs.

“I’ll be here.” When she left the room, I whispered, “I think.” I frowned at him.
If this bastard stops staring at me
.

His smile flatlined and his nose flared. I pleaded with him and my sanity.
Look dude, I’m not here to disrespect you. Your wife is paying for my company.

After a thirty-minute dispute with her husband, Fatima’s high heels clicked up the stairs. Her tight pink business suit suffocated all of my indecision. Like what could he do? Jump off the wall and attack me. I stood up and smiled. “You look nice.”

“Thank you. I meant to tell you that you do, too.”

I looked down at my long-sleeve Armani T-shirt and loose fitting jeans and shrugged my shoulders. “Thanks.”

Seconds passed as we stood speechless. Finally, she ended the hypnosis. “Weren’t you supposed to bring me something today?”

My eyes shifted as I came down from Fatimaland. What was I supposed to bring her? C’mon Rashad. You can’t mess up this early in the game. Apparently recognizing the distressed look on my face, she sang my name. If she was smiling, it couldn’t be too serious. Her breast grazed me as she stepped closer. “Your social security card.”

Mentally wiping the pool of sweat that I assumed had developed on my forehead, I sighed and whipped out my card. When she grabbed it from me, our fingertips flirted. Her lips curled seductively as she untangled our connection. “I’m going to make a copy. I’ll be back.”

I admired her thickness as she strutted into her home office. Her freshly curled hair hung down her back and bounced with her bounce. The definition in her calf muscles captivated me. When she returned, I stood in the same spot, paralyzed by her movements. She handed the card back to me and I tried to engage her with my touch again, but she pulled away.

“So, are you able to meet me at my office around lunchtime? There’s a clinic not too far…”

While she proceeded to give me all the specifics, I nodded. Did she realize that I was at her disposal? As long as she was paying me the negotiated salary, I am wherever, whenever she wants me to be. I asked, “Do you mind getting tested?”

When her neck snapped back, I realized that it may have been offensive. Just because a woman claims she hasn’t been with anyone in three years doesn’t mean it’s true. Prepared for her opposition, I poked my chest out and peered into her eyes like, “What?”

When her shoulders sagged and she blushed, I knew she appreciated my stance. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get a test.”

A
s I waited for my copier to scan Rashad’s social security card, I bit my nails. What the hell are you nervous about? Though I wanted company, I didn’t expect to be smitten with the hired help. When I looked at the photo of Mya and me on my desk, I could hear her saying, “Don’t be scared now.”

When I walked back into the living room, Rashad’s gaze warned me that we needed to get out of the confines of my house, fast. Either the heat was on ninety or he had me hot and bothered. While we worked out the specifics of the HIV test, I fanned myself. When I agreed to be tested also, an appreciative smile spread across his face like he expected me to resist. “Teem.”

Teem?
No one had ever used that as a nickname for me, and I liked it. Hell! I liked him! He continued, “I think this is going to be good for the both of us.”

I exhaled, “I agree.”

In the middle of my living room, I floated away. When I inadvertently landed, I felt faint. Is he using magic on me? When I refocused and checked the time, I snapped out of his spell. “I have to get out of here.”

I scrambled around the living room moving fast and doing nothing; he stood patiently like he admired my scatterbrained hysteria. Finally, he asked, “Do you need me to get anything?”

I actually thought about what he could do. “Uh.” I looked under the magazines on the table and searched for what, I don’t know. “Um.” Then, I rushed over to the dining table. “Let me see.”

After realizing I was wasting more time for the hell of it, I told him not to worry as I convinced myself that I had everything I needed. I headed for the door and he followed.

Out on the steps, he grabbed my bag. As I flopped down the stairs, he tagged behind. My mind was already at work as my pressure began to rise and my eyes danced in my head. When I looked back at his lackadaisical stride, I became irritated that I was on the curb and he was on the next to the last step. When I began to walk toward Adam Clayton Powell, I said, “C’mon.”

“Calm down.”

I insisted, “This is every morning. I’m always leaving in a rush.”

When he caught up to me, he said, “Work isn’t going anywhere. It will be there when you get there. Calm down”

“I have meetings. I’m sorry. I just don’t like to have people waiting for me. Do you know what I mean?”

“I feel you.”

His response confirmed that he knew nothing about dependability or time management. As I rushed up the street, he strolled, but somehow we covered the same distance. It frustrated the hell out of me that I was out of breath and he looked like he was on a moving sidewalk.

Before I got into the taxi, I handed him a business card. “Meet me at my office at twelve.” Praying that his tardiness would somehow disappear, I huffed, “Be on time.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Rashad, do not be late. I usually don’t have long for lunch.”

“I’ll be there.”

His confident tone calmed my heartbeat. Suddenly, I wasn’t concerned about getting to work on time. My mind shifted to counting the minutes before I would see him again. I turned around and watched him through the back window of the taxi. He strolled up the street like he didn’t have a care in the world. As soon as we were separated by multiple blocks, I slid down in the seat and exhaled.

I
nstead of allowing time to control me, I’ve made a habit of enjoying each moment in time. People consumed with time seem to have more stress. What does that tell you? Worrying about being on time will have you in the grave in a timely fashion. When I stood outside of Fatima’s office at five minutes to noon, even I was shocked, and the look on her face when she exited the building confirmed she felt the same. To mask her smile, she curled her lips, but I could tell she was happy to see me. I leaned in for a hug and she swished by me. “C’mon. We have to hurry.”

My body swirled around in the direction of the breeze she generated. Why does this girl rush like the world is coming to an end? Partially offended that my affectionate gesture was ignored, I strolled behind. She strutted ahead of me and I called out to her, “Fatima.”

With her eyes squinted and using her hand as a sun visor, she asked, “What?”

When I caught up to her, I bent down and stole my hug. My goal was achieved when she paused momentarily to breathe. After just one quick breath, she relapsed. “We have to hurry. I have to get back to work.”

I shook my head at the back of her, amazed as she jogged up the street. When we went into the clinic, she put our names on the list and we sat in the waiting area.

“Are you having a rough day?” When she nodded, I patted her knee. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” She bumped her shoulder into mine. “I’m sorry I made you sorry.”

Her corniness made me shake my head. They called us individually and neither of us appeared nervous. It’s always a good feeling knowing you haven’t done anything stupid since your last test. I strolled up in there like I’m just here for my papers. It took all of one minute for the both of us to give blood samples. Our results would be back in two days. On the way out of the clinic, she tugged my arm. “Are you nervous?”

“Are you?”

“No. You may as well say I’m a virgin.”

Though it is obvious that she’s not, it aroused me to imagine that she was damn close. As my mind wandered off, she tickled my lower back. “You never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“Never mind.”

With my arm around her shoulder, I bent and whispered in her ear, “No.”

As if my closeness invoked a sudden chill, she folded her neck and snatched it away. We laughed for no reason. She was with me and I was with her and her job was somewhere on another side of her brain as we took our time getting back to her building.

Before she went in, she said, “You’re a free man until the results come back.”

Her words crushed me as I looked forward to sharing the evening with her. I frowned. “You mean to tell me that you don’t want to see me before you see the results.”

“Why waste time getting all into you, if you’re infected?”

How could this Southern girl be so witty? As I tried to contain my laughter, I shook my head. “You are a trip.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. That’s the funny part.”

“Same place, same time, two days from now.”

Though I was happy that the time off would allow me a few days to catch up on my prerequisites, a part of me enjoyed just being in the midst of her feistiness. As she disappeared into the building, I watched my reflection in the glass doors. What have you gotten yourself into, Rashad?