“Hey, it’s me, Tiny. You still need someone to do that special job of yours?”
Chapter 2
WHEN DISPATCH CALLS AT SEVEN the next morning to ask if I’ll cover for a sick courier, I say yes before Sandra can finish her request. It’s either bike around in the sunshine earning time-and-a-half or watch my mother stare out the window at the large brick wall across the alley.
“I’ll stay if you’d like.” Given that I have my bike shorts on and my helmet on the table, we both know the offer isn’t very genuine. She waves her hand at me, doesn’t even turn around. Sucking in my lips and all the things I’d like to say, I grab my helmet and pull my bike down off the wall.
At the sound of my bike wheels hitting the floor, she rouses enough to say goodbye. “Be safe, dear.”
“I will.” It’s enough to make me smile as I carry my bike down the five flights of stairs.
Then it’s the rush of riding. If my thighs aren’t burning, I’m not going fast enough. The wind whistles as I speed down Second Avenue toward the offices of Neil’s in the Flatiron District. On a Saturday morning, there’s very little traffic to avoid. The four-mile ride takes less than fifteen minutes, and I’m inside the second floor of the building where Neil’s is located and sticking the packages in my pack before most people could have hailed a taxi. It would have been ten minutes, but there were cops out and I had to obey a few traffic signals. Saturday’s a day for residential deliveries—clothes and small goods for rich, lazy people who can afford a special delivery.
“This one’s fragile. Goes to Wiggin’ Out over near Broadway.” Sandra, our dispatcher, is a mass of curled black hair and heavy eyeliner. She’s got a Puerto Rican background and her skin is a gorgeous warm brown year-round without the use of fake tanners. I think Neil, the owner, has a thing for her. Whenever I’ve been in the office, he stares at her overlong until she sighs audibly and picks up the phone to make a personal call to her boyfriend.
Even though she’s not technically allowed personal calls, this routine can be observed regularly. No one knows if she actually has a boyfriend or if she’s calling a friend and faking it. I’m uncertain whom I’m supposed to feel sorry for—Sandra having her boss lusting after her or Neil having unrequited feelings for Sandra. Both make me uncomfortable, and I try to stay out of the office as much as possible.
“This box is like paper.” I squeeze it and the sides nearly collapse.
“Hey, I said it was fragile.” She reaches over the desk to slap at me.
“Aren’t they all?” I roll my eyes but hold the box gingerly as I leave.
Neil’s is a specialty delivery service. We specialize in the confidential, discreet, and fragile package delivery. Packages are delivered swiftly but not at the breakneck pace seen on television. This doesn’t mean I move slowly. I use my brain as much as my legs. Biking can be like playing a game of chess. You have to anticipate the other players’ moves before they execute them. Is the car at 10 o’clock going to open its door in the next twenty seconds? How long will the bus stop before it pulls out into traffic? Can I squeeze through these two cars and make the corner before the light turns?
Neil pays us hourly rather than by commission because he thinks it reduces his accident insurance premiums. If we aren’t required to go so fast and make so many deliveries at one time, we won’t get doored as often. Doored is when a car door suddenly opens and either strikes you directly or causes you to lay down your bike. Or, in the case of my ex, sends you into the windshield. He only needed twelve stitches after that one.
The best thing Colin Carpenter gave me during our on again, off again relationship, was a tip for Neil’s Courier Service. Or “Neil’s,” as it is known. He was biking, and I was looking for a new job because waiting tables wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be. While it was simple to remember everyone’s order and I had no problem delivering the food, I couldn’t write an order fast enough because of my damn dyslexia. The restaurant owner was a decent woman and tried to accommodate me, but it was hell for the back of the house. I got the boot after only two weeks.
Colin was delivering something to the shop next door and nearly ran me over. We exchanged numbers, and then later that night we exchanged bodily fluids, and I started delivering the next day. I’d borrowed a bike from a friend of his until I splurged and bought my current machine, a single speed Nature Boy that could accommodate larger tires for winter riding.
Colin left after a few months because he didn’t like dating one person and I didn’t like being part of the crowd. He got a job that paid commission and kept him out of my hair. But once you sleep with someone, it’s awfully convenient to keep doing it even when you both know it’s bad for you. I kicked the Colin habit for good when my mom got the all clear from her first bout with MCL. We were getting rid of all the bad stuff in our lives at that point, and Colin was one of the unhealthy items I took to the trash.
I hadn’t been able to install something better. Men in the city aren’t known for their fidelity or their staying power. At least the men I’ve met. But I’m twenty-five, so there’s still lots of time, I figure. Right now there are more important things for me to think about—like how I’m ever going to get enough money to pay for first and last month’s rent and pass a credit check for an apartment with an elevator.
The phone call I made last night was the first step toward solving that problem, so long as I didn’t mind doing things that could get me fifteen years of incarceration if I got caught. At least I’d get free room and board in jail.
I brood all morning long, and I’m not in the mood to find one of the last of my morning deliveries delayed. When I see the sign in the window that says, “Be back in 15 minutes,” I let out a little scream of frustration and kick the doorframe.
“Bad morning?”
The question comes from a rich, deep voice to my right. Some stupid actor. The notes of his voice are perfectly modulated, as if he spent years perfecting the tone and depth to reach the biggest audience.
“Yeah, what’s it to you?” I challenge because I’m not in the mood to be chatted up by some wannabe in an off, off-Broadway production who wants to try out some new lines on a messenger girl.
My sneering gaze melts right off my face when it lands on the owner of the voice. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, the stranger gives me a slow smile as I take him in. He’s tall, much taller than my five-foot-four-inch frame. My eyes have to trek upward to see the entire package.