Teardrops that Tango: Autobiography of Amber Cote

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Teardrops that Tango

Autobiography of Amber Cote

AuthorHouse

Kirk

"A mere moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world. They will not be cured by our most efficacious drugs or slain with our sharpest swords." (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

I'll never forget the last words my fiancé said to me before I watched him die. "You want me to end all of your problems, Amber? I'll end them all right now!" He spat his words through clenched teeth, his jaw was locked. Kirk's normally composed personality had disappeared, replaced with that of a hysterical man—a man who was right in front of me.

His wrath had quickly diminished what I knew of the easy-going man I was scheduled to marry in two months. He struggled and clawed against the air, moving toward our bedroom. The breath locked in my lungs when he reappeared clutching his father's 9mm Smith & Wesson.

His forehead was slick with sweat as he buried the muzzle into his right temple. A pang of futility pierced through me, blanching the color from my face. The pulsing terror was so acute I was virtually paralyzed. My mind struggled to defy this indefinable moment as Kirk wielded that gun. I was frantically holding onto his life by willpower alone, but my wits were sapped. Wrestling with reality, my vision distorted, watching my life played out like a movie on fast-forward, jumping from one random event to another. I wasn't in a real-life drama but a nightmare. How can this be happening?

Kirk's legs quavered as he tried to stabilize himself. I could feel my throat begin to swell when he narrowed his eyes and tightly pursed his lips. I struggled to escape the rising panic that twisted within my newly pregnant belly and coursed up to my fingertips. His nostrils flared as his index finger curled around the trigger. Oh no.... Please, God, no....

Merely hours before, our joy had been looked upon as enviable. How did we get from selecting baby names to this desperate position, characterized by twisted threats of self-execution?

In the Beginning

"I'll send someone right over, Amber," the raspy, male voice responded through the walkie-talkie's static. Offended by and annoyed by customers like the one I was about to meet, I crossed my arms and tapped my foot, glancing every now and again at the watch I wasn't wearing. I had never required a "captain's" (our appealing name for bouncers) assistance at work before; their faces were unfamiliar images that melded with those of the masses of other employees at the restaurant. I only recognized their sharp business attire.

The plastered patron who had initiated my need to summon the captain attempted to pinch my back side again, tumbling off of a bar stool in the process. I was incensed with him, my irritation recognizable in my offended grimace. I waited impatiently for my co-worker to "remove" this guy. Reinforcement began to funnel toward me in a posh blue suit. The atonal music of the busy night seemed to hush in the awareness of him. Mid-tap, my foot went motionless, my mouth gaping in awe.

Demanding veneration, this captain walked in long, big strides, appearing like a force of nature. I kept my eyes trained on this man, feeling drawn to him as though he was tugging some invisible rope around my waist. My arms plummeted lifelessly to my sides in submission. Who is that?!

At six feet, eight inches tall, it was impossible not to take notice of this striking man. He was intimidating but beautiful, hoisted head and shoulders above everyone else. I squinted to see the black name-pin on his upper chest. A step closer and it came into focus: "Kirk."

He was smiling indulgently, his faultless olive skin radiating from under his clothing. He had straight jet-black hair that was slicked back, but delectable stubborn ringlets curled up at the nape of his white Oxford collar. His piercing brown eyes intensified his cultural élan, making my knees buckle.

I suddenly couldn't speak, so I pointed to the drunken culprit. Without saying a word, Kirk looped his hand through the inebriated cat-caller's Western-style belt and carried him at least fifty feet to the front doors, using the man's head to swing them open. With fluid harmony, he lobbed "drunken sticky fingers" into a waiting cab. When the taxi zipped away, Kirk straightened his tie, smoothed his hair with both hands, and swaggered back inside. He was astoundingly quick, the delinquent activities resolved in less than two minutes. My stomach quivered as he came back inside and boldly promenaded towards me again. Speak Amber, get yourself together girl!

"Are you okay ...?" His stunning eyes began to search my blouse for my name badge, making my chest feel fiery.

"Amber!" I almost shouted, thrusting out my hand for him to shake. "Y—yyes, I'm ookay now, Kkkirrrk," embarrassed by my stuttering.

"It's nice to meet you, Amber." He accepted my handshake with a demure but amused smile, his enormous hand consuming mine. Forked lightning speared through my body when our hands joined; my eyes darted up to meet his. Did you feel that? I marveled at the sensation and questioned his eyes to see if he felt it, too, but he seemed even and unruffled.

"You just let me know if you have any more trouble," he said. I bobbed my head up and down to indicate that I would. Uh, yeah, I'm scorched from your heat, but I'm good. I evaded eye contact with him once more, but when I dared to sneak another peek, he winked at me before walking away. I flushed, tingling from head to toe. His smile seemed to glow in the dark. I realized I had been holding my breath and finally exhaled in a huge whoosh. When I regained my footing, I turned towards my co-worker and whispered, "He's mine."

I couldn't stop ogling him throughout the night. A moment more with Kirk and I would be the cat-caller removed for sexual harassment. Returning home after my shift, I was still thinking about him. How handsome and mysterious he was. How swiftly he had "rescued me." I couldn't wait to see him again. That night, when I checked our work schedule for his hours, I saw he was off tomorrow. I worked. Crap!

I sauntered off to my work station, frustratingly kicking at invisible stones on the floor. Sooner than my heart could sink, I saw him walking right towards me.

Oh God! I spun around and quickly slathered on some lip gloss. He reminded people of the actor Steven Seagal, and I could see the association, especially since he was into karate. He had obviously just showered and was wearing karate pants, and a clean white T-shirt. Tightly knotted on his waist was a black belt. The scent of soap and a mild men's cologne wafted from his body. He casually sat in one of my booths.

His hair was disheveled in such a cute way that I wanted to reach out and slowly twirl one of those black ringlets around my index finger. Stop that, Amber! I anxiously flattened out invisible wrinkles in my skirt, combed my fingers through my hair, and walked towards him. Just don't fall on your face!

I nonchalantly smiled, the actress in me taking over with a composed, even detached job performance. Robotically, I offered him a menu and asked if he'd like something to drink. I was looking back and forth between him and the quivering menu in my hands. Why can't we will ourselves not to tremble? When he reached for it, it was clear he wasn't shaking. His large hand instantly covered half of the menu size.

Kirk never broke eye contact with me, which caused me to inadvertently start biting my lip and shift my feet. It was as though he relished seeing me flustered. Guess who immediately failed in her coolness attempt?

He finally answered, "I'll just have a bottle of water, please." His voice was so suave and cultured that I didn't respond right away. My stomach was too busy quivering, and the restaurant suddenly felt so small.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Hearing his voice again made me blink out of my daze, and I stammered back into gear. My father had taught me how to interpret men; I knew this god in a suit was trouble.

"Of course," I said thickly, determined to respond casually. I was irritated with myself for appearing so awkward and frazzled. "One water, coming up," I chirped and scampered away like a frightened rabbit.

I tried to keep from looking in his direction, but every time I risked a glance at him, I saw that he was watching me intently. His gaze was almost sexual; I nearly felt taken right there. Lawd, this man is hot! Upon the delivery of his water, he began to invite me out on a date, but I accepted before he could finish asking.

The intensity of our magnetic attraction was so powerful that we fell in love almost instantly. We were "two kids in love," I was eighteen and Kirk was twenty-one when we heaved ourselves into a relationship that took off at a fierce gallop. If we weren't working together, we were playing together. I was always linked to his arm or enfolded in his embrace. I loved being wrapped up in his chest; he made me feel sheltered and important. He was sociable, humorous, and trendy, always donning the most modern Italian fashions, most of which he had custom-tailored because of his height. We frequently went dancing, shared laughs at comedy clubs, or dined out at his favorite restaurants, especially small bistros.

Kirk was sociable, humorous, and trendy; always donning the most modern Italian fashions, most of which he had custom tailored because of his height. We frequently went dancing, laughed at comedy clubs, or dined out at his favorite restaurants, especially small bistros.

Kirk had everything going for him. He was intelligent, educated, and ambitious. He worked part-time for a multinational information technology equipment and services company. It was a vast career opportunity for a twenty-one year old.

Kirk had a quick wit and silly sense of humor. He had no trouble meeting people and could single-handedly "break the ice" with style. When he entered a room, he'd usually slap the top of the doorframe with his palm. He'd whirl around and grab his forehead, moaning as if he'd smacked his head, grunting like a hurt animal. The room would explode in laughter. Little did I know at the time that these comedic episodes disguised a man so tormented by depression that he'd tried to take his life before we met, requiring hospitalization after overdosing on handfuls of medication.

Bartending was exceptionally popular, even chic, in the early nineties, with academies and schools popping up like convenience stores in every city. We had recently seen Tom Cruise shine as a sexy bartender in the new movie Cocktail. With stars in his eyes but cautious feet still planted in his business aspirations, Kirk wanted to shift his position at our workplace from a captain to a (much more highly paid) bartender. He studied for months, memorizing drink recipes and receiving challenging "pop-quizzes" from me. Flash-cards and drink recipes speckled the apartment walls and were taped daily to the bathroom mirror and refrigerator. Before I knew it, I found myself dreaming about bewildering cocktail requests: "A sex on the buttery iron curtain, please." Oh no! How do we make that?

Perhaps basic bartending skills can be taught, but a truly great bartender ensures that every detail is perfect and executed correctly. Before long, Kirk was acing numerous bartending tests. He loved bartending and took pride in electrifying people with unusual "flairing," such as flaming glasses and juggling bottles. I watched him with pride as he captivated and mesmerized customers with his newfound talent. On the many nights we worked together, I would literally jump at sudden loud surges of shouting and applause originating from the main bar. What in the world is going on? I had to explore the enthusiastic noise only once. I saw Kirk entertaining hordes of people; he was so charming. The flock of mesmerized people pressed me into the bar. Everyone clapped in sync to each movement. When he poured, he reigned!

Knock for Six

My period had always been fairly regular, so when I suddenly felt hung-over, dog-tired, and experienced a bout of nausea without the "fun" of drinking, I bought an at-home pregnancy test while Kirk was working. Tearing it open, I followed the crude steps. Pee on the little stick, and wait, and wait.

I sat on the toilet, plopped up my elbows on the sink, and stared at the stick-test as if it were lethal. It felt like the longest three minutes of my life. Kirk and I had been together only eight months, so when those two fuzzy pink lines suddenly told me I was pregnant, I felt irresponsible and reckless. The "real world" was about to become all too real. I must've looked childish when I told him I was pregnant, fidgeting like a little girl, fearful of his reaction. I was astonished at his over-the-moon, delighted anticipation to become a father. He was exceptionally happy, almost as if he'd desired this baby all along.

About a week had passed after discovering I was pregnant. We were both hard at work when I unexpectedly heard Kirk's voice over the main intercom. "Miss Amber Cote, would you please come to Reservations?" I was surprised to hear his voice, as he didn't typically use the intercom as part of his job. He was up to something; I just didn't know what. I sprinted towards his voice at top speed. My heart jumped hurdles as I chased his voice excitedly. What is this all about?

I saw him leaning confidently against a mahogany podium. I caught my breath and looked around, realizing that every eye had turned to watch us, to watch Kirk. Swaying towards him, I swung my body extra hard in order to feed the adoring swarm of hopelessly romantic people. I blushed in flighty delight.

He smiled at me, winked, and confidently announced, "Amber Cote, I love you." The intercom suddenly protested with some squeaky feedback that made everyone giggle, "Will you marry me?"

He let go of the microphone and sprang down in front of me, dropping down to one leg. The whistling and men's hooting increased. Even on his knees, I was almost eye-to-eye with him. I excitedly shouted, "Yes!" He took my left hand and placed a stunning engagement ring upon my finger and kissed the top of my hand. I was bright-eyed and thrilled as I shot up into his arms, kissing his cheek.

Romantic whistles and varying tones of "Congratulations!" reverberated throughout the restaurant. The throng around us cheered and clapped. He laughed. His amusement sounded like the bark of a content seal. I was anxious about life happening so fast but excited about creating a family together.

That night after watching our favorite late-night program, Kirk cuddled up behind me and whispered sweetly into my ear, "you're going to have a girl, you should name her Kyra." What did he mean by "I" will have a girl, what happened to we? "Children keep you alive," he mumbled as he closed his eyes. He lovingly laced his hands over my belly, and we fell asleep.

Red Flags

I rushed home from work, feeling violently ill, but I wasn't sick. I was operating on instinct now: Kirk had threatened his life. His battle with depression surfaced a few months into our relationship. As I fumbled for the house key, my unsettled thoughts summoned up all of the times my own mother had threatened suicide. The current ordeal involving Kirk wasn't as shocking to me as it may have been for someone else—that is, until I stepped inside.

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Excerpted from Teardrops that Tango by Amber Cote. Copyright © 2015 Amber Cote. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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