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ACT 2
written by: leeeel
For his operation to run smoothly, Rick learned the importance of motivating each and every one of his employees. Without their top-notch performances, the success of his venture would've long been in the toilet. So, day in and day out, night after night, shift after shift, he needed to sell his vision. That together—him and his team—they were all a part of something special.
And it wasn't enough for him to talk the talk. No. They had to witness him walk the walk.
Observe how to run the house.
And tonight was no different.
"Hey, watch it!"
An hour into the dinner service, Rick darted out from the bustling kitchen towards the frontline. A perfectly cooked catfish platter, clutched in his hand for the special guest on table number five. His body twisted expertly, avoiding a full on collision with Noah James, the newest addition to his team.
"Sorry boss," said the twenty-something year old server. "Didn't see you coming."
"Don't apologize," Rick instructed, "Just keep your eyes peeled and keep moving. Grab the crudité ticket for table seven."
"Yes boss. I'm on it."
Two seconds later, Rick presented the golden fried dish to the latest blonde pop sensation, who managed to grace his establishment with her presence. As expected, she ooh'd and ah'd over the juicy flavor and the crispy texture of Morgan's authentic Southern creation.
He smiled. Living the restaurant life was fun. In the beginning.
Like countless other dining proprietors, he used to get a high from the excitement of preparing and presenting happiness in the form of exquisite dining.
However, over the years, that had changed. The initial glamour was, quickly superseded, by the grueling tasks involved in making a success of your business. By the dedication. By the striving for optimum performance.
On top of the constant maintenance to ensure a safe and clean environment, there's the pressure to build clientele, to stay fresh and relevant, to compete with newcomers without losing quality, to be consistent.
"Now if there's anything else that you need," Rick said, with a gracious smile, "just holler, and myself or my manager, Mr. Rovia, would be sure to accommodate you to the best of our abilities."
As Mr. Rovia appeared at his side to fawn over the young songstress, Rick stole a glance across to table number thirteen. His gaze landed on a much more intriguing patron.
Michonne.
From twenty feet away, he could feel his pulse in his throat. He remembered, in that moment when he'd first started having chemical reactions from merely seeing her.
Last winter probably. On the patio during lunch.
The Monday after that blind date from hell, when she came back and asked him to join her for a cup of coffee.
When he secretly watched her. As she sat in the lounge. Alone, deep in thought working through the draft of her second novel.
That was the day he started having those chemical reactions. Started having certain thoughts. And dreams.
With his eyes on her, she suddenly looked up, and their gaze connected. She angled her face away from her date, whose attention seemed to be submerged in his own meal, and gave Rick a beseeching look. She was miserable.
Rick cocked his head to the side, stifling a laugh. He lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug, but knew soon enough she'd save herself.
Even after he'd made his way over to the bar next to the lounge, he continued to observe Michonne on yet another lousy date. He was timing her. He was mentally predicting what was going on in her head from afar, reading her body language.
He absorbed her piece by piece. Inch by inch.
He eyed her legs. Long and sleek. The left one, draped over her right knee. Her black pumps dangling on her toes as she leaned back in her chair, unimpressed.
Cerave body lotion was her go to to keep her limbs moistened and silky to the touch.
To maintain the shapeliness, it took two hours a day, three days a week at Dave's Hardcore gym located around the corner from where she lived.
But she liked to swim.
She used to swim.
Till her senior year, in high school.
But the anxiety of being on the varsity team killed her love for the sport, and since then she'd quit.
Rick scrubbed his jaw, realizing how much this woman, over the past several months, had become somewhat of an obsession. This incredible, passionate, and smart woman. Thoughts of her consumed him. Seeing her engaged with other men made him, quite frankly a little bit unhinged.
When was the last time he'd felt anything like that?
Honestly, he'd grown accustomed to just going through the motions, day after day, adding brick after brick to the wall safeguarding his heart.
But somehow, she slipped in.
Past his defenses.
How?
Nobody ever got to him like that.
Nobody ever got him to laugh like she had. It was humbling.
Not only had she inspired him to expand his horizons, but Michonne's fervor for life and knowledge and truth also challenged him to second guess his own deep rooted perceptions. To be adventurous. To take risks, like listening more often to the business suggestions offered by his manager and his chef, and not continuing to withstand the pressure of running the restaurant by himself.
Tonight, Michonne was wearing her favorite pink dress. The one with the tiny black belt.
It was Rick's favorite, too. Because it was provocative. Yet reserved. Elegant. Classy. Like her.
Today, was a bit of a crap day. Despite his best efforts at being efficient, it always surprised him how multiple things could suddenly go wrong, causing everyone around him to lose their shit. Like the loss of a cook due to an emergency. It wasn't much, but still, it had him beat.
So for a rogue moment, he imagined what it would be like to run his hands over the front of Michonne's dress. Slip off those silver buttons, and explore what Miss Perfect wore underneath.
Arms folded, her perceptive gaze had long since diverted from the clueless idiot sitting across from her at the table. Instead, her attentions remained glued to the untouched glass of white wine, which the douchebag took the liberty to order on her behalf.
How many times had she casually checked her watch? How many times had she fidgeted with her hair? From her smirks, her tight smiles, Rick knows within another ten minutes, she's outta there.
Rick sat on a stool and gave Tyreese, his bartender, the signal. "One vodka martini. Wet. Shaken, not stirred. Straight up with a twist."
With his right hand Tyreese grabbed a bottle of vodka, with his left he found a one-ounce jigger and a mixing glass. "Lemon or olives this time boss?" he asked.
"Olives."
"Another five minutes?"
"No, let's give her ten."
Tyreese chuckled and shook his head. "Just ask her out already. You two are ridiculous."
"Beg your pardon Ty?" Rick shifted in his seat. "No offense, but think you should mind your own business."
"I have been. For the past year." Tyreese braced both hands on the bar top and leaned forward. "You, my friend, need to step up your game."
Rick dipped his chin, dodging the pitying look coming from his employee and close bud. Ever since he'd met Michonne, she became a regular. Sometimes with dates, or friends, or even co-workers. Sometimes she'd drop in by herself for lunch. Hide out at the bar, or in a secluded corner of the lounge and work on her novel.
Tyreese sighed, "Yes boss," and gave a hesitating nod. "One dirty martini, coming right up."
Fulfilling Rick's expectations, within the next few minutes Michonne came flitting across to the bar. Her familiar perfume announcing her arrival before he laid his eyes on her.
"Azeem Obode," she said to him and sat down. With a broad smile of gratitude, she accepted the murky looking drink Tyreese slid across the counter. She took a quick gulp. "Oh, this is good. Thank you Ty, I needed this."
"Let me guess, another lawyer?" Rick asked, sipping his bourbon.
"Doctor. Thirty-three year old excelling in his chosen field of cardiovascular surgery. He's made quite a name for himself at Mount Sinai."
"Sounds like you hit the jackpot."
She rolled her eyes. "He's the youngest of a large, large family, has just over half a dozen nieces and nephews, who all claim he's their favorite Uncle of course, and he owns a three-bedroom house upstate where he spends his weekends and off days all by his lonesome."
"All in all…"
She wrinkled her nose. "Not my type."
"Why set your standards so low?" Rick responded, with a slight smirk, "Not even worth your time."
She offered him a one-shouldered shrug. "Agreed. But, what can I say? He was persistent."
"Ah," Rick raised a brow. "So you felt sorry for him."
"I felt sorry for him."
"Understandable. How kind of you. Guys like that—rich, handsome, family oriented—they often get the short stick in this world."
She smiled a wicked smile. "Reprehensible, I know. Life's so unfair."
Rick bit his bottom lip trying to contain his grin. God, she's gorgeous.
"Least you got in your good deed for the month." He held up his bourbon and they clinked their glasses together. "Although now, now you've gotten his hopes up. How's the guy to recover?"
"I'm sure he'll figure something out." She nodded over to a voluptuous woman who approached his table. Salient interest clear in her bright eyes. The goodly doctor stood and allowed his hands to wander as he drew the familiar acquaintance into a lingering embrace.
Rick chuckled and shook his head at the flirtations, aware that they themselves were just as guilty of less than honorable behavior. "Well then, tell me. What exactly is your type?"
"Being ambitious and a bit cocky is fine, but having a big heart, believing in others' potential, is a turn on as well." Her gaze dipped to the bartop. "Tough on the outside, soft on the inside. Brown hair, blue eyes, a scruffy beard. Knows his way around the kitchen. Know anyone like that?"
He swiveled in his seat. His knees purposely pressed against her thigh. She didn't move.
"Someone who holds my attentions," she breathed, "And Doctor Obode, as accomplished as he is, just couldn't cut it, you know? He wouldn't stop talking."
Through the fabric of her dress Rick could feel her heat. "Maybe the guy was nervous. You have that effect."
She arched her brow. "I do?"
"Goes with the territory of being a beautiful woman. With a terrific smile."
She blushed, considering his words whilst stirring her drink.
"Look at that," he said, after a few seconds, "I've rendered you speechless."
"It's a skill."
"It is. A new one, thank you very much." Rick found himself grinning like a lovesick jackass. Her good humor was infectious.
She leaned in. Her deep-set eyes pinned him so bold and direct. And like always, made it seem as if they were the only two people in the room. "And what other skills do you possess, Mr. Grimes?"
Her gaze held his with a daring look. God, she smelled good. Rick's throat damn near closed-up as a torrent of blood rushed through him.
Jesus.
Now he was the one at a loss for words. She laughed, apparently coming to the same conclusion.
"Okay, here's the deal," she said, straightening her posture. Her hands clasped together in her lap. "I'm just gonna say it. How long have I been coming here? On dates, to grab a cup of coffee, to do some writing?"
"Months."
"Right. Months. I spend most of it with you, don't I? So, here's my proposal. We—you and I— should go out. On a date."
He nodded, despite the hammering in his chest. "We should. When?"
"Now." Her eyes twinkled with mischief. "I know just the place."
"Now? I've got work, Michonne. Can't just up and leave, they need me."
"Oh, c'mon. This place will not fall apart if you're not here for an hour or two."
"An hour or two?" Not to be misunderstood, Rick loved his job. He loved working for himself. The Blueprint was his life.
She sighed. "Rick, it'll be fun. Promise. Please? Pretty-pretty please?"
"Alright." He shook his head at her, not believing how easily she'd convinced him to abandon his restaurant, his haven, for some spontaneous date. What's more, he can't believe how much he's actually looking forward to it.
It was a bit sleazy but she went and dismissed her date, saying that she's sorry but this isn't going to work for her. Bye!
XXXX
Michonne led Rick to catch the A train up to 116th Street, Harlem. After a half hour ride underground, they emerged from the metro station into the cool October night air. Two blocks down Frederick Douglass boulevard, they made a right when they approached 118th street.
"This is it," she said, and came to a stop.
Rick looked up at the old cream-colored brick building. Black burglar proof covered all of the windows, and at the top of the first floor was a bright neon sign with multicolored music notes, the letters of which were at an angle, suggesting they were dancing to the smooth rhythms seeping out, from inside the club. "Right here?"
"Yeah. You ready?"
He looked back at the corner. He'd noticed attached to the building, a blue sign that said Cecil. Behind Michonne, the door to the establishment opened. As a party of four exited, a burnt orange glow filtered out. "Mmm, now that you ask, I'm not so sure. Feels like you're luring me to the slaughter."
She chuckled and reached for his hand. "Oh shush. Just trust me."
"I'm here, aren't I?" He toyed with the hair loose at her neck. "And it's not because I'm secretly pining for bebop jazz music."
She laughed again. Her smile vibrant with excitement, her face glowing under the golden streetlight. Before he could stop himself, Rick reached out for her arm and dragged her close.
With the gap between them extinct, her hands glided up the raised lapels of his jacket, and she cupped his jaw. "So, Rick Grimes, our first date. Finally."
Her warm breath puffed into his face when her chin tilted towards him. Through her trench coat, her heat, her lean, delicate curves pressed into his body, and Rick's heart pounded. Like he'd plunged off of a cliff.
Blindfolded.
Because just like that, she's in. Another barrier crossed like it was nothing. Like she simply took a dainty step, over a puddle of mud, and fit herself inside that old heart of his.
How? How is this happening?
To him? Why him? Why now?
Rick had promised himself that he wouldn't risk caring for anyone like this again. Keeping his distance from others, was the best solution to avoid being hurt in that way again. But the time spent with Michonne was making him question that decision. Even back in the subway car, as he watched her trace the map on the wall, showing him how many stops it'll take for them to reach their destination, he kept telling himself that he should be working. But he never turned back. He didn't want to disappoint her. He wanted to please her. That simple revelation in that moment, sent a jolt through his system.
His eyes narrowed as he took the liberty to graze her skin. From the curve of her cheek, down towards the outskirts of her bottom lip. Beautiful. Remarkable. Radiant.
Under the majestic lights, fit for royalty, and in between the seductive shadows, fit for lovers, Rick was inspired to seize the moment. He watched her eyes, self-possessed, yet receptive and willing, and he brought his face nearer as she waited in anticipation.
"Rick."
On the breath of his name, he kissed her. His hands slid to her waist, tightening their grip over that belt. And although he squeezed her body against his, the swipe of his lips was cautious and light. This offering of hers was merely a taste. An introduction. He knew that. Even as she slipped her hot tongue into his mouth for a teasing moment.
Heaven help him, but it was way better than he'd imagined. A shock-wave of pure delight.
He nipped on her plump bottom lip, caressed her nose with the side of his, breathing her in and, thank god, she smiled. Giving him life. He wanted this introduction to last longer, but instead Rick drew back, breaking their connection and they both opened their eyes. Dazed.
"You're something else," he said, "you know that?"
"Same goes for you, cowboy." She tugged on his arms, "Come on, let's continue this inside."
XXXX
Minton's Playhouse was a trendy club, with an interesting mixed crowd, and an upscale menu, Rick observed as they entered the scene. The joint sported mustard yellow furnishings, to compliment the brown wooden panels and floors, and proudly displayed black and white portraits of jazz music icons.
The resulting atmosphere was warm and inviting. Even for persons such as himself who were not blues enthusiasts.
"How come just the one kid?" Michonne asked after they were seated and given menus.
Next to her, Rick leaned back into the comfortable couch and perused the southern-inspired dishes. If the meals tasted as good as they sounded, the selection could give his restaurant a run for its money.
"For a while, we were happy with just the one," he replied. "Carl was everything. In time though, I did mention having more, once we were both settled in our careers. But then things quickly fell apart."
"I'm sorry." She slipped off her jacket and bundled it to her other side.
"Nah, it was a long time coming. I was surprised we lasted like we did. I mean I took a chance, despite knowing better."
"Knowing better?"
He shrugged. "Yeah, nothing lasts forever. Not even love. If there was one thing my life has taught me is that love, while wonderful and magical and all that, it's only for a moment. Fleeting."
"I beg to differ."
"Of course you do. You've had a charmed existence."
Her brows hiked up. "Says the white American male to the black American female," she chuckled.
His thoughtless statement brought a flame to his cheeks. "That's not what I meant."
"Mmhm. And besides," she continued before he could defend himself, "you know about the trauma my sisters and I suffered, losing our parents how we did, when we were young."
"Yeah, I remember. Except, you got claimed out of the system. I didn't."
She tilted her head to the side with curiosity. "What you're trying to say is…"
Rick rubbed the back of his neck. He needed to tread lightly.
What was he trying to say?
That being bounced around from foster home to foster home, for the majority of his childhood, meant there weren't many people with whom he'd formed close bonds? That aside from his ex-wife, and Carl, his son, he found it terrifying to open up to anyone?
His eyes lowered to the napkin his fingers fumbled with. "You know what, forget it. I don't want to talk about that."
She sat back, and he glimpsed at her. She was staring at him blankly. He groaned within himself because he understood she was genuinely trying to get him to confide in her; about his life, his childhood. She wanted a deeper connection, but the memories were too painful for him, and he couldn't.
Michonne looped her arm through his after they'd received their drinks, and the waiter took their orders.
"Well," she sighed, looking thoughtful, "you're wrong about love being fleeting. Having your son, Carl, is evidence of that. Your love for him, and his for you, will never die. So…you're wrong. And if you're talking about marriage, my grandparents' example taught me that it takes more than just love, it takes a lot of forgiveness, compromise, and a shitload of hard work."
He shook his head. "You have to want that, Michonne. To work at it. She didn't."
She squeezed his arm. "Okay. Next time it'll be better. It could be."
It could, he thought to himself surveying her hopeful eyes. But then again..."I may be a stubborn man, but I'm not a sucker for pain." He downed his drink, and called for another whiskey, needing to feel the burn.
As they listened to the musicians tell a story with their instruments, he crossed another barrier. Cupping his hand over her tummy, strumming the tiny buckle of that belt, he bravely dispelled any doubt she may have had about his attraction towards her.
Michonne shifted closer, and placed her chin on his shoulder. "Rick Grimes, nothing is impossible for a willing heart. You shouldn't sell yourself short."
"Am I?" He looked down at her beautiful face.
So goddamn beautiful.
Inside and out.
It was embarrassing how much he enjoyed staring at her. "No. It isn't so simple." He felt a fear rising in him, and he said no more.
She also went silent, and he watched her as she lost herself in the soulful music. Michonne was smart, and ambitious, and gorgeous. Simply put, Michonne was a star. A goddamn shooting star.
Whereas Rick? He's the furthest thing from, for so many reasons.
Since his days as a child he knew he was damaged goods. Why else would his mother choose to dump him at a bus stop when he was only seven? Why would his wife decide after a mere six years of marriage he wasn't worth the effort? He was flawed. And reckless. Callous, and unkind. But he was good at pretending, and sooner or later Michonne too would come to the realization of how unworthy he was of her affections. So why rush the inevitable?
She deserved better. She deserved the real deal.
The band took a five, just as their meals were presented.
"It's true," Michonne said, picking up her fork, "we haven't known each other that long. But I feel like I know you well enough to see that you're choosing to hold back. Maybe it's because you think I can't handle who you truly are. But I can. I want to know more."
Lowering his head, he sagged against the backrest and closed his eyes for a few moments. He took in a deep breath before he faced her. "It's just it's better this way, for me to be realistic. To take things one step at a time."
She reached up and stroked the edge of his jaw with her finger. "Just live for the moment?"
"Yeah. And enjoy it, like being here with you, now. I'm glad you brought me to this place, Michonne, so let's not ruin it." He raised her hand to his lips and gave it a little kiss. It had been so long since he'd dared to have these feelings, since he dared to love. But at the same time, he preferred not to raise either of their expectations.
"Sure," she said. "Okay." Her voice was airy with nonchalance. However, there was no mistaking the dimness of disappointment which clouded her expression.
The mood shifted. And after sitting together, sharing a meal in withdrawn silence for a few minutes, to Rick's utter surprise, Michonne suddenly got up, and excused herself. Bathroom was the only word he heard fumbled off of her lips.
XXXX
As Michonne's meeting wrapped up, with both her new editor and the marketing department, at Jinkies Publishing Press, Michonne realized with much remorse that she'd hardly heard a word of what was said. The pertinent discussion could not, for the moment, sustain her interest. Rather than focus on the discourse surrounding future campaigns to advertise her upcoming novel, her thoughts and feelings were still fettered to the previous night's events.
It was one date, she thought, as she walked down to the lobby, through the revolving doors, and onto the crowded streets of downtown Brooklyn. She really shouldn't make a big deal about how it ended.
Still, it wouldn't make sense to pursue another social engagement, now would it. Not when Rick clearly had doubts about building a lasting relationship. She felt stupid, for not seeing the obvious—the reason why he'd never asked her out in the first place. Despite their palpable attraction, despite their many conversations and stolen moments, Rick was only interested in keeping things casual.
Unfortunately, there was nothing casual about the way she felt about him.
Nothing casual at all about that kiss.
And definitely nothing casual about the magnetic spell his heated stares trapped her in.
Which made her sad.
Because something about their connection was telling her in her heart, that they could possibly draw closer. That they could be more, than just friends.
Unless her instincts were all wrong.
"How does that sound?"
Michonne came to a halt and stared at the woman who had been strolling beside her since she'd left the building.
Ms. Dickinson. Her new associate editor.
Right. They were to go over the notes made on Michonne's last two chapters of her new project. What was she saying?
Michonne squinted against the sun. "Sorry?"
"I said, darling, how does that sound?" The well-dressed professional removed her shades and placed them on top of her head. "Lunch? At the Blueprint? I'm famished."
Michonne swallowed the bitterness forming at the back of her throat. "Sure." She wasn't up to seeing Rick again; at least, not yet. Nonetheless, anything to make the new team member happy, including enduring a potentially awkward encounter and embarrassing herself.
Once they entered the restaurant, however, Michonne breathed a sigh of notable relief. Rick was thankfully nowhere to be seen; neither by the bar, nor in the main dining area.
But then, just as the two women were seated, Ms. Dickinson made an unexpected inquiry. She wanted to know, whether or not, the owner was available for a little chat.
"Mr. Grimes? Well he's busy in his office in the back," said the smiling young waitress. "But I could get him for you, if you really need to see him."
"Oh, I do!" Ms. Dickinson said and opened her menu, "I have heard such great things about this place. Michonne, what's good?"
In an effort to conceal her confusion, Michonne highlighted a few options, praised the dishes she thought were the restaurant's best, and raved about the citywide popularity enjoyed by the Southern-born chef.
"My-my," her new co-worker pursed her thin lips, "Sasha did tell me you were a regular here. That's why I thought it a good idea we should pay this place a visit, as we spend a little one on one time getting to know each other better." She sipped from her glass of water. "That, and well—"
"Lori?"
Both Michonne's and Ms. Dickinson's attentions were snatched across the dining area.
Ms. Dickinson smiled. "My ex-husband happens to own this establishment." She rose from her seat as he approached their table. "Rick! So wonderful to see you."
From his incredulous stare and gaped mouth, Rick was equally dumbfounded by the scene as Michonne was, whose own stomach had bottomed out.
Michonne blinked at him. "Hey," she whispered, the greeting choked out on a breath.
"Hey." His eyes narrowed, glancing back and forth between her and Ms. Dickinson. "Uh, what's going on?"
His ex-wife leaned in, and kissed him on his cheek. "Remember that new job I was telling you about? Well, surprise! I got it."
Michonne closed her menu and signaled her sever. "Think I'll have just a dirty Martini," she yelled. "And keep 'em coming."
Well. Surprise, indeed.
