I See...Love (A Different Road Book 1) (6 page)

There is order to everything in my life. Everything has its place and must remain that way. I’m fiercely independent and don’t rely on anyone to do anything for me, except Josh. It took me a long time to implicitly trust Josh. Too many people want to and do take advantage of my blindness, but not Josh. The thought of finding another loyal replacement outweighs his disobedience and breach of contract. I’m glad he ended the relationship on his own and that he got a replacement for Nina. If he hadn’t, I would have. If it weren’t for the short interaction with Joss this morning, I would have terminated their services all together and hired a new personal chef. They’re a dime a dozen in this city.

Josh knows what comes along with this job. He’s with me twenty-four seven. He lives in my house on the upper level. He’s also paid very handsomely for his services. There is no time for him to have a life outside of being my personal assistant, and he’s agreed to that. He knew what he was signing on to do. He has two more years left on his contract with me. If he wants out after his contract is over, then he can get out, but not a day before.

As I lay in bed and think of all my weaknesses today, I curl my hands into a fist and dig my fingernails into my palms. Even though the night air is cool, sweat drips from my temples. My earlier weakness of wanting to see Joss again pisses me off. Before I could think better of it, I did the one thing I knew I could do to see her again before she cooked for me next week. I hired her to cater a party at my house on Saturday. What the fuck is wrong with me? Other than Josh and my very small family, I’ve never opened my home up to anyone. I’ve never even allowed Nina to stay in my house unattended. Now I have to round up twenty of my closest, lame, so-called friends to come into my home, my personal sanctuary away from the world.

I get up from the bed and head into my home gym. I need to clear my head. I need the clarity that I get from my martial arts training. As much as I hated how I was forced into the man that I’ve become, and as much as I hated the training I endured, I love my martial arts training. It’s one of the only times my mind, body, and spirit come together as one and can be free. Even walking into the room is comforting. The smell of sweat and the smell of the leather and steel workout equipment instantly relax me. I close the door behind me, then pull my t-shirt off over my head and hang it on the hook just inside the door. I walk to the center of the mat and I get into position. I start to move my body, arms, and legs in the disciplined movements of the kata. They’re precise and flow easily from one to the next. You don’t need your sight. In fact, many practice the craft blindfolded, or with their eyes closed to eliminate the sense.

As I move, flashes of my mother invade my discipline. From one movement to the next, a different, unwanted memory plays in my mind, tainting the experience. Then a flash of my upbringing, a moment of terror the day I was brought home from the hospital after the accident. I was walked into the front door by my dad’s right hand attorney, Sebastien, then immediately abandoned in our massive mansion. I was told to find my own way to my room. Sure, you think you know the ins and outs and the layout of your home, but how many corners or banisters would you run into if you closed your eyes and tried to get from one point to the next? Could you navigate from the front door to the stairs having never had to do it blind? I had no one to hold my elbow and guide me as a child. I didn’t have a Josh back then, not even close. I was a scared boy who just lost both of his parents. I was just in a horrific car accident and had a severe head injury among other injuries. Who walks that child into a huge home and says find your way to your room? A sadistic motherfucker, that’s who! From that day on, it was full force ahead, grooming and training with no mercy.

I head over to the wooden dummy and move with grace. My limbs quickly move and crack against the smooth wooden surface. A flash of Joss. I hit harder. I bring my leg up to kick and miss. The force from the attempt sends me flat on my ass. I lay on the cold cushioned mat breathing heavily. I ball my hands into fists as the door opens and Josh rushes in.

“River, are you all right?” he asks, kneeling at my side. His hand comes to my elbow, but I shrug him off.

“No! Leave me be!” I yell.

He removes his hand from my elbow, but he doesn’t get off the mat. I bring my hands to my head and run them through my hair, then grab a tight fistful to the point it makes my eyes water. Josh gets up, but he walks to the side of the room not toward the doorway.

“On your feet,” he says in a stern voice. Josh knows better than to speak to me this way, but, I find myself listening to him.

The second I’m on my feet, Josh shoves something into my gut. Right away, I recognize the feel of them, it’s my sparing gloves. I feel which glove is which, then fasten them on my hands. Josh smacks his hand on the cushioned flat surface of a strike pad. I hone in my target from the sound he made on the strike pad.

“Give it to me,” he says, and then hits it again.

I center my thoughts and step my right leg back in a pose. I bring my gloves to my face, and with all the pent up anger of my weaknesses, I pour it all into a single hit. I connect with the pad and hear Josh grunt and falter back a step. I hear him move a few steps to the left.

“Again,” he says, hitting the pad.

I visualize where the sound comes from, square my hips and hit it again. I connect with a violent punch that sends Josh backwards two steps. With each hit, the tension and the disappointment of my life and of myself lessen, just a little. Josh enjoys moving around keeping me on my toes. After the fifth hit, he stops hitting the pad, which tells me where he is. I can only tell where he is by the sound of his footsteps on the padded mat. I hone my hearing and become one with Josh’s steps. He tries to move ever so silently, but each step he makes seems louder than the last. It’s a game, a challenge. I thrive on a challenge. After thirty minutes, Josh calls it quits.

“I’ll need a week to recover from this,” he says, then tosses the strike pad against the wall where he got it from and heads toward the door.

“Who do you want to invite to the party Saturday?” he calls from the doorway, breathing heavily.

“I don’t care. You pick,” I tell him. “Just not…” I start to continue.

“I know who not to invite,” he replies, then leaves.

Honestly, I don’t care who he invites minus a select few. And if I’m smart, I’ll cancel the whole thing right this minute. But, I can’t bring myself to say the words. I unfasten the gloves and walk over to where they go. I feel the cabinet and place them exactly where they belong. I walk to the door and take my t-shirt from the hook. I flip it over my shoulder and exit the room feeling a million times better than I did when I entered. I walk to the kitchen for a bottle of water and I freeze. The instant my foot enters the kitchen, the smell of nutmeg and Joss fills my senses. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was Joss herself in my kitchen. I shake it off, grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and head out of the kitchen to my bedroom for a shower.

Friday night, Nina and I are in the kitchen wearing green detox facemasks, dancing to music, while making hors d'oeuvres for River Mason’s party tomorrow. I spent the last forty-five minutes carving out the insides of cooked miniature red potatoes. I’ve stuffed them with a sour cream mixture, and now I’m sprinkling on the final touches of finely chopped bacon and a spear of chive.

Nina is working on smoked salmon tartines with a red onion, caper relish to add to the already completed watermelon, feta salad circles, mozzarella caprese bites, stuffed mushrooms, and the cucumber slices with crab and chili paste. We’ll make the mini shrimp cocktail shooters on site, as well as assemble the spaghetti and meatball. Yes, I said spaghetti and meatball…singular, not plural. The whole menu is appetizers, and I think it’s both fun and fabulous. If you’ve never had a spaghetti and meatball hors d’oeuvre, you haven’t lived. It’s a spicy meatball topped with a small spiral of al dente spaghetti, a small dollop of pasta sauce, and then it’s sprinkled with chopped oregano. It’s heaven in your mouth.

We still have to make all five of the dessert petit fours, too. I still haven’t figured out how to get Nina to come without seeming like I’m trying to get Nina to come. She’s already hired on two of our go-to catering staff workers, Maddy and Jeff, which I turned around and promptly cancelled. So, I need to figure out how to get Nina there, or, I’ll be catering the party by myself. And that would not be fun, not to mention probably really bad for business seeing as it’s a high profile party.

“I need to go scrub this shit off my face,” I tell her, as I put the last spear of chive on the final potato.

“No, you need to leave it on for twenty minutes,” she says, finishing her last tartine.

“I feel my face drying up like the Sahara Desert!” I whine.

“Oh, alright, you big baby, but if your pores look like a crater on the moon, don’t come crying to me!” she returns.

Nina follows behind me into the bathroom. I grab a towel and set it on the counter, then turn on the water and scrub off her homemade green martian crap concoction. Nina rests her backside against the door behind me as I grab the towel and dab at my face, just like she taught me. Dab don’t rub, she always scolds. After the last couple dabs, I move out of the way so she can rinse her face off. When she doesn’t move toward the sink, I look at her face. Streaking down her cracked green mask is a trail of gooey green tears.

“Nina, what’s wrong?” I question, taking a step toward her.

“Josh hasn’t called, or texted,” she blurts out.

“Didn’t you tell me that you told him not to call or text you?” I ask.

I regret saying it the second I ask. It was a dumb and insensitive question. Of course, a woman wants the man to attempt to get them back. It’s all a stupid game that most women play, but I’m not most women. What I say is what I mean, I don’t like games. Then, Nina starts to sob uncontrollably. Her green mask is reconstituting and starting to drip down her face onto her shirt. Oh, dear God, what do I do?

“Do we need to have another talk under our desk?” I ask. Maybe the tight confined space comforts her.

“NO!” she wails, as snot drips out of her nose.

“Vodka! You need Vodka!” I yell, and take her hand.

I quickly lead her out of the bathroom and sit her on the couch in the family room. I rush into the kitchen and pour some whipped cream flavored Vodka into two shot glasses, grab them in my hands and head out of the kitchen. No, this is more of a big girl glass problem. I turn back around and set them on the counter, then grab two medium glasses from the cupboard. I dump the two shots into the glasses, and then pour more Vodka into each glass.

Back in the family room, I take her hand and wrap her fingers around the glass. By now, half of her green mask is running down her neck and the other half is in her lap. I get back up and get a wet washcloth, then sit back down next to her. I’ve never seen her so broken up about a guy before. As I gently wipe her face and neck, she hiccoughs as she continues to cry. By the time I’m done wiping her face, her glass is empty. I take it out of her hand and lay her down on the couch with her head on a throw pillow. I cover her with a blanket from the arm of the couch, and then tuck her hair behind her ear. I sit on the floor until she finally gives up and closes her eyes and goes to sleep. I stand up, take my glass from the coffee table and head to my bedroom, knowing just what I need to do tomorrow.