One man, Thomas, was almost as good as she was. He had a bit of a swagger and a quick wit. He bought Celia a couple of drinks, and then he let her buy him a couple. After three games, he led her to a booth so they could both sit for a while.
“So when you’re not hustling drunk guys, what do you do?” He asked.
“I rob banks,” Celia quipped, sipping a glass of bourbon.
“Oh really? Me too! Have you hit the Bank down on Robinson, ‘cause I’ve been casing that one for a week.”
Laughing, Celia shook her head. “No really, what do you do?” She asked.
“Boring things with numbers. Mostly glorified accounting. And you?”
“I write for The Journal.”
“I thought you looked familiar.” Thomas looked at her closely. “Yeah! You did that big piece on the crooked CEO, didn’t you? That was awesome.”
“Why, thank you. I hope you weren’t his accountant!”
“Definitely not,” Thomas laughed. “Let’s play another game.”
“I’m tired of hustling,” Celia teased. “What should we play for?”
“How about your place or mine?”
Celia raised an eyebrow, but she smiled. “Sounds good. Rack ‘em up.”
Thomas was good, but she was still better. After two games, they ended up at her place. She barely got the door closed before he was kissing her roughly. She pushed him back and held his shoulders. “If I say no, you stop. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “And if you don’t say no, I’m not stopping.”
She let him push her backward to the bedroom, and then everything became a frenzy. Bart was tender and romantic and passionate, which had its benefits. Thomas was nothing like that. Celia hadn’t intended to let him stay, but she was so exhausted she fell asleep.
A banging at the door a few hours later shocked Celia from sleep. Thomas was out, sprawled on his back and snoring. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.” Celia shook him just a bit until he mumbled and rolled over. She put on a robe, closed the door to the bedroom, and walked to the entryway. “Damn,” she whispered when she saw Bart through the peephole. She didn’t undo the chain but opened the door just enough to talk to Bart.
“You haven’t answered your phone since the night before last. I was wondering if you were okay.”
“I’m fine, Bart. Just a little busy. What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to apologize for the other night. I was over the line. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink, and I shouldn’t have pushed.” He tried to look around her through the small gap. “Can we talk?”
“It’s not a good time Bart. And it’s early.”
They both heard movement and a bit of stumbling. Thomas’s curse was muffled, but there was no doubting Bart heard a man’s voice.
“What the hell, Celia?” Bart’s voice rose. “You went out and—?“
“Look, Bart, I’m not having this conversation right now.”
“You screwed someone else? Who is it? Your boss?”
“Good god, Bart, of course not! It’s none of your business!”
“Like hell! We’re together. It’s absolutely my business!” Bart pushed against the door.
“You break the door, I’m calling the police. And we are not together. You made that choice when you became an ass Friday night. Besides, we only went out a few times.”
“I swear to God, Celia, you better open this door.” Bart’s voice was low.
“Go away. Do not come back. I will not have this conversation.” Celia put her full weight against the door and slammed it closed, locking it while she leaned against it. Bart pounded the door once and cursed, but he left. Good riddance, Celia thought.
“Angry boyfriend?” Thomas came out with his jeans on and his shirt in his hand.
“Just some idiot who can’t take no for an answer.”
“Well, can you blame him?” Thomas smiled, pulling on his shirt. “I gotta go. Want to give me your number or no?”
“It was great, but no,” Celia answered.
“No problem,” he shrugged. “You know where I hang out if you want to try to hustle me again.”
Thomas left, and Celia went back to bed. She flipped through channels until she wasn’t pissed anymore. Thomas was the kind of guy she needed. Fun, no questions, no expectations. Good for a romp, an ego boost, and then gone. It was Bart’s own fault he was upset. No one invited him to drop by like that. It was for the best. Now he’d leave her alone.
Celia spent the rest of her Sunday morning watching trash television and working on her laptop. Her stomach was too unsettled from a night of drinking to make any lunch, so she just chugged coffee all day. Late in the afternoon, she went for a run, and then she stopped by the store. For some reason, she felt like baking. She supposed it was her conversation with Natasha. Celia decided she’d make a cake and take it to the prison, but with no file.
Celia wasn’t sure why she enjoyed baking so much. Maybe it was because her mother didn’t let anyone in the kitchen. She’d told Celia it was her domain, and she didn’t want Celia going in there making a mess.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Celia. Cooking is an art.” Mrs. Brockwell said.
“But I want to learn to cook! It’s my kitchen too.”
“Actually, it isn’t. I pay
