After Hours (14 page)

W
hen Dina leaned over the left shoulder of a man to remove his plate before dessert was served, she felt him slip something in her pants pocket. “It's just a little something for you, sweetie,” he whispered in a trembling voice.

She smiled at the elderly man with a network of lines crisscrossing his deeply tanned, weather-beaten face. “Thank you.”

She'd been “sweetie,” “darling,” “baby” and “luscious” to the accountants sitting in the smaller of the two first-floor dining rooms for their quarterly dinner gathering. They'd barely touched their food, preferring instead to drink dinner. Her perception of the stereotypical accountant was shattered completely when the group of twenty men and six women shed their conservative vests and jackets, heading straight for the bar and ordering cocktails, some she'd never heard of—green demon, chi chi and ritz fizz—and the ubiquitous martini and gin and tonic. Dina would be anything they wanted her to be as long as they tipped her for bringing them drinks, refilling their water goblets or just smiling.

Sybil had changed her mind about training her for coat check when she said she would be better utilized waiting tables. It took more than two hours of intense instruction for her to learn to serve, pick up, pour water and hoist a tray without spilling its contents. She garnered a rare compliment from Sybil when she simulated taking meat, fish or chicken choices from a table of ten, remembering who would get which plate.

It was now her second week of work; although waiting tables paid ten dollars more per hour, and with tips, Dina knew she wouldn't be able save enough over the next three months to repay Payne. And there was one thing she knew about her former boss, and that was he didn't issue idle threats. Irrespective of gender, the depraved little cretin took pleasure inflicting the most intense pain on his victims.

She budgeted carefully when she calculated how much money she had to put aside each week for her rent and carfare. What she got in tips was added to the backpack, and she continued the practice of mailing postal money orders to Dora Jenkins.

Dina hadn't spoken to her grandmother since Dora had called her about Payne busting up her apartment. As long as she sent the money orders, then her grandmother knew she was still alive.

A smothered cry of surprise escaped her when she felt a hand on her behind. Turning around, Dina glared at a man who definitely had had too much to drink. Shock quickly gave way to fury when she leaned and positioned her mouth close to his ear.

“If you touch me again, I'll cut your balls off and stuff them down your motherfuckin' throat,” she whispered, all the while smiling demurely.

He stared numbly at her, the pale coming up underneath his tan. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down his throat. “I'm sorry, miss.”

“I'm not,” Dina countered. “May I bring you some coffee?” she said loud enough for the others at the table to overhear.

An expression of surprised relief flooded across his face. “Yes, please.”

Straightening, she walked across the room to the kitchen.

 

“Your new waitress is causing quite a stir.”

Sybil glanced up from sifting powdered cocoa on ramekins filled with tiramisu. “What are you talking about?” she asked her assistant as he walked into the kitchen.

“Dina Gordon. I'm willing to bet those pencil pushers are jerkin' off under the table while fantasizing about stickin' it to her.”

“Oh, really,” she crooned, knowing exactly what Jake Collins was talking about.

“Yeah,” Jake drawled, giving his boss a sidelong glance. “Isn't that why you hired her?”

Sybil resumed dusting the individual desserts. “I hired her for coat check.”

“Yeah, and I've been mistaken for Prince's twin brother a time or two.” Standing six-five and weighing in at two-sixty, ex-footballer Jacob “Black Buddha” Collins was physically the complete opposite of the renowned musician.

Sybil placed the ramekins on another tray, hiding a smile. Removing her apron, she placed it on the back of a stool. “I'm going out to check the floor.” She pushed open the swinging door and made her way into the smaller of the two first-floor dining rooms to find Dina heading in her direction.

A black silk obi sash and bow tie set off the whiteness of a pleated-front, wing-collar tuxedo shirt. The curling ends of her ponytail blended into the black of the silk fabric around her tiny waist.

Dina slowed her pace when she saw Sybil watching her, wondering what was going on behind her closed expression. Had she lingered too long at the tables? Was she supposed to ignore questions put to her or refer them to the head waiter?

“Nice work, Dina,” Sybil said when she saw countless pairs of eyes trained on her newest employee. Jake was right, and she hoped a few wouldn't go into cardiac arrest before leaving her establishment.

Dina flashed a shy smile. “Thank you.”

“You can bring out dessert now.”

Wrong, Sybil,
Dina mused.
A dessert named Dina Gordon, not tiramisu, has been available for the past two hours.
She'd lost count of the number of times the men beckoned to her. Even those sitting at another table manned by another waiter sought her attention.

“There are a few who need to sober up before they leave here,” she said to Sybil.

Sybil nodded. “I don't know what it is, but it's the conservative ones who always go buck-wild.”

“I have something to tell you.”

Dina had decided to tell Sybil about the pervert before she heard his version. When he'd touched her, it had brought back memories of the man who'd robbed her of her innocence. He'd come to the apartment whenever she was alone and touched her behind. It'd been his cue for her to undress and get into bed. It wasn't until years later, whenever she slept with other men, unable to feel desire or passion, that she realized she'd been scarred for life. She'd listened to other women talk about orgasms and a man hitting their G-spot, but for all she'd understood, they could've been speaking a foreign language.

“What is it, Dina?”

“I told one of the men that I was going to cut off his balls because he groped my ass.”

There was a moment of silence, then Sybil spoke again. “Good for you. I hope you told him that you'd make him eat them.”

A warm surge of relief swept over Dina. She knew she'd reacted on impulse, but she didn't want to lose her job. “I did.”

“Good for you,” Sybil repeated. “Now please serve dessert.”

“Y
o, Dina, your taxi's here.”

Dina waved to the college student who doubled as busboy and dishwasher. “Thanks, Kevin.”

Kevin Donahue worked not because he needed money for tuition or books but to make payments on his car. The twenty-year-old had one up on her—he had a car, and she had to rely on buses and taxis for her transportation. Tonight was one of those nights, because she'd worked a double shift. If she missed a bus, then she'd have to wait an hour for another.

Dina hated that she had to watch every penny when that hadn't been the case in the past. All of her “dates” had paid for everything she wanted or needed. It'd boosted their street cred whenever they'd ordered magnums of the best champagne, entertained in the most lavish hotel suites and handed out twenty-and fifty-dollar tips to barmaids, valets and bellhops. The attitude of the street hustler was that because he'd worked hard to achieve a modicum of recognition and wealth, he believed his good luck would go on forever. She'd recognized early on that
forever
meant either death or prison—something that she definitely hadn't wanted.

Now that she was out of the hustling game, Dina realized overhearing the two women in the club talking about her had saved her life in more ways than one. Either someone would've walked up to her and shot or stabbed her or she could've been arrested and charged as an accomplice to racketeering or drug trafficking.

She'd heard and read about women who let gangsters set them up in apartments only to lose everything whenever the feds invoked the RICO statute. She'd accepted clothes and shoes as gifts but never jewelry, because she didn't know whether the pieces were “hot.” Even though she knew the man who owned the local pawnshop and he looked the other way whenever someone came in to hock a piece of jewelry, she wasn't willing to take the risk and have the item traced back to her.

Dina knew the reason she'd lasted so long in the hustling game was because she hadn't moved out of the projects while managing to keep a low-profile status. Many of those who lived or hung out around the projects sported designer labels—whether authentic or bootleg—so she blended in with everyone else.

She walked out of the catering hall to see the taillights of her taxi fading into the night. Temperatures had dropped dramatically after a steadily falling all-day rain tapered off to a light drizzle. “Shit!” Now she would have to go back inside to call again.

“Shame on you, baby girl,” crooned a familiar voice. “I didn't know you used four-letter words.”

Dina spun around to find Lance smiling at her. He looked different in a pair of jeans, running shoes and a sweatshirt with a fading college logo. Her pulse quickening, she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his waist. Going on to her toes, she brushed a light kiss over his mouth.

“Baby girl may not smoke or drink, but she does cuss on occasion. What are you doing here?”

Lance pulled her closer, enjoying the press of the feminine curves against his body. Everything about Dina Gordon was imprinted on his brain: her feminine scent, the long, dark hair with reddish highlights, the differing shades of brown and green in her large eyes, her perfectly proportioned petite body and the smoky timbre of her dulcet voice. Although they talked to each other by phone every day, it wasn't enough for him. He wanted to
see
her every day.

Lancelot Londell Hanes had waited forty-nine years to find himself totally enthralled with a woman who'd bewitched him with her independence and innocence. However, it was her innocence that had him off balance.

Never married, he was always straightforward in his relationships with other women, having been in love only once. He was conventional and in complete control of his sexual nature, but perhaps it'd been his grandmother's constant warnings about sneaky, shifty women that made him overly cautious and somewhat distrustful of the opposite sex.

However, the one woman with whom he'd fallen in love sent him a Dear John letter after a two-year liaison, claming he was too possessive. He was devastated because he'd been willing to give up an important position with a prestigious computer firm to relocate to Los Angles to be with her. Again it was his grandmother who'd asked how possessive could he have been with three thousand miles between them? He'd been twenty-five, and that was the first and last time he'd come close to falling in love.

“I'm your car service tonight,” Lance explained.

Easing back in his loose embrace, Dina stared up at his smiling face. “You sent my driver away?”

“Don't worry, Dina. I paid the man for your fare.”

“But it's close to midnight, and by the time you drop me off in Irvington and make it back to West New York it'll be almost one. You're not going to get much sleep if you have to be in your office at eight.”

Lance kissed her forehead. “Stop fretting, Dina,” he said in a quiet voice. “I'm taking the rest of the week off to help a certain young lady get her driver's license.”

“You're kidding?”

He shook his head. “No, I'm not. You told me you don't have to come back here until Saturday afternoon, so that means we have the next forty-eight hours to hone your driving skills. Once you get your license, I'll see about getting you a car.”

Pulling out of his embrace, Dina shook her head. “No, Lance. I can't let you do that.”

“Why not, Dina?”

“I can't repay you. Not now.”

Reaching for her hand, he led her around the building to the parking lot. “Did I say anything about money?”

“No.”

“Then stop talking about it.” There was a thread of hardness in the command that dared her to challenge him.

Always the one who had to have the last word, Dina rounded on him. “I'm not going to stop. I'm not going to owe you, Lance. I can't.”

Lance wanted to shake Dina until she was breathless but decided on another method. Lowering his head, his mouth covered hers. She went stiff in his arms, then without warning became pliant, her body melting against his. “Yes, you can, Dina,” he whispered, his lips brushing against hers. “You promised to let me protect and take care of you. Letting you drive one of my cars so that you don't have to wait for a bus or spend probably as much money as you earn in an hour on taxis
is
taking care of you.”

Dina knew Lance was right. The nights she worked a double, the fare for the cab rides took a large bite out of her salary. And she knew she never would've gotten her apartment without his reference.

“Okay, LL. But as soon as I save some money I'm going to buy my own car.”

Raising his mouth from hers, Lance gazed into her eyes. “You just don't know when to stop, do you?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “What's wrong now?”

“You don't know how to say thank you and leave it at that.” He smiled. “Now, repeat after me—thank you, LL.”

Something in Lance's condescending manner annoyed Dina, but it wasn't enough to turn her off him. She knew he liked her, which aroused her curiosity and her vanity. When he'd kissed her, she was repulsed, then came a tingling in the pit of her stomach and she didn't want to be anywhere else but in his arms, his mouth on hers. His kiss hadn't been threatening but warm, caressing. It wasn't as if he were vying for dominance but reconciliation.

His touch, his kiss, were so different from the men with whom she'd been involved. Their idea of passion was to take a woman and ram their penises inside her while banging her head against the headboard. It was as if they had to let her know who was large and in charge. She'd lost count of the number of times she'd been called “bitch” in the throes of so-called passion. It didn't matter to them if she was satisfied, if they'd hurt her because they hadn't taken the time to arouse her to where she was wet enough to be penetrated. All that mattered to them was getting head and bustin' a nut.

The man holding her to his heart was different. He was kind, generous and, above all, considerate. A slow smile spread over her face as she met his gaze. “Thank you, Big Daddy.” Her sultry voice had dropped an octave.

Throwing back his head, Lance laughed, the sound floating up and lingering in the damp night air. Shaking his head, he pulled her closer. “What am I going to do with you, baby girl?”

Dina buried her face against his shoulder. He felt good and smelled even better. “Protect and take care of me, Big Daddy.”

“And I will,” he said. “I'm going to take you back to your place, where you can pick up enough clothes for the next few days. We can sleep in late, and after you get up, I'm going to take you to an industrial area where you can practice turns and parallel parking.”

“Don't I have to take a written test?”

Lance nodded. “We'll go to the DMV and pick up the book tomorrow. Before you apply for your permit you're going to need certain documents, like your birth certificate, utility bill or original lease verifying your address. They may also require pay stubs, your social security card and a bank statement.”

“I'll have everything by the time I'm ready to take the written test.” And she would. As Dina Gordon, she'd applied for her social security card, and once she received it she planned to open a bank account. Then she wouldn't have to give a check-cashing business a hefty fee to cash her paycheck.

Moving closer to Lance, she leaned into his strength. “Let's go home, Big Daddy.”