But then Bridget texted me. And after I deflected some questions and apologies about the whole stupid, botched incident, I managed to ask about her business, and if she thought she was on track to start again after her vocal cords recovered.
I managed to ask what I really wanted to know without seeming too obvious, I think.
But of course, it looks like Bridget’s check will be delayed again, and she won’t be paid for another week or two beyond what she’d last heard. Because that’s just my luck. And I’m bone fucking dry.
So much for the repayment I’m sure Bridget would insist on making right away.
So much, accordingly, for my sense of pride.
I didn’t go to the bar.
I didn’t call any of the women I know would love to make me feel better, and I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’d have to pay them. It’s not even like I’d need to buy them dinner. That’s free sex, and it’d let me get lost for a while in the press of warm flesh.
But I must be seriously bummed out because I called no one.
I didn’t call Mason to tell him to fuck off. Or leave a message for him to fuck off when he got back to the office, at his convenience.
I watched TV. For now, TV is free.
On every station, it seemed, there was a woman to remind me of Riley. Even on the skin channels. Especially on the skin channels. Someone has her legs. Someone has her tits. Someone has blonde hair. Someone looks nothing like her, but she’s on a beach, and I’m sure for some reason that Riley loves the feel of warm sand on her skin.
And now here I am at work. On time, like a chump. Wearing one of my nice shirts, again because I’m a chump. I feel for the entire morning like I’m walking around bent over, so willing to do whatever the company needs of me, no matter how degrading.
I’m in charge here, so I guess it says nothing, the way nobody has told me to leave. But there’s been no call from Margo or anyone else at the office asking for one of my foremen and wondering why I’m here instead of the unemployment line.
I do my job and slowly decide that the minute I can afford it, I’ll march back into Mason’s office and demand the vice presidency. It’s that, or I quit. And I’ll mean it. Because the longer I sit here, picking up the slack nobody else ever picks up, doing my job better than anyone else does theirs, going above and beyond without recognition, the angrier I get.
Mason treated me like a criminal. He didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt. He did exactly the opposite. For some reason, I was guilty until proven innocent. He wouldn’t listen, as if he’d already decided I wasn’t just late because of something reasonable, but was instead because I’d been busy robbing a liquor store.
Or having angry sex with his daughter.
But he doesn’t know that unless Riley told him. So as soon as Bridget’s check comes in and I get my money back, I’ll turn the tables. I’m going to demand a promotion, or I walk. I’ll make a list of everything I do, everything that would be dead if I hadn’t intervened. And I’ll shove it down his throat.
I’m out of here. I had a naive love of this company, but I’m over it now. The company doesn’t love me back, or it would believe in me.
“Hey, boss,” Shaun’s voice says from behind me, in the small trailer that functions as our on-site office. “Someone to see you.”
I see Shaun standing beside a tall black man when I turn, wearing clothes that are nicer than mine. He’s vice president of finance at Life of Riley, and I’m pretty sure his name is Marcus. I’ve met him before, but it was in the hurly-burly of the office tour a thousand years ago, back when I’d thought I might get a vice presidency myself.
I swallow my anger. Marcus is just a guy like me, doing a job. And today, he’s probably here to ask for mine.
We shake hands, and I fake a smile.
“We just stopped by to get your projections, as we talked about last week.”
“Projections?”
“You said you were on schedule and under budget.”
I understand his words, but they don’t make sense. When I talked to Marcus, he’d been gathering information from Mason’s candidates for vice president of Land Acquisition. It was kind of like a live resume, or a reality show contest. Whoever looked best, with the best credentials, won. But Marcus must not have missed the memo: I’m now persona non grata in Mason James’s eyes … or at least persona not worth trusting with real responsibility, like that of a company VP.
“Sure,” I say, handing him a folder. I copied the documents in more certain times — happier times, when I’d still thought I was a candidate. They’ve been sitting atop my desk for days, neatly collated and ready for delivery.
“I’ll run these back after lunch,” he says.
But earlier, he said we. And now he’s saying I.
“Who’s with you?” I ask. Because it’s Mason. I’m sure it’s Mason, because even if they’re still pretending I have a shot at the VP job, Mason would want to check up on me. Because I’m that irresponsible, and need to be watched like a child.
But he doesn’t need to answer, because now I can see Marcus’s car through the doorway.
It’s not Mason.
Standing beside the car, looking like she doesn’t want to be here any more than I want her to be, is Riley James.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Riley
THE LOOK BRANDON GIVES ME from the office trailer chills me even in the warm air. I’m wearing the most professional outfit Phoebe could find, and it’s suitable for a meeting with any number of stodgy feminist groups. But still I feel like I’m standing here naked, all of my girl parts visible for Brandon to stare at.
I feel intimidated by his gaze. I feel like I’m being judged. I feel like he’s staring at this strange nakedness I’d swear is real, but he’s not turned on; he’s embarrassed for me instead. He’s looking down on me, like a fool. This isn’t like entering a man’s bedroom naked, it’s like walking into a big room full of people while not wearing clothes.
I want to cover myself up. I want to turn away.
Instead, I stay where I am, trying not to look directly at him or away. Every little gesture and movement of my body feels deliberate, and not in a good way. Would a person who didn’t care about being here cross her legs and lean back? Or would she stand ramrod straight, as if on review? Should I go forward to show him that none of this is a big deal, or should I start sniffing around the job site as if searching for loose ends?
I went to bat for Brandon, and still he’s looking at me like he has no idea. His stare says he hates me. Like he blames me for everything, and not just what happened since the weekend. My family was rich, and his was poor. I had both parents once, and kept a father, whereas he probably knew neither. I’ve never had to do more than say please to get what I wanted, while Brandon always had to slave away for weeks and months and years.
I’m everything he’s always struggled against.
And as I stand next to this expensive car in my lady-suit, I find there’s nothing I can do to make myself less hateful. If I’m stoic, I’m sure he’ll feel I’m here to judge him — which, if you read between the lines of what Marcus probably just told him, is exactly what I’m here to do. But if I’m light and casual and friendly, he might think I’m still on the hook. He’ll think I’m recalling what happened between us and wanting more, which I definitely am not.