She's the Boss (20 page)

“OK. Then why don’t you prove it?”

“Right now?”

“Why not? I’m curious to see this—” I paused and made air quotes with my fingers—“
other
side of you.”

“All right.” He straightened himself, vaguely conscious that he’d just witnessed a challenge being made. “What do you have in mind?”

“Let’s play a joke on Truong and Inge,” I suggested, feeling wild with the risk of it. “They’re in the room right next to us.”

“What sort of joke?” he asked carefully.

Too late. I was already making extremely loud moaning noises and banging the wall with my fist. “Oh, Carter! Spank me baby!” I cried and banged the wall again. “Harder! HARDER!”

Carter’s face was a picture. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Messing with Truong and Inge.” I laughed so hard my sides were splitting. “They’re gonna think we’re boinking.”

Carter folded his arms and looked me in the eye, saying nothing.

I was well into one of my laughing spasms. I tried to stop laughing. But I couldn’t stop. Eventually, I regained enough control to ask, “You don’t think it’s funny?”

“No.”

My little cloud of euphoria burst with a sudden POP. “Oh.” There was an ugly pause until I added in a very small voice, “Not even a little?”

The corners of his mouth curved up a fraction. It was almost a ghost of a smile, but not quite. More like a phantom. “Maybe a little,” he acquiesced. Then he let out a great big yawn and arranged himself in a horizontal position. “That’s enough ‘fun’ for tonight. Go to sleep now, Karsynn.”

“I can’t.” I grabbed my towel and began scrubbing my scalp. “My hair’s still wet.”

Carter turned on his side and faced the wall, summarily dismissing me. “Good night.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. A beat. Another beat. I cleared my throat loudly. “Um, Carter. You don’t happen to have a hair dryer, do you?”

All I got was a grunt and then a final, “Good night, Karsynn.”

“Good night, Carter.”

My pillow was wet. My hair was damp. And I had a migraine the size of Mexico. I tossed and turned all night, listening to Carter’s rhythmic breathing. Finally, I heaved myself up, sat on the edge of the bed and switched on the lights. I blinked, trying to get my bearings. Then I reached for my iPhone.

It was two a.m., and I was wide awake.

I glanced over at Carter sleeping on the sofa, taking in his dark lounging figure. Hmm. I noticed he carried a slight paunch around his girth and in a peculiar way, I found that even more attractive than men who were ripped to shreds. You know the type. Washboard abs, killer biceps, chiseled to perfection, one percent body fat. While I realize some women find that attractive, I simply see them as men who spend too much time at the gym, making working out a priority above everything else.

Not to mention, the guys I’d dated in the past who were built like a brick shithouse expected the same standard from their women. I learned, much later, that they had high expectations of me. There was a lot of narcissism there and the relationships never lasted long.

While I may be petite (OK, more like short), I’ve always had a belly, that pocket of flesh just above my nethers that just never seems to go away. I call it my Burrito Baby. She even has a name. Consuelo Soledad O’Brien. When my weight goes up, Consuelo gets bigger and when my weight drops, Consuelo just gets smaller. But she’s always there. My Burrito Baby Belly.

Over the years, I’ve come to accept that bellies are, simply put, beautiful. And now, I like my men regular (not perfect) just like me.

I stole another quick glance at Carter. In his deep slumber, his lips were parted in a half-smile and soft sleep noises whispered out of his mouth. Then he turned on his other side, giving me an admirable view of his smooth torso, long limbs and um, tight buns.

Something very odd happened to my heartbeat.

He wasn’t perfect, but he sure as hell was sexy.

Stop it Kars!
I scolded myself. He was also utterly insufferable and arrogant.

I looked away with determination.

Ah! A mini bar! My stomach lurched and I practically hurled myself at the mini bar when the price list suddenly caught my eye.

For a brief moment, I stood perfectly still and simply stared at it.

12 oz can of Coca Cola - $9 USD

A small packet of Pringles - $9 USD

Kit Kat bar - $10 USD

Give me a break! I could not believe they had the staggering nerve to charge ten dollars for a Goddamn Kit Kat bar. I uttered a low curse, “Bastards!”

“What?” came a groggy voice from the sofa.

“Oh. I wasn’t talking to you, Carter. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t anymore,” he said, sitting up.

We fell into a convivial silence, staring at the mini bar in a rather maniacal fashion. Eventually, I dragged my gaze away from it. “I’m hungry,” I informed Carter. “Are you hungry?”

“No.” There was a pause until he added, “I’m starving.”

“Wanna go out and get something to eat?”

He raked a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair. “At this hour?”

“Why not? I’ve heard about these
mamak
food stalls that are open twenty-four seven.”

“Twenty-four seven?” Carter looked at me with deep interest. “Like a call center?”

I nodded.

“All right,” he said. “This I’d like to see.”

If synchronized-head-turning were a sport, Carter and I would have scored a ten out of ten. We whipped our heads this way and that, taking in our surroundings, soaking up the sounds. We were in downtown Kuala Lumpur, or KL as the locals called it, where the cityscape of lights were more brilliant than the stars. All around us, rows and rows of food stalls took up entire sidewalks; plastic chairs and tables spilled over adjoining lanes and street corners.

It didn’t take us long to find an empty table. As I pulled out a chair and sat down, I was struck by the vast number of people at the
mamak
joint at this ungodly hour. Clubbers gathering after a hard night of partying, swing shift workers enjoying supper, college students just hanging out . . . it all held a very relaxed vibe.

“I guess it’s true what they say about this place,” I said in a hushed awe, “this is the city that never sleeps.”

Our heads swiveled round as another Suzuki motorbike sped past our table, carrying a family of four.

“Not so much
al fresco
dining as it is a sidewalk hangout spot,” Carter observed.

“I like this,” I insisted. “No frills, no fuss, roadside dining.”

“Where’d you hear about these
mamak
food stalls?”

“The Travel Channel,” I said, brightening. “On Anthony Bourdain’s
No Reservations
.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You haven’t?” I raised my eyebrows in silent reprimand.

“Nope. What’s the deal with his show anyway?”

“Well, I enjoy watching it because he sees a city from a local’s perspective. And to him, the perfect meal is not about upscale restaurants and the Michelin Stars. It’s more about the ideal combination of food, atmosphere and company.”

Carter had more pressing matters on his mind. “What should we order?”

“Roti canai seems to be pretty popular; it’s some sort of fried Indian bread.”

“All right. I’ll try that. What about drinks?”

“Oh! We have to order
teh tarik
. It’s pulled tea.”

“Roti canai and pulled tea it is,” Carter declared with an air of gravitas. “What about you? What are you having?”

“Satay!” I exclaimed cheerfully. “Should I go place our orders?”

“Please.”

I departed on my errand, walking past an endless array of food stalls until I came to the roti stall. For a brief moment, I stood rooted to the spot, watching the street vendor with rapture as he poured milk tea back and forth, from one glass to another, pulling it higher and higher.

“Two
teh tarik
please,” I informed the vendor airily. “Oh, and one roti canai.”

He gave the smallest nod. “Where do you sit?”

I pointed to our table.

Intent on my other mission, I picked my way through the kaleidoscope of food stalls, all reflecting Malaysia’s colorful ethnic mix. My eyes lit up when I finally came upon a satay stand. I placed my order and rejoined Carter at the table.

It wasn’t long before two glasses of frothy tea were delivered to our table, along with Carter’s roti canai
.
It was served on a banana leaf with a side of red curry. Shortly after, my plate of chicken satay arrived accompanied by a bowl of peanut sauce.

We tucked into our food and for a while we ate in companionable silence.

As I sat there chewing on my satay, it occurred to me that this would be a good time as any to pick Carter’s brains. I debated the proper approach and opted for the most straightforward. “Carter,” I stated, “I’d like to be your protégé.”

“My protégé?” He cocked an eyebrow. “So you wish to glean some wisdom from me?”

“Uh-huh.” I licked my fingers, tasting hints of lemongrass and turmeric. “Yes. I’d like you to teach me everything you know.”

Carter tore off a chunk of roti and dunked it liberally into the red curry. “Well that will cost you five thousand dollars.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Lesson number one—always charge for your expertise.”

I held back a groan. “You’re so full of it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“All right,” he said haughtily. “Do you want to learn from me or not?”

I nodded.

“So be quiet and let me speak.”

I made a zipping motion with my hand over my mouth.

“Let me tell you a story.”

I drew a finger across my throat and made gagging noises. “Stories are for toddlers!”

“Do you want to hear it or not?”

“Fine,” I mumbled.

Carter ignored the lack of enthusiasm in my response and launched right into his story. “A French woman, upon spotting Picasso in a café, approached the great master and insisted that he make a quick sketch of her. Graciously, Picasso obliged. After studying her for a moment, he used a single pencil stroke to create her portrait. He handed the woman his work of art and she gushed, ‘It’s perfect! You managed to capture my true essence with just one stroke. Now how much do I owe you?’ ”

I cut in dramatically, “ ‘Five thousand dollars,’ said Picasso.”

Carter frowned heavily. “Are you telling the story or am I?”

“Go
onnnn
,” I said with exaggerated courtesy.

“Picasso informed the woman that she owed him fifty thousand francs. And the woman was furious. She said to Picasso, ‘It only took you a second to draw it!’ To which Picasso responded, ‘Madame, it took me my entire life. It was my fifty years of serial preparation and fifty years of perfecting my unique talents and fifty years of honing my experience plus the five seconds that produced this sketch.’ ”

“Nice story.”

“You see,” Carter continued complacently, “it takes years and years of study and practice to build expertise in any profession. And with that knowledge comes the appearance of ease and the perception that what’s being asked is—oh, no big deal. But, it
is
a big deal.”

“OK,” I acknowledged. “What I’m asking you
is
a big deal. But will you do it? For free?”

“I’ll do it if you pay for our meal.”

“You got it!” I said at once. “You’re cheap!”

“That’s because I just gave you a huge discount. Now,” Carter cleared his throat, “what would you like to know?

“I’d like to know the secret to your success,” I said directly.

“The secret to my success?” he repeated. “Well, I’ll have to say courage. The courage to get things done, the courage to accept failure, the courage to pick myself up when I fall. I may not be as smart, talented or as skilled as the next person, but I’m not afraid to go out there and make things happen for myself.”

“You sound like Oprah.”

“Well, I’m not done talking yet, my little protégé. Two—I’m constantly learning and challenging the status quo. I’m always thinking of new ways to do old things, which is why I still hop on the phones and take calls. I talk to the callers. I talk to the agents. I talk to middle management.”

“It’s nice to know that all that is not beneath you.”

“It’s not. And it will never be. Trust me, Kars, pride and ego will get you nowhere in the workplace. Sometimes, you don’t learn and you don’t get new ideas unless you’re in the front lines. Whenever I see a problem, my immediate instinct is: How can I fix it? How can I make it better?”

I sighed. “You’re telling me stuff I already know. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Fine.” He rose to the challenge. “One of the most important life skills they don’t teach you at school is how to sell.”