The Cocktail Club (11 page)

I took the box from her, scanned it, and accepted her credit card.

My cell phone chirped, announcing a text message. I finished up the sale, then took a peek.

Whassup?

It was Gordon. Before I could respond, I turned around, and another customer stood balancing an armful of merchandise.

I made a mental note to hire an assistant for Beverly.

DARBY

I
enjoyed this time of morning most. All was quiet and calm. The house was so silent, I could hear my appliances as they hummed, and even that never disrupted the serenity. It was right after the kids were tucked away in school, the hubby was at the office, and I was in my zone.

The View
had just come on when a thunderous knock at my front door pulled my attention away from the screen. I growled, irritated. I hated when the phone rang, or when people popped up during my shows.

Who the hell could that be and what's on fire?

I turned toward the sound of the knocking, but couldn't get up fast enough. The knocking got louder. “Darby! You there? OH MY GOD! Please open up!”

The knocking became more frantic. It sounded like there was some kicking thrown in, too. I dropped the remote and bolted from the sofa.

I rushed to the door, pulled back the curtain, and could hardly believe what I saw. Red, puffy, raccoon eyes stared back at me. I took in the trail of running mascara mixed with tears that stained her cheeks. Her lipstick was smudged along the side of her jaw, and her wild hair was all over her head.

Carla looked frantic, disheveled, and like she had run for dear life.

Heat climbed my neck and face as I snatched the door open, and she scrambled to get inside. I helped her up as she struggled to catch her breath. I couldn't figure out what was more stunning, her wardrobe, or her appearance. She looked a hot, funky mess! I hadn't seen her for a few days.

She wore a corset, a garter belt, fishnet stockings, and the whole nine. The flimsy see-through robe she had on covered nothing at all. I couldn't believe she had run out of her house looking the way she did.

“Hurry, lock the door! Oh God, Darby! I hope they didn't see where I went!” She spoke in shaky fits and forced her words out. “Oh my God!” She trembled.

“Whoa! …Who in the hell are you running from?” I pulled back the blinds to peek outside.

“No! Move away from the window!” Carla shrieked. The child looked like she'd seen a ghost or had been chased by one.

“I'm calling the cops! What in the hell is going on?”

My nerves were bad. I walked toward the back of my house with her hot on my heels. I didn't understand why she had run to my house. I didn't need anybody bringing drama to my doorstep.

“What in the hell is going on?” I asked again. I tried to calm her while I went for the phone.

“Darby, please don't call no cops. Please. Let's be real quiet. She didn't see me. They don't know where I went. Let's chill out for a sec,” she begged.

“She? They? Who are you talking about?”

I didn't have to wait too long for the answer. A loud, crashing noise turned both of our attention toward the foyer. I rushed back to the front.

“Oh, hell naw!” I screamed. “What the hell is really going on?”
That crashing noise was my front door, which now hung on its hinges.

“Oh, shit! Oh my God!” Carla cried. “Bitch, you're crazy! You need to leave. We called the police!” Carla said to the woman who stood near the damage.

“You wanna screw around with married men? What kind of tramp sleeps with a bunch of married men?” the woman asked.

“Why did you kick down
my
damn front door?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“Look, lady. My issue is not with you. It's with your trampy friend here. Shove her ass out here, and we're done with you.”

“Yeah, push the trick out here,” another voice said. That's when I realized she wasn't alone.

“Look at my damn door. What in the hell is your problem?” I said to the first woman.

She stood on my doorstep, dressed in what looked like army fatigues. Her sidekick was dressed all in black, and leaned up against a massive, barrel-looking object. I figured that was what they'd used to demolish my front door.

“Who's gonna pay for this damage?”

“Make
her
ass pay! You can't stay here forever,” the woman said to Carla.

Carla was careful to keep her distance. When she spoke, she did so from behind me.

“I told you, I'm not having an affair with your husband. I told you that already!” Carla yelled.

“Bitch, why is he pulling up to your house every Tuesday at ten in the morning, if y'all not fuckin'?” the woman asked.

“Look, I don't care who is fucking whom! What I wanna know is who's gonna fix my damn front door? I ain't got nothing to do
with none of this, and somebody'd better be talking about picking up the tab for the damage to my property.”

“You know what, if you don't push her ass on out here, you may have to eat that. I'm trying to tell you, our issue ain't with you, but you seem like you wanna stick your neck out for her,” the woman said.

“Carla, go to the back. I'm not about to stand here and negotiate with these thugs. I don't care what in the hell she did, you had no business breaking down my front door.”

“Go in and snatch her ass out,” the woman's friend suggested. “I ain't trying to go to jail over this trick.”

“Nah, girl, we need her to come out on her own. You know how it goes in Texas. Ain't nobody shooting me, talking about protecting their castle,” the first woman said.

I was glad she knew better than to step over my threshold, but that didn't make me feel any better about the damage to my front door. I stepped back and grabbed the cordless phone.

“Somebody's gonna pay for the damage to my property, that's all I know.”

The woman and her friend exchanged knowing glances, but neither seemed pressed about my threat to call the police. I didn't really want to call the law. I didn't need them all up in our business, but I needed to put the fear of God in Rambo and her partner.

After I grabbed the phone, I dialed 9-1-1.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

When the dispatcher answered, I spoke like I was on a mission. “Yes, someone kicked in my front door,” I said.

“This shit ain't over, Carla,” the woman spat.

Her friend picked up the massive tool she had brought, and they high-tailed it off my porch.

“You done fucked with the wrong one! Believe that!” the other woman yelled.

I walked outside and tried to get their license plate number, but they were parked too far away. I was more than pissed when I walked back into my house.

The dispatcher told me an officer was on the way, and asked whether I was in any danger. I was grateful it was a weekday morning, and most of my neighbors were at work.

“Carla, the cops are on the way. You should go find something else to put on!” I yelled.

She had come out of hiding, but her eyes wandered around like she wasn't sure if the women were really gone.

“I told you not to call the cops. You know I got you for the door. Now we're gonna have to be answering all kinds of questions and shit,” Carla said.

“Listen, if we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right. I keep telling you, when you go dumpster diving, you find nothing, but trash.”

Carla listened to me like she'd heard it all before, and none of it had sunk in.

“So, are you telling me you're gonna be a full-blown partner?” she asked.

“In order for me to sign on to what you got going, we need to make a whole helluva lot of changes.”

The truth was, I probably needed Carla's business more than she needed me. I was sick of being on a kid's allowance. My husband feared I'd send us to the poorhouse.

“Okay, Darby, I'm good with some changes. And I may not be the best businesswoman ever, but you gotta give credit where credit is due. How else can you pull in a few grand a month, be your own boss, and
sleep in
every damn day of the week?”

“A few grand a month?” I repeated.

“H-h-hello?” she said.

A knock at the door pulled my attention away from our conversation.

“Girl, this stuff is like literally stealing candy from babies,” Carla said as she slipped up the stairs.

I went to meet with the officers as the figures she mentioned flew around in my mind. That kind of money was definitely worth the risk, or so I thought.

PETA

“Mama, that lady called you again,” Kendal said the moment I walked into the house the other day.

“What woman?” I asked.

“Pamela Evans.”

My mama didn't raise no fool. Pamela Evans had been on my bad side since she called awhile back and bombarded me with a million questions about how I do what I do.

In my line of work, it was rare that potential clients insisted on a face-to-face consultation like she had. They usually wanted to see the truck, so they could browse the inventory. But not her. She wanted to meet specifically with me, and that had been the second thing I hated about her. When she showed up at my office, I realized I had nearly forgotten about our appointment. I had a good mind to cancel on her, but thought better of it and decided to go through with the meeting.

She had rubbed me the wrong way from jump, and in person, she had managed to irritate me even more. Pamela was in my space for less than fifteen minutes, and almost immediately, I hadn't dug her vibe. It wasn't the way she took in my dark purple walls, or the way she gazed at the two-tier antique French gold and crystal chandelier that hung prominently in the center of my office. It was more than that.

I was accustomed to intriguing stares once people stepped into
my office, but that's what it was—
my
space. The furniture, the pearl white, shag carpeting, and the glass desk were all designed to suit
my
taste.

“Hmmm, I really like it in here, Peta,” she had said. But her tone told another story. A fake, frozen smile hovered on her lips as she looked around and scrutinized my pictures.

“Paris, Brazil, wow! Where was this one taken?” she asked.

I glanced over and said, “Oh, that's Belize. I go there a few times a year to decompress.”

“Oooh, Beeelize!” She complimented me, but her pretty features twisted into a frown. “I really, really like your style.”

I moved closer to my desk and took a seat as she finished looking around. Even after she claimed her seat, her eyes wandered around some more. I noticed she had already slipped her gaze down to my designer shoes. It was slight, and hardly noticeable, but I caught the way her eyebrow twitched as she took inventory. I didn't care. I made no excuses for living well, and taking good care of my daughter and me.

“Are those Jimmy Choos?” she asked.

“They are.” I pointed my toe and flexed my foot for her to get a better look.

“Yeah, real nice. Sooo, I'm tryna get this straight,” Pamela said. “You're not a designer, like you don't have a degree in business, but basically that's exactly what you're doing,” she insisted.

Obviously, Pamela hadn't done her homework. If she had, she would've realized that having a degree in business was not a requirement or prerequisite for success in business. I had grown bored with her and the one-sided interview she conducted.

Pamela was very pretty. She was a former NFL cheerleader, and
she'd kept herself up fairly well. But her vibe told me she was up to something. I had been at this long enough to be able to discern when someone was serious about doing business with me, or if they were fishing for information. Pamela Evans was on a major fishing expedition. The only reason I entertained her was because I wanted to know why she had chosen me.

She quickly corrected herself. “Well, I guess I should let you tell me what it is that you do.”