In the Nick of Time (53 page)

“He is fucking stunning.” He closed his eyes and gave dramatic pause, causing Taryn to fall head first into another pile of gut bursting laughter. “No, truly he is,” he declared seriously, his brow slightly raised as he took another gander at her phone. “A cop? Interesting…” he mumbled. “How old is he?”

“Same age as me, well, a little older. He’s thirty-three, almost. His birthday is next month.”

“Hmmm, that’s a good age. Not too young to not know any better…not too old to refuse to learn a few new things… What was he in Firststone for?”

She hesitated for a moment or two, still resisting the possible sting of her friend’s potential razor-sharp judgment.

“Alcoholism and cocaine addiction.”

Ambrose nodded and placed the phone down onto the table. He caught his nose between his forefinger and thumb and glared as if in deep considerations.

“So I take it he’ll be looking for new work…” He leisurely scooped his spoon into the savory broth and brought it to his perfect lips.

“No, actually. His story is quite interesting.”

“Tell me,” he cut her off before she had an opportunity to elaborate. “I want to hear all about this.”

“Well, he was not caught. Strange, right? He actually came to treatment on his own. The man had never been written up or warned in his life, let alone suspected of alcohol and drug abuse.”

“He kept people away from him then… put up a wall between his personal and private life.” He slurped his soup, then went in for another spoonful.

“That’s right, Ambrose. That’s exactly what he did.”

“And how will you be certain that wall won’t go up again?” he asked with an air of disbelief.

“Honestly, I don’t know for certain. We know nothing regarding stuff like this. What I can say is that I saw him transform and open up and heal right before my eyes. He is actually quite in tune with his feelings, and can express them much more productively now.”

“Something about him disturbs me…” Ambrose reached down and grabbed the phone, made the photo larger, and zoomed in on Nick’s face.

“What?”

“His eyes. There is a sadness in them. They are beautiful, an unusual shade of gray, too…”

She said nothing, only plucked her water from the table and took a couple of sips.

“When was this photo taken?”

“Oh, probably a few weeks before I graduated.” He handed her the phone back as wrinkles creased his forehead, almost as if worry and concern melted within him and he couldn’t keep it a second more as an internal struggle.

“Do you see how he is looking at you in that photo?”

She looked down at the thing, shook her head.

“He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at the camera.”

“…Look again.”

She did as asked, and caught the odd way in which Nick was standing. He was turned completely towards her, yet his face was looking straight ahead. The man in the picture smiled—and anyone who didn’t know him would believe he was the happiest man on the damn planet.

“I hadn’t noticed that. He isn’t looking at me, but it’s like he’s trying to.” She smiled.

“Yup.” Ambrose smiled as he slowly rose from his chair and walked to his counter. He selected a small container of mixed pepper spices and returned to his seat. She stared as the man thoughtfully, almost strategically, dotted the last bit of his soup with the seasonings. “Taryn.” He picked up his spoon and carefully dipped it into the muted yellow puddle of goodness, swirling slowly, ever so slowly. “I want you to be happy. You haven’t been in such a long time. I know that another person can’t make us happy, per se, but funny, they
can
make us
un
happy…” He paused, glanced at her, then looked back down.

“I’ve spent most of my life looking at people. Not because I find us terribly interesting, but because I had to stare at people to gauge things, sometimes for business and practical reasons…other times for my own safety. I’ve never laid eyes on that man in my entire life. Though I’m not an alcoholic or drug user, I’ve been drunk more than once in my damn life and I’ve smoked some joints… I did a line of coke before, too. I did it, and I don’t feel I’m better than others because, for whatever reason, I was able to stop with no problem after that first and last time. The desire to do so wasn’t there. I drink wine for the flavor, not for the intoxicating effect. I like to cook with it, roll it across my tongue, and savor the flavors of such a wide-ranging beverage. I think sometimes the act of who we fall in love with and are attracted to is like picking out a good wine.” He winked at her, casting his wisdom-soaked magic upon her.

“We open bottle after bottle, but no two taste exactly alike. Like true love, it gets better with time, but sometimes, you expect a delicious cabernet sauvignon, but the label is wrong, and instead, you’ve happened upon a medium-bodied merlot.

“You may initially snub your nose at it, because you want nothing but the best,” he said, stopping a while and studying her to make sure she got what he was saying. “…Even if that best is for your friend. But then, you put your cautions aside and understand that you would split someone’s fucking face open if they judged her, didn’t know how good her heart was, for the exact same reasons that you judged her chosen glass of wine. And to seal the deal, you looked into the bottle’s soul—for the eyes are the windows to the soul—and you saw that yes, perhaps he gets her, understands her…but more importantly, he loves her.

“So, you raise your glass and make a toast, wishing her well. You worry for her in secret, decide to keep your thoughts to yourself, hidden away, and let her enjoy her drink. After all, she earned it. So before I sit here and call your lover a bland, three dollar wine cooler, I will watch my mouth, for the same someone could say about you and I know that you are nothing less than a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal Champagne! Cheers to love…”

“U
hhh!”

Jay Z’s, ‘On the Run Part 2’ played as he finished up. With a grunt, he threw the dumbbell down, his workout finally complete. He sat on the bench for a moment or two before getting to his feet, and glanced at the clock as sweat stung his eye, grimaced, and made his way to the men’s shower room.

I can take a quick shower… then get ready for group.

As he left out the place, the distinct voice of a despicable motherfucker he’d been avoiding like tax time called out his name.

“Hey…hey, Nick.”

He turned and looked the ogre in the face. Oliver stood there in his baggy army green pants, matching sloppy sweatshirt, and a skull cap pulled down low on his perfect-circle-shaped head. The men weren’t allowed to wear hats indoors, but he himself soon realized that rules were made to be broken.

“What?”

“I’ve thought about it. I’m not filing charges against you.”

Like I give a fuck…

“Okay.” Nick turned to leave, shocked at the nerve of the piece of shit.

“Nick!”

“What?!” He turned to him once again, threw his hands up in frustration.

Oliver appeared rather abashed, looking both ways as if he were about to attempt to jaywalk amidst fast moving traffic. Everything about the man bothered him, and a part of him was still itching to get into a physical altercation with the son of a bitch, rough him up real good. That first and last encounter had been simply child’s play. No, he wanted Oliver to experience some
real
wrath…

“Look, I need a favor.”

“Unless you want a foot permanently jammed up your ass, there’s nothing I can do for you.” Nick looked down at the lump of a fellow and crossed his arms, still not believing his damn ears. Oliver rolled his eyes and frowned, looked around once more in a paranoid sort of way, then continued.

“Look, this is serious, okay? I need some protection. Someone…someone is looking for me; they’re after me.”

“Good.” And he meant that shit. “I’ll send them your coordinates.”

They stood there glaring at one another, no words spoken, but he was certain his twisted lips and narrowed eyes said quite enough. The man made him feel feral, like some wild animal. Thanks to Oliver, his inner monster had been awakened again after a brief slumber.

“Nick, I could file assault charges against you, but I’m not if you watch my back. You’d risk reinstatement. Is it worth it? That’s the deal, okay? Take it or leave it.” He looked him up and down, proving just how truly insane he was.

“Oliver, I will give you the number to the goddamn courthouse, an attorney, and the news station to call and tell my story to before I protect one slimy hair on your goddamn body. I’m not defending you in here or anywhere else!” he roared, not caring who overheard their tiff. “Whatever bridge you’ve burned down with that messed up mouth of yours, learn to swim, you son of a bitch. You get no life preserver from me. Accept your fate.” He turned to walk away once more, only to have his arm jerked.

“Get the fuck off me, man.” Nick hissed.

“I’m serious! I need help!” Oliver yelled, his voice cracking. He rubbed his gut, as if nursing a horrible stomachache that wouldn’t turn him loose. His eyes glazed over and he bent at the waist then stood straight, seemingly trying to keep a semblance of dignity, but it was too late; the man was unraveling and fear dwelled so deeply within him, it oozed out of his pores.

“Look, whatever the hell is going on, just go to Frieda or administration about it, okay? I want
nothing
to do with whatever you’ve gotten wrapped in and I want nothing to do with you, either. I don’t help pedophiles and before you even go there again,” he said with a glare, pointing his finger in his face, “you can call whoever you want, I don’t care. Tell the whole, entire world about me and I’ll talk about you,
too
…” The threat simmered for a second or two. “House rules don’t apply in rehab, Oliver.”

“Nick!” The man’s fingertips twisted and turned the fabric of his jacket. “What can I do to make you listen? You’re the only one in this stinkin’ place that can be trusted!” He looked around once again, as if the boogey man himself were on his heels. “I got money! I can get you money!”

“I don’t want your damn money.”