His cell phone rang. Irritated, Aiden pressed the button on his Bluetooth headphones that killed Radiohead and accepted the call. He just hoped to get whoever it was off the line before he lost the flow. “What?” he snapped into the pickup.
“Watch it with channeling Bet, man. What if I’d been a beautiful woman? You’d have just blown it, big-time.” The cadence of his oldest friend’s voice was Anacostia D.C. ex-pat – educated, professional, but still urban enough that no one got the impression that he was ashamed of his birthplace. “So, are we doing this or what? You’re in town, right?”
Aiden glanced at the corner of the laptop’s screen and blinked. It was Thursday, and that meant his weekly basketball game at the gym. “Yah, yah…. Give me forty minutes, OK?”
“Sure, we might only get to play one-on-one, but whatever. Got lost in the book again, huh?” Jamal laughed. “What would you do without me?”
“Probably lose my legs to atrophy,” Aiden admitted sheepishly, and hung up the phone.
The suitcase still lurked in the entryway, but his maid must have taken the suits upstairs at least. He had vague memories of hearing a vacuum cleaner, but Maria knew better than to bother him when he was in his office.
He did peek into the 2-car garage to check on his Bugatti. The Veryon Super Sport sat in isolated splendor, looking just the way he’d left it. There was nothing to suggest that his cat-sitter had broken in to take it for a joy ride or had even gotten busy in the bucket seats. Not that he would have blamed her for the latter – the car screamed of sex to him. He had bought it because it was sleek and black and a thing of supreme beauty. Besides, buying ludicrously expensive sports cars was something millionaire bachelors were supposed to do.
In the two months he had owned the Bugatti, it had only left its garage to be driven to red-carpet events like the gala launch party for Shinbone Alley three weeks ago. And God hadn’t it made a stir. The rest of the time it had lived here in its garage. He was too much of a New Yorker to actually drive anywhere, not when it was much faster to walk or take the subway. Well, that and he was terrified of it getting a scratch.
He caught a bus and four stops away from 92nd he realized he’d forgotten the chapters and Jamie’s presents.
The walk from the bus-stop to the YMCA only took him a few minutes in the wonderful, crisp spring air. The snow had melted while he’d been away, but since it was late April they would probably get dumped on at least once more before spring really arrived. Still, it was wonderful and he felt the cobwebs being blown out of his head. Visions of violent death and icy morgues dissipated in the weak sunshine, and he took in a few deep breaths, enjoying the reprieve.
The 92nd Street Y resembled the kind of stodgy office building which inspired work-crazed middle management to jump out of windows after one hour too many spent inside. The industrial wedding cake exterior concealed one of the premiere cultural centers the Upper Eastside, even if it did have notably poor acoustics in the concert hall.
Aiden had a membership at a gym only a block from his house that was much more upscale, but the Y was the tops in the city for getting up an impromptu basketball game. Besides, it was convenient for Jamie who worked at small publishing company a few streets away.
When Aiden emerged from the locker-room, he found Jamie waiting on the sidelines of the main court, watching the game in progress with a towel in his big, brown hands.
“Ready for a warm up?” He grinned as soon as he caught sight of Aiden. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot and there were bruise-like circles under his eyes. Despite his obvious exhaustion, his friend still somehow vibrated with life.
