Billionaire Wedding: Brooklyn's Baby (Interracial Billionaire Wedding Romance) ( Contemporary Taboo Alpha Male Wedding Romance) (2 page)

              Worried that someone would call the police if she made too much noise, she made a quick scope of the area. There was a bum sleeping on a bench a little ways down, but that was all it seemed. She waited a few minute to pass her by as her eyes scanned the area; sometimes there would be late night joggers out this way, and the last thing she wanted was to spend the night in a jail cell due to a misunderstanding.

Feeling confident after her incredibly detailed sweep of the area, she began to jimmy the lock that led into the main garage. She had told Tito several times that the lock needed to be replaced, and it seemed that her point would be proven that night. It took several minutes, but even in her slightly tipsy state, she was able to undo the lock and open up the garage. The familiar screeching sound of the door opening brought a sense of relief to Mercedes. Once inside, she quickly lowered the sliding door behind her so as not to invite any unwelcome guests. The last thing she wanted was for some troublesome kids to notice the open door and rob the place while she was trying to sleep.

              Quickly she found the light switch, the florescent lights flickering slightly above her head. The conversant smells of oil and cigarette smoke relaxed her. A few cars in need of serious work were still present - incomplete projects from earlier that day. In the corner of the room a large object rested underneath a faded colored tarp. Unable to resist, she headed to the corner and uncovered the vehicle, revealing the pristine 1950s Harley chopper. For the first time that night, an honest smile appeared on Mercedes face as she sat up on the back of the chopper. It had been her father’s. Sitting atop the motorcycle, a sense of calm overcome her.

              Mercedes ran her fingers over the handlebars. If she had not been drinking all evening, she would have taken it out for a long-overdue spin around the neighborhood. It would have been a better stress-relief than the whiskey had been. She recalled sitting in front of her father on the chopper when she was small, his arms around her as the wind slapped her little face. On more than one occasion, he had taken her outside of the city to speed up and down the highways. Once, and only once, they had taken the chopper down south on the one vacation they had ever gone on. It had been a beach trip; her grandparents and her Uncle Tito had followed behind in her grandfather’s Ford Mustang; she smiled, recalling how excited her grandfather was when his two sons had bought him the vehicle after an exceptional financial year at the garage. Mercedes had spent a considerable amount of the trip down south riding with her father on the bike, but her grandparents had insisted she needed to ride in the car as much as possible.

              The memory slowly faded as unpleasant flashes of her father’s illness appeared in her mind. She preferred to remember the strong, happy man on the bike rather than the dying man in a hospital bed. Towards the end, her father had been completely unrecognizable to her; she had cared for him the best that she could, but as her Uncle Tito said - the angels were calling louder than they were. Her father’s passing had taken a heavy toll on her and on the shop as well. Deciding she had sat on the bike long enough, she stood and covered it with the worn tarp.

              Mercedes looked around, deciding that Tito’s office would be the best option for a good night’s sleep. Luckily, Tito never kept his office door locked, and it could be accessed from inside the garage. She crossed the garage floor, careful to avoid slipping in a puddle of water that had formed after she had hosed the place out earlier that afternoon. She entered her uncle’s office, rolling her eyes at the large amount of paperwork that had been tossed about carelessly. Mercedes took time to file and stack the papers in their appropriate locations. Tito had left his large jacket lying over the back of his rolling chair. “I guess that would work,” she mumbled and snatched up the jacket.

              She looked around, spotting a seat cushion in the corner that had been pulled out of a car they had scrapped. “Perfect,” she said and grabbed the torn-up seat cushion that had never made its way outside to the trash bin. Using the seat cushion as a pillow and her uncle’s jacket as a blanket, Mercedes curled up in a corner on the floor. She was certain that the cement ground would give her a good backache come morning, but she felt thankful that there was a bit of alcohol in her system - it would help her sleep despite the discomfort.

After turning onto her side and curling up with the jacket, she spotted the framed photograph that sat on her uncle’s desk. It was of Tito and her father, Benny. The two men looked so young, happy, and healthy. She had never noticed the photograph before since she rarely came into her uncle’s office. But perhaps it was new? The picture was from the grand opening of
Benny’s and Tito’s
; they had both been so proud of their accomplishment. Opening day had been incredibly busy with car after car looked at and several dozen estimates quickly piled up on her father’s desk come closing time.

In the background of the picture was the shop - bright and pristine unlike how it was now. Now it was a run-down nightmare that required just as much repair time as the cars that they worked on. This was one of the troubles that kept her running back to the bar: she felt she was spending more time fixing up the building than fixing up cars for customers.

Mercedes had been a small child of three the year the two brothers had opened up the garage. She could remember the day in detail. Although she doubted that the memories were her own – rather they were collections of stories told by her family since the opening of the garage had been talked about so often by her family that she could recount the stories as though she herself was recalling the day. It had been a proud day for her family. Her immigrant grandparents swooned over their American-born sons who had opened up a business in Brooklyn. “Today we are living the American dream!” her grandfather had said, in Spanish of course, but Mercedes recollected the tale in her first language. “This is America! This is what it means to be Americans!”

Mercedes smiled at her grandfather’s naivety. The happy memory stung slightly when she compared it to her current situation. She exhaled heavily and turned to her other side, facing the wall so she would not have to look at the photograph on her uncle’s desk any longer. The heavy workload from the day slowly started to press down on her; she felt a heavy aching in her shoulders. She breathed steadily, praying that she would be blessed with sleep as quickly as possible.

She yawned and stretched out her legs. There was too much on her mind, it seemed: the loutish bartender, the broken window, her eviction, and old memories encircled her.  Slowly her eyes became heavy, and at last Mercedes was able to drift off into what was to be a difficult sleep.

***

              A bit of light trickled into the office from the window above her uncle’s desk and Mercedes sat up and groaned. Her back ached from sleeping on the concrete floor. She rubbed her temples and assessed the intensity of her hangover, deciding that it could have been a lot worse given the previous night. The headache was fairly minimal, and she did not feel as though she would vomit. “I guess I can call that a success,” she mumbled, still unwilling to stand for she was certain that her legs would be sore from the concrete. She yawned and stretched out her arms, hearing her shoulder crack slightly from the motion. The night before seemed almost like a nightmare, but she knew it had been her harsh reality.

              “What the hell!” she heard her uncle’s voice booming from outside of the garage. He probably saw the picked lock sitting on the ground. “
Alborotadors
. Who the hell did this?” Mercedes heard the screeching sound of the garage door being opened, followed by Tito’s frantic searching for evidence of missing merchandise. He was probably thinking that he should have listened to her about the old lock.

              Before Mercedes could stand up from her seat on the ground, Tito came fleeing into the office. She assumed it was to check the safe - not that there was a significant amount of money locked away in there anyways. Upon seeing her sitting there on the concrete ground, he acted almost relieved at first, glad that a thief was not the one to have picked his crappy lock. “
Gracias a Dios
,” he mumbled and leaned against the doorframe of his office, his hand on his chest to let Mercedes know that she had about given him a heart attack. They certainly could not afford a break-in right now. Tito was not the same man he had once been. He had always been the taller and stronger of the two brothers, despite being younger, but now he looked a bit shriveled up as he entered into the latter half of middle-aged. He had not aged gracefully with his thinning, gray hair and he extensive wrinkles making him look much older than he actually was. “Mercedes,” he groaned, “what are you doing here so early?” He looked down at her, taking note that she was curled up in his jacket next to the seat cushion she had used as a pillow.

There was little chance she could lie her way out of this one. It was obvious what had happened. “I slept here last night,” she admitted and slowly stood. She had been correct. Her legs screamed out in pain once she stood upright. The concrete had done her in.

“You slept here?” he asked. He was intentionally blocking the doorway so she could not attempt to flee out into the garage with whatever excuse she could manage. He wanted to know the truth. “Why did you do that?”

Mercedes embarrassingly lowered her head. “I was evicted from the apartment. The landlord changed the locks on me last night. I didn’t have anywhere else to stay.”

He stared at her. Mercedes kept her gaze low to the ground so as not to make eye contact. She did not want to see the disappointment on his face. He was quiet - far too quiet for far too long. Eventually she worked up the courage to meet his angry eyes. At last he spoke, but not before throwing a fist into the wall, busting a small hole into the cheap sheetrock. “Damnit, Mercedes!” he paused a moment to stare at the hole he had created, clearly he had not expected to break the sheetrock. He waved his hand, shaking off the bit of pain that the exercise of frustration had caused him. Tito took a breath, forcing himself to calm down before speaking again. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed money?” he asked calmly.

“I’ll get my apartment back,” Mercedes said, “But the garage did not bring in a lot last month; you wouldn’t have had much to give me even if I had asked. I know you went through most of your savings during last year’s dry spell just like I did.”

Tito frowned, “You know it’s not just a dry spell. This garage is going to hell, Mercedes.” The man released a loud, heavy sigh. He looked hurt, angry, and scared. They had both been on a roller coaster of emotions lately, knowing good and well that the end of their beloved garage could very well be upon them. “Why,” he mumbled, “why didn’t you finish school? You were on your way, Mercedes. You were on the path to becoming a promising engineer. You could have done so much more with your life than this damn garage.”

Mercedes quickly took offense. She hated for Tito to down the garage in any way, and he had been doing that a lot in recent days. “You know why I quit. Uncle Tito, you and my father put everything into this garage. You built it up together. He wanted me to be a part of this. This garage, you know it was for me. I love this place.” She could sense that something was amiss, but she could not quite put her finger on it just yet.

Tito shook angrily at her response. “Yes, I remember. I remember you saying, though, you were only going to take a semester off to help out here when we needed the extra help, but you never went back, Mercedes. You could have done so much more than this garage if you had just finished school!”

“That was a long time ago,” Mercedes hissed. “I can’t go back to school now. It’s too late. And with what money would I do that? This is what my father wanted for me. I don’t intend to turn my back on him.”

Tito roared, “Your father would be ashamed that you are using his memory as an excuse to let yourself sink lower and lower into the dirt. Your father is dead - what he wants… it doesn’t matter anymore, Mercedes. I wish you would go back to school. Why don’t you call your mother-?”

Mercedes held a hand up to his face, feeling herself bucking up at him. “My mother? My mother!” Mercedes’ tone kept Tito silent. He knew better than to make such a suggestion. “I would rather die in the streets than ask that
puta
for money. She left us, remember? She left me and your brother for that rich white guy and hasn’t spoken to me since. She doesn’t care about me or you or this garage. She wouldn’t give me money even if I asked, but I would never take that blood money.” The suggestion would have Mercedes fuming for the remainder of the day. She had not spoken to her mother since she was a child. Even if she wanted to get in touch with her, Mercedes was not even sure how. She hardly knew anything about her mother and that was how she preferred it. She kept an intense glare on Tito, waiting for his response. She was shocked he had even suggested it. Tito hated her mother even more than she did. He had been the one who had had to pick up the shattered remains of her father after his wife’s betrayal.

Tito chose his next words carefully, not wanting to make things worse, “People change, Mercedes,” he said.

“Not her,” Mercedes hissed. Tito had moved aside just enough for Mercedes to slip out of the office and into the garage. She tried to calm her voice, not wanting to make the entire day uncomfortable for the two of them by starting out the morning with a fight. Although she was still fuming over talk of her mother, Mercedes continued, “Let’s just get the garage open for business, all right?” she stormed passed him in a wave of dying fury, eager to distract herself with work for the day.

“We’re not opening up the garage today, Mercedes.” Tito drug himself out of the office, his head hanging low. Something was amiss, she was certain of it now.

“Tito-” she started to speak, but he looked up at her with sad eyes and she could not think of what to say.

He pulled a slip of paper out of his shirt pocket and held it out for her. “The garage is being seized by the city.”

She snatched the paper from his hands. “What is this? What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry. We are so behind on bills that they are taking the garage. The bank is possessing the property and anything of value we have here. It’s over, Mercedes.” Tito’s voice cracked slightly. He held his own, but it was difficult for him. She could see that he was sad, but it also seemed as though he did not intend to try to alleviate the problem at hand.

Mercedes balled up the piece of paper and threw it at her uncle, “You’re just going to roll over and play dead, aren’t you? You need to do something about this!”

“I can’t,” he said. “There is nothing left to do.”

“You are not the same man you used to be, Uncle Tito,” Mercedes hissed. “The man I knew would not just give up on this garage. The Uncle Tito I knew would fight for his garage.” Mercedes stared at him, broke her glance, and mumbled under her breath, “Or at least, my father would have.” She knew the comment stung, but that had been her intension.

Tito said nothing, merely hanging his head sadly at Mercedes’ cruel words. It seemed he had exerted the last of his energy when he had swung at the wall. He probably had been fighting for the garage and secretly so as not to frighten Mercedes. Now, though, it seemed he had given up on the fight. “I’m going to go for a spin. I can’t listen to this anymore.” She headed towards her father’s Harley Chopper.

“You can’t,” Tito said softly.

“Watch me,” she hissed.

Tito hurried to her side, grabbing her wrist when she reached for the tarp covering the bike. “No, Mercedes, you really can’t. It’s…it’s not our bike anymore. The bank is seizing the bike too. Your father, before he died…he put it up as collateral.”

Mercedes felt her throat tighten. She yanked her wrist away from her uncle. “He put the bike up?” she questioned as though she did not believe it. Her father loved that bike.

Tito looked heartbroken, but she was too angry to notice. He spoke softly, “Listen, I know you must be frightened now. I do not know what is going to happen now, Mercedes. But you still have me. We will look after one another, we always have-”

“Piss off, Tito!” Mercedes stormed out of the garage. She could hear Tito shouting after her, but she was not in the mood to talk. “Not now. Not now,” she threw her hands up and waved him off, “I just can’t talk to you right now.” Tito stopped following her; she made her way back into the city, putting as much distance between herself and Tito as she could. She was not sure where she was going; it was not like she could return to her apartment. She certainly was not going to go to the bar after busting a window the night before. She would not be able to act as though that had not happened until she let the guilt in her stomach settle.

Mercedes simply walked. She trotted along the sidewalks, staring down as she pressed forward. Her apartment, her garage, and her father’s bike had all been taken away in one fell swoop. It seemed almost unreal at how quickly her world was crumbling around her. Tears started to form in her eyes, but she would not have any of that. She looked up as though she thought that would somehow force the tears to remain in her eyes and not drip down her cheeks. Somehow, that worked. She walked with her hands in her pockets, still unsure as to where she was going. She allowed her legs to lead her with very little thought as to where she was following them to.

Eventually she decided to head to Manhattan. It had been a long time since she had last been to Times Square, and the cost of a cab was the least of her concerns right now. She decided she wanted to be as far from Brooklyn as she could get, and Manhattan seemed like the logical choice. When she was in her teens and early twenties, a trip to Times Square was always a good way to unwind. She and her ex, before he had gone to prison, had spent a considerable amount of time there, and it had always been a happy occasion when they would hang out at Times Square. There was so much to do; the hustle and bustle of Times Square was incredibly distracting and was just what she needed. Before she had been forced to focus all of her time and energy on the garage, Manhattan had been an ideal date spot - but that was a life long forgotten.

Once she arrived, she realized that everything she had loved to do in her youth had cost money. Obviously, money was something she was now lacking. Mercedes cursed under her breath. She had spent most of her cash on the cab and only had a few bills left in her pocket. Her card was in her purse which was still locked away in her apartment - not that there was a lot of money in her bank account anyways. Now she felt stuck. With nothing left to do, she continued her distracted walking, taking a tour of the already familiar sights.

So much was weighing on her mind at the moment, and now she was trapped with nothing but her thoughts and the sounds of the active city life around her. The slew of bad news was almost too much for one person to bear. Loud noise from a nearby construction zone pulled her out of her daze as she walked along the sidewalk by a rented fence. Looking into the construction area, she noticed several men in bright orange construction hats. One man, a fairly handsome white man, stood out from the rest. He obviously was not one of the low end workers; he looked a bit too clean. He was speaking loudly to the other workers, although the construction noise drowned him out.

Mercedes realized that he was giving the men orders about the assembly of a small base structure for the building they were working on. What he was saying did not seem to make any sense. She could not quite put her finger on it, but there was something about his orders that sounded like he did not know what he was talking about. Despite his obvious lack of knowledge, the other men seemed willing to go along with whatever it was he was saying. She could see, even from a distance that the man was very stressed out. Clearly he had had a rough morning, not unlike herself. By the looks of the base structure they were creating, Mercedes was certain the stressed man would only make his day worse if he proceeded. “Hey!” Mercedes called out for the noise of the construction work had softened. “Don’t listen to him. You build that base structure like that and it will all come crumbling down the moment you start building up on it.”