Crave: A BWWM Romance

T
he right
of Sadie Black to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book was published by Sadie Black. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences only. All characters represented within are eighteen years of age or older and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This work is property of Sadie Black, please do not reproduce illegally.

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Please note that this is a work of adult fiction and contains graphic descriptions of sexual activity, graphic language, and violence. It is intended for mature readers aged 18 over only. All characters depicted as engaging in sexual activity in this work of fiction are consenting adults, eighteen years of age or older. Blood relatives never engage in sexual activity of any kind.

S
ign
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M
oneka was gesturing manically
at the short cylindrical light fixtures in the ceiling. Finding myself completely incapable of caring about how upset she was, I just leaned back and enjoyed comparing her to a tantrumy toddler. These melt-downs were nothing new.

“What is this? These are
not
the light fixtures we agreed on.”

She kept repeating “what is this” like it was some magical incantation that would somehow make me agree with her. It wouldn’t work though. I remembered the conversation clearly when she handed me a catalogue that looked like it had been fed through a meat grinder. On that catalogue was an unmistakable red circle indicating these very light fixtures. Now she was trying to tell me that
I
had messed up? I wasn’t going to let her put her buyers remorse on me. No, thank you.

“Yes. Ms. Hart, they are,” was all I could say.

It wasn’t what I wanted to say though. Not by a long shot. I wanted to tell her that nobody in their right mind would open yet another “Americana” restaurant on a stretch of boulevard that had half a dozen of them already. That many restaurants shouldn’t tell you that people here like Americana food and need more. It should tell you that these people are full up on Americana food and you should go someplace else.
And while we’re on the subject
, I argued with myself,
what the hell is “Americana” anyway
?

“Are you evening listening to me?”

I wasn’t.

“I ordered a flush mounted ceiling light with an antique finish. These have a
chrome
finish and they are about twice the size of the ones I asked for.”

I could tell by the way she paraded out the phrase “flush mounted” and stressed “chrome” that she had been watching too many renovation shows and obviously thought she’d earned a PhD in the subject. I wondered what that made me. Probably chopped-liver.

“Ms. Hart. With all due respect, these look nice and I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

“What the
big deal
is? Well
Mr. Saunders
, the
big deal
is that now I’m paying one and a half what I budgeted for lights because you can’t tell the difference between
chrome
and
antique
.”

Judging by the way she was looking at me now, I was definitely chopped-liver.

“Yes. I
do
know the difference between chrome and antique. I’m a professional. These were the lights you asked for. End of story. Now I need to get going on this finish. Unless you want to delay your big opening.”

She radiated rage but said nothing, knowing as well as I did that we only had two weeks and there was a lot left to finish. Every day was costing her more money. Delaying an opening was the kiss of death to a restaurant and a massive hit to the faith of her investors.

“Fine,” she said “I’ll prove it to you. Then the difference can come out of your company’s budget.”

She pivoted on one heel and stormed off toward the kitchen. Moneka Hart. She was a piece of work. When she was busy yelling at me (her favorite pastime), that name sounded hard. It had rough edges that could cut you. It was
Hart
with a sharp
T.
But when she was walking away, her name became soft. All of the syllables dragged out in nice round arcs. They curved into each other in much the same way as her lower back curved into her hips. They were some nice hips, fitting snuggly into her weathered jeans. You got the full effect too. God bless tank tops that stop short of the waste line. Whatever man invented those knew what he was doing.

Moneka Hart. She reminded me of an old girlfriend. A goodie from my post high-school pseudo-revolutionary punk-rock phase. Not many things worth remembering about that time but her. They both had a slinky way about them that could toughen up at a moment’s notice. Then, of course, Moneka would open her mouth and I’d be forced to remember another, more recent, ex. The nagging brought back memories with PTSD level potency.

“You’re staring.”

I snapped to attention and realized that I’d been spacing out, my eyes trained on the closed kitchen door. The voice that had sprung me back to reality belonged to Sonia, Moneka’s best friend and future bartender of Crave. She’d been helping me with the finish on the bar, acting as though it were her baby and she alone responsible for its care. I could easily have put one of my guys on it. It would definitely go faster if I did. However, she was eager and had done everything short of name the bar and throw it a party. You don’t stand in the way of that kind of love.

“Just tired. Trying to get everything ready for the big day you know?”

“Yeah. That must be it. When I get tired I start staring at women’s asses too.”

I hated the way she smirked sometimes. Sonia had been on me about Moneka for a while. Eventually she would get through her pink-highlighted skull that I was not interested in her friend. Until then, she was happy to be as obnoxious as possible.

“Find another topic Sonia.”

“Say
Cole
, why are you on a first name basis with me and not Moneka? Is it because you
love her
?” Sonia laughed heartily at her own joke.

“It’s because she
pays me
and you don’t.” I tried to imitate her mocking tone.

“Well, all I’m saying is if I didn’t know for certain that you had it
bad
for Moneka Hart, I would have tried to tap that a loooong time ago.”

“Tap what. Moneka?”

“No genius.
You.
” She winked and went back to working on the bar top.

I considered her for a moment. She was cute in a 80s throwback sort of way. Her hair was cropped in a pixie cut a la Mary J. Blige. It was brown with pink highlights and fell in front of her face in a very contrived way. She had no facial piercings, but her ears seemed weighted down with metal, matched only by the jingling bracelets that I made her take off before we got started. She also wore faded jeans and a tank top that ended just high enough for me to see the promise of a tattoo on her hip. Seriously, whoever invented those tank tops needs a goddamn medal.

The bar faced a row of floor to ceiling windows that gazed out over the boulevard. This time of day, the light came in and hit the bar perfectly, leaving long shadows and illuminating Sonia’s face. She really was quite pretty. She was no Moneka Hart though.

“I know what you’re thinking.” She winked.

“Do you now.”

“You’re thinking. Hmmm. If she had come on to me, I might have enjoyed that. But she’s no Moneka. I’m sorry,
Ms. Hart
”.

“You know Sonia, you can go home any time.”

Right about now I was lamenting the fact that I’d quit smoking. It used to be the perfect excuse for escaping awkward conversations like this one. I thought about stepping outside anyway, but was worried that Moneka would get on my back about that too, threatening to take break time out of my budget. At that moment, Moneka emerged from the kitchen. I never thought I’d be so happy to see her stalking toward me, brandishing an old catalogue like a weapon.

I thought about what Sonia had said and had to admit that even angry, Moneka was irresistibly cute. Her long brown curls bristled with intensity and her squared shoulders seemed to augment the curve of her breasts. The spell was broken, however, the second she spoke.

“I have it. Right here. I’m right and you’re wrong.” She held out the catalogue with an air of superiority that made me want to quit on the spot.

“Fine. Let’s see.” I riffled through the pages until I found the familiar red circle. “This one right here...”

“Yes.”

“…Says ‘flush mounted ceiling light with chrome border and white drum shade’”

“What?” Moneka grabbed the catalogue and scanned the circled fixture. “I could have sworn I asked for the antique one…”

“Look I’m sorry. We can swap them out if you want. But these are the ones you asked for.”

“Well…no…because they are still too large and that’s half the price right there.” Moneka pointed at the picture of the lights in the catalogue.

I pointed just underneath the roughened photo. “It says 5 inches deep and 24 inches in diameter.”

Moneka faltered. “And that’s what this is?”

“Yes.” I paused and added “you do realize these photos aren’t actual size right?”

“Of course I do!” Moneka bristled again and stormed off.

I guessed I wouldn’t be getting an apology out of her thanks to my glibness. I didn’t mind though. I got to watch her hips swing angrily back into the kitchen. I didn’t even try to hide it from Sonia this time. Even though I knew the smirk I was about to get the second we made eye contact. It was a good one too. She even threw in a kissy face to really drive home the fact that I’ve got a big one for my client. This time I gave myself permission to escape for a bit, not wanting to go through all that pointless banter again.

“Keep up with the finish,” I said as I slipped out the front door.

I had to admit that the street was a nice one, even if it was polluted with Americana restaurants. Moneka had even managed to land a corner spot so her floor to ceiling windows could continue on two sides. Maybe it wasn’t one of a kind, but it could definitely be the best of its kind if she turned out to be a good chef. I picked at one of the grand opening announcements that hung over the door and wondered if people would come.

Suddenly, I had a renewed respect for what she was trying to do. At the end of the day, it wasn’t all that different from what I’d done in my twenties. Now, I was the owner of one of the most successful small business contracting firms in all of greater Boston. It wasn’t easy though, you have to give people a reason to want to trust you with their needs. Word of mouth helped, sure, but your talent is useless until you get that first client. I wondered what Moneka’s first customers would think of her. I supposed I should try to be more understanding. After all, she has a lot riding on this. Then again, all my clients have a lot riding on things; they wouldn’t be hiring a contractor if they didn’t.