Authors: Jillian Leeson
Most nod but no one replies, so Adam says, “Let’s go over it again. As we all know, the Occupy Wall Street protests of 2011 and 12 have given our cause worldwide publicity, but with what results? Those bankers and CEOs are still getting their multimillion-dollar bonuses, but are better at hiding them.
“So this time, we’ll be personalizing our campaign. We’ll show the world who these rich bastards really are. We’ll have photos, names, and how much they earn on our banners and in our publicity. Even if our protest is relatively small, we’ll use social media to make our protest go viral on the net. This will help us put pressure on the government to introduce much-needed regulations. Elle, slide show.”
I start the slides on the group’s laptop, which is connected to the overhead projector.
“For our Friday protest, we’ll be concentrating on these three bankers. Look closely at their photos and remember their faces. We’re going to try and confront them. Mark has been following their movements in the past month and we’re pretty sure we’ve figured out their morning routines. Our objective is to confront at least one of them and get that on camera. We’ll share the clip on social media, making sure it will go viral on the net. This will be great footage for the TV stations and help us get more interest in the protest.”
I move from slide to slide, stopping for a minute or so on each banker, then replaying the sequence.
“We’ll be splitting into three groups. Each group will target one of the bankers early in the morning. The major protest starts at noon. No one expects us there early, so they won’t see it coming. We’ll dress up as business people to blend in, which may be harder for some than others.” Adam winks at me and I scowl back at him, knowing full well I’ll have to put in a big effort to make me merge into the business crowd.
After discussing the numerous tasks to be done before Friday, like making banners, organizing megaphones, and drafting speeches, Adam assigns the groups—I’ll be with him and Mark. He ends the meeting, and we put the tables and chairs back in their original positions.
Mark walks up to me.
“Hey Elle, do you need any help?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Mark worships the ground Adam walks on. He is determined to follow in his footsteps in every way possible. And unfortunately, that includes me. About a year ago, after a particularly successful protest, Adam and I got wasted and slept together. To this day, I still can’t remember exactly what happened. I don’t normally sleep with anyone from the group; he is, and will be, the only exception. Afterward, I simply told him that I don’t do relationships, and we never talked about it again. But somehow, Mark caught wind of what happened between us and now he’s obsessed with me.
“I’ll help you anyway.” He slaps my ass, pushes me aside, and starts disconnecting the cables from the laptop.
“Keep your hands to yourself, jerk.”
I look daggers at him, but it doesn’t wipe the lascivious smile off his face. He keeps quiet for a few seconds, then says, “Let’s have coffee after this, just you and me.”
I can’t believe it. The thick-skinned dickhead tries asking me out at every single meeting, even though I’ve yelled and sworn at him to let him know I’m
so
not interested. I know exactly what he wants—his five seconds of release after which he’ll toss me. No, thanks.
I’m
the one doing the picking and the tossing, and he’s far from ever making my shortlist. I am about to abuse him with some of my favorite four-letter words, but a double beep sounds from my pocket—a text message.
Hey beautiful, have you missed me?
Or my S1000RR? Don’t worry, I’m not the jealous type.
I can’t help but smile. All weekend, I’ve been thinking of Ryder’s bike and how it would feel to own it. Straight after our last race, I’d been confident I would win against him, but now I’m not so sure any more. What the hell am I going to do if I lose? I’m not worried he’ll sabotage my bike—he is clearly too full of himself—but what if I screw up on the day?
I push my negative thoughts aside. Of course I’m going to win. In all my races, I’ve only lost once and that was against CJ, who is highly regarded in racing circles. A race against Ryder, like last time, should be a walk in the park.
I text him back.
Who is this?
Oh yeah…the LOSER.
Ryder:
Ouch, that hurt.
Me:
I guess my bike is ready. Where can I pick it up?
Ryder:
What time will you be back home?
Me:
Why?
Ryder:
What time?
Me:
Just give me the freaking address.
Ryder:
Tell me what time first.
Me:
Ur just as obnoxious in txt as in real life.
Ryder:
U ain’t seen nothin’ yet, baby. Wait till I win our race.
Ah! I want to kill him now.
Ryder:
U want your bike back or not?
Me:
9pm.
Ryder:
CU then.
He really gets my blood boiling, even in a text message. But I have to admit, albeit grudgingly, that a teensy part of me is looking forward to seeing him again. He has this curious effect on me: a mixture of irritation and fascination. It is an unfamiliar feeling, and I haven’t yet figured out how to deal with it.
What I do know is that all Mark evokes is a deep revulsion. His eyes are on me again after I put my phone in my pocket, but I refuse to acknowledge him and march up to Adam.
“So I’m in your group?” I say.
“Yep, it’s you, me, and Mark.”
“You know I can’t stand him. Let me change to another group.”
“Come on, Elle, I want you with me. I’m going after the biggest scumbag of the three. You’re the best with the recording equipment and Mark has been tailing him for weeks. He knows all the best routes. It’s gotta be the three of us. Sorry.”
I glare at him, my eyes clouding over with fury. I hate it when I’m told what to do, even if it does make sense what Adam says. I don’t want to let the group down, but if Mark tries anything on me, I’ll hang him by the balls and I don’t goddamn care if I disrupt the group’s carefully crafted plans.
I wag my finger at Adam. “You make sure he stays away from me. I mean it. Otherwise I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
Grabbing my bag off the floor, I turn my back to him and say, “Text me where you’re going to be, what time, and I’ll be there.”
I stomp out of the room, slamming the door behind me.
Ryder
The first thing I do when I get into the office on Monday is call my mechanic to check if Elle’s bike has been fixed. I know she won’t be keen to meet me, but she doesn’t have a choice—I won’t take no for an answer. Unfortunately, her bike won’t be ready for a while yet, so I have no choice but to concentrate on work. As usual, I have piles to get through. Lynette, my PA, goes through the appointments she’s set up for the coming week: it’s the usual lunches, breakfast meetings, and presentations. I can’t suppress a series of yawns.
After Lynette closes the door behind her, I call the mechanic again and he finally gives me the news I’m waiting for: I can pick up the bike straight after lunch. I text Elle and as predicted, she tries to avoid meeting me, but I persist and she agrees to see me later tonight. When I finish work, I pick up her bike and go home, where I change into a comfortable pair of jeans and a black casual shirt; somehow I don’t think Elle takes well to a business suit.
When I arrive at her place just before nine, she’s waiting for me outside the building. My heart jumps. She is wearing all black—a short black skirt, a sheer lacy black top with what looks like a corset underneath, and a long black jacket, collar upturned, that almost reaches her ankles. But it is the spiky high heels on her thigh-high black boots that grab my attention. I imagine her wearing only those boots, tightly wrapped around me while she’s screaming my name.
“Wow, you look sexy as hell.”
Sparks fly from her beautiful dark lined eyes, fixed on me like some vampire vixen.
“And you’re as obnoxious as ever.”
I get off her bike, flashing her a grin, and take a step back. “Here it is. In perfect order. It was the kickstand sensor after all.”
Glancing at me with a scowl, she strides to her bike and runs her hand over the seat.
“Go on, try it,” I say.
Elle takes off her long jacket and tosses it to me before getting on the bike. Her short skirt hikes up even further when she sits down, revealing more of her shapely thighs. Before I have time to admire them, she rockets away down the street and turns a corner.
I sit on the steps in front of her apartment building, wondering how long she’s going to be. I finger her jacket—it still feels warm. On impulse, I lift it up and breathe in her dizzying, intoxicating scent.
More than five minutes have passed when I hear the echo of heels clicking on the pavement, soon followed by the outline of her familiar figure.
“I locked it up. Thanks for getting it fixed.”
When I return her jacket, she reaches into an inner pocket and hands me five hundred-dollar bills. I don’t want to accept her money, but I have a strong feeling she’s going to put up a fight. I return four bills to her, adding fifty dollars from my wallet.
“This is gonna be enough.”
“No way. It can’t be that cheap. Five hundred is probably not even enough to cover the towing and the repair.”
“Believe me, I get a good deal.”
Elle narrows her eyes. “How’s that possible? You’re not exploiting some illegal, are you?”
“Why do you always think the worst of me? If you need to know, I’m good friends with the mechanic. And no, he’s not an illegal.”
One hand on her hip, she raises a black-nailed finger at me. “Let me make one thing clear. I always pay my own way and I’m not going to be in your debt.”
She pushes the four hundred dollars into my chest, but I grab her wrist and when I say, “If you don’t believe me, talk to my mechanic,” she backs off.
I dial the number on my cell. “Hey Frank, you know the GSX I picked up today? The lady wants to know how much you charged for the repair of the kickstand sensor. Here she is.”
I pass her the phone. She spins around and puts distance between us while she’s talking to Frank. She is shaking her head when she hands the phone back to me.
“I’m fully insured,” I say.
“So I’ve heard.”
“You know what? If you still don’t believe me, how about you buy me a coffee?”
“Coffee? At this hour?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“This isn’t the time to drink coffee.”
Elle starts marching down the street, towards the main drag. I follow, striding beside her at her frenetic pace. She stares straight ahead, not once acknowledging my presence. A tense silence, punctuated by the clicking of her heels, accompanies us the six blocks down before she makes a sudden left turn into what looks like a café, marked with a simple sign: “Shrine”.
Once inside, it turns out to be a bar with reggae music blasting from a live band. Vinyl records and album covers from the 70s and 80s are plastered on the ceiling while African tribal art and paintings by local artists adorn the walls. Sparkly lights flash on the eclectic crowd bopping on the dance floor—black, white, Asian, biracial, hood, preppy, hipster, rasta.
We go up to the bar.
“What are you having?” she asks.
“An Americano and a Perrier.”
Cocking her pierced eyebrow, she places the order. The pretty black bartender winks at me and I wink back with a smile when Elle spins around, glowering at me.
We find a table against the wall where we have a good view of the band on stage. A handful of women who pass our table ask me to dance even though they must notice I have female company. Some of them are very attractive, and I would normally gladly take them up on their offers. Seeing Elle’s reaction to these women amuses me to no end. I try to draw out her indignant glares by flashing the women sexy smiles before I shake my head.
Elle has five shots of a clear liquid of what I suspect is vodka, in front of her. While she picks one up and downs it, I ask her what I’ve been dying to find out.
“How did you end up here in Harlem?”
“I left home when I was sixteen. I stayed with a friend who lived around here until I got a job and could afford my own place. It’s not as rough as it seems, though. I could easily have ended up in the bad parts of Brooklyn. Not everyone is born privileged, you know.” Winking at me, she downs another shot.
Now it’s my turn to scowl. I hate it when people make assumptions about me. Frankly, I’m disappointed in her; considering her own appearance, she should be the last to take me at face value.
Barely able contain my anger, I growl, “You don’t know anything about me.”
“What’s there to know? I’ve seen enough. Expensive bike, ditto clothes, cocky as hell: rich white boy.”
“How about this one: putting up a tough, bitchy front so that no one can get close enough to cause you any hurt?”
Elle’s furious glare mirrors mine a short while ago, but she doesn’t deny what I said. She downs a third shot before she asks, “So what’s your story?”
“Nothing you’d care about.”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“If you really want to know, I bet you were born more privileged than me. At least you had a home. When I was a kid, I lived out on the streets or, at best, in a shelter. I don’t think you have any idea what it feels like to sleep out in the snow without as much as a winter jacket. So don’t think for a second that I should feel guilty for being able to afford nice clothes—clothes that are clean, that fit, that haven’t got any holes in them.”
I can’t believe I told her this. With the exception of Alex, I haven’t told anyone about my early childhood, always focusing on my later years, growing up in a middle-class suburb.