Memories with The Breakfast Club: A Way with Words Read online

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  A Way with Words

  Lane Hayes

  “For Dad- I miss you like crazy every day. Your love of the written word still inspires me everyday.”

  Special thanks to my dear friend, Felice Stevens, who so generously invited me to part of this exciting launch with her Memories with the Breakfast Club boys with this group of talented authors. You know how much love your city! It’s been an absolute pleasure. – Lane Hayes

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Lane Hayes

  Chapter 1

  “He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.” ― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

  Manhattan was stunning in May. The sky was dotted with fluffy clouds that looked like cotton balls or wadded up pieces of tissue paper. If I squinted real hard and maybe blocked out the Flatiron Building and the high rises on Fifth Avenue and concentrated on the strip of blue above Madison Square Park, I could imagine I was on a Spanish island. A really fucking loud island with a jackhammer banging along to the tune of honking taxis and pedestrians yapping at each other in every language known to man. I heaved a sigh then dabbed my damp forehead with the back of my hand before casting one last look at the man playing his guitar on the corner.

  He was pretty good. And tenacious as hell. Who in their right mind thought entertaining tourists and locals by strumming an instrument every day was any fun? The spare change couldn’t be that great. Sure, the folks who lived or shopped in this part of town probably had some extra cash in their pockets and some people on vacation were generous for the heck of it, but still…it seemed kinda nuts. Not my problem, though. As long as he set up on the park side and stayed clear of the construction site, I didn’t care. Besides, he was pretty damn good. And easy on the eyes.

  I stole one last glance at the handsome guy bent over his guitar while I waited at the crosswalk for the light to change. His mop of curly brown hair fell into his eyes enticingly when he played. My fingers itched with a sudden weird desire to hold his hair, maybe run my fingers through it and—Jesus, what was my problem? I took off my sunglasses and rubbed the lenses hard enough to make them crack. I was not allowed to have a crush on a street performer. Well, maybe I was but I couldn’t be obvious about it by staring at the guy. He’d think I was a creep.

  Someone jostled my arm in his haste to be the first to cross the street. I let him pass and absently gazed backward, just as the hottie looked up and met my stare.

  He set his hand over his strings, abruptly halting all sound. On a busy avenue in the Big Apple, that wasn’t possible for mere mortals. It was like I was wearing the strongest noise-resistant earplugs known to man. The kind that could block out a jet engine or New York City traffic. I tugged on my ear, grinning at my nonsensical thoughts as I started to turn. I froze a moment later when he smiled at me—’cause fuck, he had a beautiful smile. It transformed his sweet, even features into something otherworldly.

  I don’t know how long I stood there gawking at the guy like an idiot, but I had a feeling it was too long. Traffic was whizzing by again, indicating I’d lost my chance to hightail it back to work. The only way to salvage my pride and not stand there looking like a fool was to introduce myself. Just a casual, “How ya doin’?” or “I like your music.” No big deal. I could do this, I told myself as I stepped around a gaggle of tourists taking photos.

  “Hey,” I said, slipping my sunglasses back onto my nose. Damn, that was lame. I gestured toward his guitar and hoped I didn’t sound like a complete moron when I added, “You play pretty good.”

  “Thank you.” He pushed his instrument behind his back then stood and offered his hand in greeting. “I’ve seen you around. I’m Remy.”

  I stared at his outstretched hand for a moment before politely shaking it. He was warm to the touch, but not too smooth. The callouses on his fingertips were sexy somehow. But hey, I liked guys with rough hands. I liked his light beard too. It went well with his ripped Levis and plaid button-down shirt. The bohemian vibe suited him, I mused.

  “What’s your name?” he prodded.

  “I’m Tony. Nice to meet ya.”

  “You must work nearby.”

  “Uh…yeah, I—oh shit, I’m sorry.” I dropped his hand like a hot potato and shoved both of mine in my pockets.

  “No problem. Where do you work?” Remy’s grin widened.

  I found myself smiling back at him for no apparent reason as I angled my head toward the high rise under construction behind me.

  “Across the street. I usually eat my lunch here and…stuff. Um. I hear you play almost every day. You’re not bad. Have you recorded any of your music? It’s good. Needs words, but still…you’re talented.”

  Fuck, I had to shut up. My tongue was getting away from me. This wasn’t like me. I was quiet. I kept to myself. I wasn’t the kind of guy who engaged strangers in conversation. I hoped like hell I wasn’t totally blowing it because I really liked the sound of his voice and the way his full lips curled on one side. I didn’t want to talk about myself, though. Now that I was inexplicably here, I wanted to know more about him.

  “High praise. You’re gonna make me blush,” he teased with a half laugh.

  “Don’t mention it. Do you play in a club too or a bar?”

  “Not exactly. I work at a bar, but I don’t play there. I’m a bartender at The Night Owl on Essex. Have you been?”

  I frowned as I tried to place it. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s tiny…like the size of a speakeasy without the charm. The owner isn’t big on live music. He’s got a thing for classic rock. If it isn’t the Beatles or the Stones, he isn’t interested.”

  “Hmm. What do you call what you were playin’?”

  Remy’s lips twitched with humor. I couldn’t blame him. My Brooklyn accent thickened when I got nervous, and I’d been told I had a tendency to straighten my spine and furrow my brow. My cousin Mikey was always telling me to relax and smile a little. He said I looked menacing sometimes—like I wanted to kick ass, not make polite conversation. My whole family was sure it was why I was still single and hadn’t had a girlfriend in years. They were probably right about my lack of finesse, but they were dead wrong about the reason for my lack of female companionship.

  “I call it flamenco.”

  “Like Spanish guitar?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Are you Spanish? You don’t look Spanish.”

  “I’m not. I’m American.”

  “No kiddin’,” I said sarcastically.

  Remy chuckled good-naturedly. “I’m French and Irish and maybe a little Scottish. You?”

  “Guess.” I challenged him with a wry grin.

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say…Italian.”

  “And the guy with the fancy gee-tar is a winner!”

  Remy snickered then cocked his head and gave me a lopsided smile that made my dick swell, testing t
he strength of the zipper on my Levis. “What’d I win?”

  “Uh…I don’t—I should get going. My break’s up and—”

  “It’s cool. No worries,” he assured me.

  I nodded and then waved like a dumbass before taking a step backward. “I’ll see ya ’round.”

  “Okay. It was nice to meet you, Tony.”

  “Yeah. You too.”

  “Hey!” he called. I turned around and waited for him to continue. “You should come by some time.”

  “Where?”

  Remy’s grin took on a sexy quality that made my breath hitch and my dick ache. Not ideal on a crowded city sidewalk when I was minutes from heading back to the jobsite.

  “To The Night Owl,” he said mischievously. “I’m working this weekend. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  We shared a smile I couldn’t measure. I wasn’t sure what it meant or if it meant anything at all. But I had a feeling I’d flirted with a cute guy and hadn’t been a total dweeb. In fact, he’d actually flirted back. He was interested. I knew I wouldn’t do anything about it, but I couldn’t deny it was kinda nice.

  * * *

  A Bon Jovi classic blasted from the radio later that afternoon. I sawed a two-by-four as I hummed about being halfway there. I glanced up when Mikey bellowed my name over the din of music and hammering.

  “To-ny! Are you fuckin’ deaf?”

  “No. I’m fuckin’ ignoring you,” I snarked. “What’s up?”

  “Lindsay has a friend you gotta meet.” Mikey smiled when I groaned but unfortunately, didn’t stop talking. “Her name is Sarah. She’s a pretty brunette with a great sense of humor. She’s twenty-six, just got her master’s degree and started teaching at the junior college up on Bedford. She came by last night for a beer and we all got talkin’ and…come on, what do ya say?”

  I flipped my protective lenses over my hardhat and studied my cousin. Like most of the De Lucas, Mikey had dark wavy hair, brown eyes, and olive-toned skin. He was a smallish man who lied himself up to five ten whenever the opportunity arose. Since I knew he was a good three inches shorter than my own five eleven, I called him on it whenever I got the chance. I figured it was my familial duty to torment him.

  I cocked my head thoughtfully before responding. “No thanks.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “You’re not busy. You’re a hermit.”

  “I like it that way. I don’t need you to set me up.”

  “Trust me, Sarah’s great. Or did you want to wait for my mom to set you up with Karen the cannoli chef?”

  “You mean baker.”

  “Whatever. Nice lady but she’s too serious for you. You don’t laugh enough. But hey”—Mikey put his hands up and made his famous “I’m just sayin’ ” face—“up to you. Don’t be surprised if Ma invites her to dinner Sunday night.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “ ’Cause she wants free cannoli for life. Why else?” he snapped sarcastically. “The only way out is to say you’re bringing someone else.”

  I rolled my eyes at my well-meaning cousin. “Thanks for the tip, Mikey, but I’m not staying for dessert. Maybe another time.”

  “Damn, you’re stubborn. And why aren’t you staying for dessert? You have to.”

  “Says who?” I narrowed my eyes, hoping to pull off the intimidating look he was always accusing me of.

  Truthfully, my family’s persistent matchmaking attempts were beginning to alarm me. If it wasn’t one of my aunts, it was my mother. And now Mikey. He and Lindsay had been married for six months and suddenly, he was on a quest to make sure I joined his bliss. Or plight. I didn’t mind going out for the occasional drink and game of pool or darts in a group, but the days of being set up on blind dates were long gone.

  “Hmph. Don’t say I didn’t tell you so when Karen is sitting next to you at dinner,” he singsonged.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Fine. Wanna go out for a beer tonight or did ya make a date with the guitar player?”

  “Guitar player?” I furrowed my brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw you making friends with that guy in the park earlier. Oh hey”—Mikey spread his arms and widened his eyes comically—“invite him over for dinner. Ma would love that!”

  I didn’t take offense to the remark, but it was unwritten code that I had to retaliate for the same stupid homo jabs he’d been making in jest for years. I reached over to smack him upside the head.

  “You’re a fuckin’ comedian. Lay off and don’t set me up with any of Lindsay’s friends either. I’m over it.”

  Mikey grumbled loudly then shrugged. “Fine. Beer? Joey says we can hitch a ride with him back to Brooklyn. I’ll be ready to quit in ten. What about you?”

  I glanced over at the plans lying on a nearby bench and thought about making up some excuse that might keep me on-site a little later. I quickly decided it was a bad idea. The last thing I needed was Mikey on my case. I didn’t like that he’d homed in on the guitarist. It felt personal somehow. I liked Remy. In fact, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I’d spent the better part of the afternoon replaying our conversation in my head. It was ridiculous but then again, I’d had a passing crush on the guy for two months.

  It felt almost decadent to know things about him now, like his name and the sound of his voice and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. And I knew he was a bartender too. Not that I’d do anything more with that information than picture him wielding a martini shaker in a tight T-shirt while he talked sports, politics, and current events with his customers. He seemed flirtatious. I wondered if he turned on the charm with the ladies…or the men. Was he gay? I couldn’t tell for sure.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake! This was what was wrong with me. Every time a cute guy caught my eye, I daydreamed about him. And lately, the vision morphed until it was the sexy man with the guitar in the park. Remy. I made up scenarios in my head where we met randomly in a dark club, hit it off, and naturally ended up in bed screwing our brains out. From the first time I’d set eyes on Remy, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. But I had to. The last thing I needed was to get outed on the job. Or anywhere.

  * * *

  Sunday dinner at Nonna’s was a De Luca family tradition. No one missed it without a good excuse. And it better be real good. Severe flu, a major accident, a vacation, or a move that put you seventy-five miles or more outside of the five boroughs…that kind of thing. Tickets to a Yankee game wouldn’t fly. Unless you budgeted an extra hundred bucks for flowers to apologize for thoughtlessly skipping out on family.

  The word family was synonymous with religion where I was from. The De Lucas were tight. And there were a ton of us, which made every Sunday an event. It was loud, chaotic, and frenzied. Everyone talked over each other, kids darted between your legs, and if the television wasn’t on, there was music blaring in the background. These people were my constant. I spent every holiday and Sunday with them. I even worked with some of them at my uncle’s construction company.

  Thankfully, I lived alone. Sure, my place was walking distance to a few of my cousins’ houses, but it was my slice of peace and quiet and a respite from well-meaning, interfering relatives. I’d take what I could get, I mused as my Aunt Francesca stopped to check on me and Karen the cannoli lady.

  Mikey had warned me. Not that it would have mattered. If it wasn’t Karen, it would be some other woman. The alarming part was that this was becoming a bi-monthly thing, and I didn’t know how to put an end to it without attracting unwanted attention. It would have been nice to hang back with a beer and not constantly be working out my exit strategy.

  “Tony loves biscotti, don’t you, honey? Chocolate. Those are his favorite,” Aunt Fran said loudly.

  I nodded absently then tipped back my bottle and cast a longing sideways glance toward the front door. I’d been at Nonna’s for thirty minutes and I already wanted to escape.

 
“I bake a mean chocolate pistachio biscotti,” Karen bragged. The note of amusement in her voice made me look twice. We shared a brief smile that wordlessly acknowledged this was awkward. But it didn’t have to be.

  Karen seemed cool. She was pretty-ish with medium-length brown hair, brown eyes, and a heart-shaped face. Unlike my sisters or most of my female cousins, she wasn’t wearing much makeup. Her floral dress was simple and wholesome. Most of the women I knew spent a lot of time and effort on their beauty routine. They wore copious cosmetics, form-fitting clothes, and fabulous shoes. I didn’t necessarily think there was a stereotype at play ’cause every single one of them was a no-nonsense ball-buster. Maybe Karen was too, but she looked too sweet to be a De Luca. For some reason, I liked that.