Happy? A strange nickname. Especially for someone who doesn’t look…happy.
“Very well, Farid. I see I’m not going to get any information out of you about my surprise guest, am I?” The small twitch of his lips is my answer. Nodding in resignation, I bring out the paperwork needed for long-term sponsorship. Farid hands me all the company paperwork I need to photocopy; he signs the contact and within half hour, we’re done. And we are five-hundred-thousand dollars up in budget.
And I’m suddenly giddy again.
Farid stares me down through his thick narrowed brows as if he can’t figure me out. His almost-black eyes are lined with thick black lashes; if his name didn’t alert me to the fact he is of a Middle Eastern background, that would’ve been the thing to tip me off. His bald-shaved head shines under the fluorescent lighting above. Almost as tall as Twitch, but much larger in stature, I wonder if he’s Twitch’s muscle. And I can’t help it. My smile widens. He asks, “This means something to you, doesn’t it?”
Whoa. Loaded question.
Suddenly emotional, I blink as my eyes mist, and I whisper, “You have no idea.”
His brow furrows deeper a moment before he nods. Holding out his hand, I take it happily as he says genuinely, “I’m glad we could help out. I’m also glad to know the person who took our donation is someone who’s clearly passionate about her job and will make sure it gets used the way it was intended to be used.”
I’m so grateful for people like this man right here. He genuinely cares. Most people who care like he does have been through something of their own – something hard – so they know the value of charitable organizations. It’s just my guess, but I’d say Farid has experienced some hard times, as I’m sure Twitch has.
I respond, “Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea what this will mean. For some, it’ll mean a warm bed to sleep in, or heat during winter, or even a decent meal. We can educate with this money. We can train with this money. We can make a difference with this money. Thank you, Farid. It was lovely to meet you.”
I’m pleasantly surprised when he covers our shaking hands with his free hand and says, “I hope you’ll call me Happy. Please, call me Happy.”
I have no idea what I’ve done to make this cool man warm up to me so quickly, but it’s kind of awesome. Smiling stupidly, I nod once and repeat, “Happy.”
Releasing my hand, he reaches into his back pocket and hands me a business card. It has no name on it, just a number. Happy leans closer to me and whispers, “If you ever get into trouble again like you did the other week and Twitch isn’t around, you call that number and someone will come out.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand.
I’m suddenly speechless. Happy is the person Twitch called to get rid of my problem. I feel the color drain out of my face, and Happy notices. Squeezing my forearm gently, he assures me, “We’re not all bad. Twitch is…well…he’s complicated.” I want to shout ‘you got that right!’ when he adds, “He’s not bad. He just...” Happy’s dark eyes meet mine as he says sincerely, “…he doesn’t know any better.”
And then he’s gone.
Leaning back to sit on the edge of my desk, I run a hand through my hair and think about everything that just happened.
Wow. What a crazy-assed morning.
What the fuck was up with that visit from Twitch? And more importantly, why did I give in to him so quickly?
Simple. You wanted his dirty mouth on you. More accurately, you wanted his filthy mouth to do nasty things to your body.
Although I won’t deny my brain’s completely wrong observation, I most definitely won’t agree with it. Not now, not ever. Because Twitch is a weirdo who watches me. And for me to have intense feelings for a man who does that sort of thing…well…what would that say about me?
Allowing myself some quiet time to think does me no good. In fact, it makes me more and more angry at what transpired here not an hour ago.
Who does this man think he is? A freaking god? So what if he looks like a demi-god? He’s not the boss of me.
I have a mind to tell him just that.
And that’s exactly what I plan to do.
Sitting in my car next to the parking lot by Falcon Plastics, I look ahead into nothingness and bounce my leg rapidly in anxiousness.
I should’ve never come here.
A normal person would’ve gotten pissed, eaten an entire tub of ice cream when they arrived home from work, then gone to bed thinking of all the great comebacks that could’ve and should’ve been said at the time of the confrontation.
Steps one and three have already taken place, and I’m sure step two isn’t far behind either, but I’m sure a normal person would not have gone to the workplace of a potentially dangerous man to fight it out with him.
But me? I’m just special that way, I guess.