Clad
The older lady stands up abruptly, and I assume she's Mrs. Moore. "Oh, my, dear, I have somewhere to be, I'll be back in five minutes," she says, her voice trembling with urgency. Mr. Moore's brow furrows, his confusion evident.
"What? What is it? Did you forget something?" he asks, his gaze following her as she slips one foot out the door.
"Uh—yes, I'll be right back," she responds, and the door clicks shut with a final thud. I turn to glance at the remaining duo, realizing with a sinking feeling that Mrs. Moore didn't forget something—no, she forgot someone , or at least, that's what my gut tells me.
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Harley
"The subscriber you have dialed is not available. Please try again—" I end the call, frustration boiling inside me.
Darn it. Third time in a row, and she's still not picking up.
Ten minutes. Ten minutes, she said. It's been well over twenty now, and I'm still standing out here like a fool. My stomach clenches. I didn't want to think about it, but it seems my mom has forgotten me. I push myself up from the cold stone pavement, pacing. Why was I sitting down, you ask? Because I came in my jeans and hoodie, ready to change into something decent enough for a restaurant this fancy. But my mother? Nowhere to be found.
What should I do? I mutter, kicking a small pebble that looks completely out of place on the pristinely manicured walkway. My mind is a whirlwind. I have no plan, no idea of what comes next, and the creeping shadows of the evening aren't helping.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, half-hoping it's her. It's not.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and sigh, growing restless. What now?
"Excuse me."
A voice from behind me cuts through my thoughts, and I freeze instantly. I assure you, I'm not guilty of anything—but standing here, looking like a lost soul, it might not seem that way.
I turn, and yes, I was right. It's them.
Two men in formal black suits, standing shoulder-width apart, their hands clasped on walkie-talkies. A walkie-talkie? In this day and age? I think to myself, but my thoughts scatter as I realize I need to focus.
"Yes?" I ask, offering a smile that quickly fades when I notice their blank expressions. No surprise there. People respond to two things in this world: a smile from the rich and their money, and right now, neither of those apply to me.
"Excuse us, ma'am, but we'd like you to leave the premises," one of them says, his voice rigid, devoid of any warmth.
I try to keep it light, a nervous chuckle escaping my lips. "I know what it looks like, but I actually have a reservation. I'm not loitering," I add, attempting to defuse the situation.
The guards look me over with that typical expression—the one that screams "just another nobody who thinks they belong." It's infuriating. "Look, I'm serious, okay? I have a reservation. In fact, could you do me a favor and go inside to ask for Mrs. Moore?" I demand, only to watch their faces freeze in place, their expressions turning stone-cold.
I frown. That's not the reaction I was expecting.
"Ma'am, we're going to have to detain you until the police arrive. Please cooperate," one of them states flatly.
"Wait, what?" I stutter, a wave of panic rising in my chest. In custody? How did I go from trying to enjoy a dinner to being hauled away by security? I look toward the backdoor, still untouched, and I pray the woman I'm waiting for will emerge, but there's nothing.
"Ma'am, don't think about running. That will only make things worse for you, understand?" one of them warns.
"Don't speak to me like I'm a criminal caught in the act," I snap, my frustration bubbling over. "All I asked was for my mom to be called, and you're throwing all this nonsense at me!" I'm seething now.
"Your mom?" one of them questions, skepticism dripping from his voice, and I nod firmly.
"Yes. That's right. She's with me."
Just as I finish, the voice I've been waiting for finally sounds from behind me. My mom, no longer wearing that cool, polite smile, appears at the door.
"Mrs. Moore," both guards say simultaneously, bowing their heads slightly, and that catches me completely off guard. No one in New York would ever do that.
Mom steps down the stairs, her heels clicking against the stone, and stands next to me. "What's going on?" she asks, her tone sharp.
"Well, ma'am, the young lady requested your presence, and we... we got a little cautious. As you know, a minister was once called out like this, and well... you know the details," one of the guards stammers.
I frown. "Which minister?" I ask, but the guards ignore me.
"Right, I understand. But she's my daughter, so I'll be taking her inside," my mom interjects smoothly.
"Of course. We apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am," they both say, their heads bowing once more.
Mom nods, dismissing them, and turns to walk inside. I glance at her, suddenly aware of the subtle elegance of her every move. Damn, she's really gone all out tonight. My mom never wears heels like this unless there's something major going on. Today must be important—more than I expected.
I hurry to follow her.
"What was that about?" I ask as soon as I catch up, my curiosity piqued.
"An attempted murder on a minister. They were called out by someone claiming to be family," she explains, her voice soft but filled with a hard edge.
"That's insane," I murmur, wide-eyed. That's seriously shocking.
Mom stops abruptly, and I nearly crash into her. "Enough with the language, Harley. You're in London. A native from here—act like it," she snaps, turning with precision, and opens the door she came through earlier. She waits for me to enter first.
"Sorry," I mutter, realizing that was a slip. Outside of apologizing for my father's actions, my mother is a force to be reckoned with—she's a lioness. The iron-fisted lady in full effect.
"Here, I've booked you a room to change in. Hurry up. We're in private room 103," she says, her tone already retreating into a more formal one as she heads off.
I glance at the bag she handed me, unable to make out the dress clearly. "You're a Londoner—act like it," I mimic her voice under my breath, and she stops just ahead of me.
I freeze. Did she hear me?
"Did you say something?" she asks, turning on her heel with a sharp glance.
"N-no, mom. Go ahead. I'll be right behind you," I stammer, my nerves already fraying. At twenty-six, I'm still terrified of her.
She nods, turning away again, and I wait until she's out of earshot before muttering to myself.
"Gosh, that's why I hate coming here. Rules, stifling rules, and parents who watch you like a hawk."