Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (104 page)

“How’d you do?” I ask.

“Were you not paying
attention?” Wilks beams. “I talked him down a full twenty percent from his
original asking price.”

“Well done,” I tell him
and cautiously pat him on the back.

“So, any other lessons
before our next stop?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I tell him.
“Lesson number five: Whatever you do, do not get on the bad side of a fishmonger.”

His confidence is
sufficiently elevated to the point where he’s finally willing to ask the
question: “Are all your lessons haikus?”

“I knew I liked you
Wilks,” I tell him and we finish off the rest of our daily buys with relative
ease.

After everything’s taken
care of, I walk the new exec back to his building, giving him further lessons
and miscellaneous advice on the way.

“Are you on tonight?” he
asks as we approach his building.

“I’m on the schedule,” I
tell him, “but look, something’s kind of going on and I might need to have
someone cover me. Is that all right?”

“Paulson, after
everything you’ve done for me, I think you’ve earned another night.”

“Thanks,” I tell him and
shake the hand Martin hadn’t touched. “Oh, by the way, Wilks…”

“Yeah?”

“Lesson ten: Never give
your sous chef a night off when he asks. He can't be trusted.”

He has no idea how to
react, but seems to take the lesson in good humor. Of course, when he tries to
weasel out of giving me the night off, I gently remind him that not only did he
already authorize it, he shook my hand.

I leave him with, “Lesson
six: Handshakes are how you get what you want and make sure you hang onto it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he says.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I turn around and there
she is, leaning against the pole of the stoplight on the corner.

This shit’s got to stop
and it’s got to stop now, before it has a chance to escalate.

“Wrigley,” I say as I
approach her. “What
are
the chances
that you’d just be standing here at the exact moment I’m walking by?”

“They’re pretty good, I
would imagine,” she says, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Have you gotten your
head out of your ass yet?”

“Nah,” I tell her. “It’s
warm and cozy in there if you don’t mind the smell.”

“Clever,” she says
humorlessly. “You know, it is common courtesy not to dump the woman you just
started a relationship with, even if she tells you to explore things with
someone else.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s
not a thing,” I tell her.

“Oh yeah?” she asks,
blowing her next drag in my face. “What makes you think that?”

“Way too convoluted and,
you know, dripping with crazy.”

“Don’t you think it’s a
little fucked up how often men call the women in their life crazy?” she asks.
“If every woman who was called crazy was actually crazy, I’m pretty sure we’d
have a lot more axe murders.”

“What do you want?” I
ask.

“Only what’s due me,” she
says.

“And what is due you?”

“Do me,” she says. “I get
tense as shit if I don’t have a good lay and you, my dear, couldn’t have ducked
out at a worse time.”

“Just find someone else,”
I tell her. “That’s never been a problem for you before.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re
casting some kind of weak ass moral judgment on me for enjoying sex,” she
scoffs.

“Not at all,” I tell her.
“I’d have no room to talk. It’s a serious suggestion.”

“I don’t want to fuck
anyone else right now,” she says. “That may change, but as for right now, I
want to fuck you.”

The small group of people
waiting for the light to change takes a step or two away from us.

“I’m very flattered,” I
tell her, “really, I am. But I’m seeing someone else now. You’ve got to move
on.”

“That option’s really not
on the table at the moment,” she says. “By all means, screw your roommate to
your heart’s content, but don’t pretend like you’re the saint in this
conversation.”

“I don’t think either one
of us is ‘the saint,’” I answer. “You don’t really think you’re going to get me
to cheat on Leila with you by stalking me, do you?”

“I’m not stupid, Dane,”
she says. “I’m just planting seeds.”

“What does that even
mean?”

She flicks her cigarette
into the group waiting for the light. “You’ll figure it out,” she says. Without
a nod of acknowledgement for her crassness, she starts walking away, turning
back just long enough to call out, “Sooner or later, they always figure it
out!”

Chapter Nineteen

Exaltation
with Just a Pinch of Denial

Leila

It’s my last day at the
office and nobody but Annabeth could give a crap.

Well, that’s not entirely
true. Kidman did offer to go down on me as a going away present. The mental
picture makes me vomit a little in my mouth, but hey, it’s the thought that
counts, right?

Right now, I’m a little
over halfway done with Atkinson’s final laundry list of menial tasks. I just
finished walking his lucky ferret—yeah, the man has a ferret which he not only
considers lucky, but actually brings into the office whenever there’s an
important meeting—and am now on my way to see if I can, “figure out what the
hell is wrong with that fax machine.”

I have absolutely no
skills with anything technical like this, but my feeble attempts should buy me
a good half hour before he finally tells me to just call maintenance.

I tried calling
maintenance first once when his monitor started flickering.

That was the day I found
out that Atkinson, though otherwise intimidating, screams like a girl when you
get him really, really mad.

Tonight is going to be
Dane and my second attempt at an actual date.

After he told me what
happened with Wrigley outside his new executive chef’s building earlier today,
though, it’s apparent that we’re going to have to get a little creative.

That is, if this
interminable day ever comes to an end.

After fifteen minutes
spent literally poking and prodding Atkinson’s fax machine, I decide to give up
a little early and let maintenance deal with it.

My next stop is to
collect the third page of Atkinson’s last memo from everyone on this floor and
replace it with a new copy.

I’m not doing this
because there was some sort of new policy or significant change. I’m doing this
because in line thirty-six—that is, fourth paragraph from the top, second
sentence—he inserted a hyphen where it didn’t belong.

The offending pair was
“boiling-over.”

Never to fear, though,
soon everyone will have the copy which rightfully has the phrase as “boiling
over,” and I am perfectly confident that no one would ever have noticed. Even
if they did, I am certain nobody would have cared.

As I look at the clock,
though, my mood lightens.

Only a few more hours and
I will forever be free of this cluster fuck.

(I think Dane is starting
to rub off on me.)

I hand out the third page
of the memo to everyone in the office, making sure to collect the old versions.
Atkinson will check my work when I’m done.

This is not speculation.

Kidman’s is the last one,
and I motion to Annabeth that it’s time for the fireworks.

She creeps to the side of
Mr. Kidman’s doorway. I knock and let myself in.

“Mr. Kidman,” I start,
“Mr. Atkinson has asked me to replace page three of today’s memo. Do you happen
to have it handy?”

“I’m sure I can find it
here somewhere,” he says. “You know, I think I must have tucked it down the
front of my pants. Why don’t you be a dear and help me pull it out?”

“You know,” I tell him,
“I saved your page for last. Would you like to know why?”

He straightens his tie
and says, “Because you’re finally ready to get that raise?” he asks. To ensure
there’s no miscommunication, he grabs his crotch.

“No,” I tell him. “I
saved yours for last because I finally did something that I really, really
should have done a long time ago.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

“I learned the finer
points of your particular severance plan and contract with the company.”

“Oh?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I tell him.
“Apparently, it’s a pretty standard document. I talked to one of the lawyers
here, just to make sure—”

“Wait,” he says, “how did
you get access to that?”

“I’m an intern,” I tell
him. “I work with important papers all the time. Anyway,” I continue, “it turns
out that you only get severance if you’re not fired for
cause
. While it is true that whoever drew this up gave you a lot of
latitude regarding what constitutes cause, in section 18c of the agreement, it
clearly states that sexual harassment, as it is against both state and federal
civil law, is cause for immediate termination, forfeiture on your part of
severance rights, profit-sharing, and about ten other things I didn’t really
take the time to look over.”

“That’s not right,” he
says. “I don’t remember anything about any section 18c.”

“Oh, Miss Lozano!” I call
out.

A moment later, my
gorgeous friend comes into the room, carrying a folder. “Why, yes, Miss Tyler?”

“Did you happen to grab
Mr. Kidman’s employment contract with this company?”

“Why, yes I did, Miss
Tyler,” she says.

She hands me the folder.

“Thank you, Miss Lozano,”
I tell her and she leaves the room.

I open the file and toss
it onto the letch’s desk.

“Don’t worry, we’ve taken
the liberty of highlighting the appropriate paragraphs,” I tell him.

“
Wha
—
Why
would you do this?”

“I think a better
question is why would you do this to us?” I ask.

“This is all he said, she
said,” he scoffs. “Nobody’s going to believe you
or
your friend. I’ve been with this company for—Mrs. Beck,” he
says, interrupting himself.

I turn to follow Kidman’s
gaze.

There, standing in the
doorway is a tall brunette, dressed in a black pantsuit.

This is my going away
present from Annabeth. And to think, I didn’t get her anything.

“I understand that’s no
longer a problem?” Mrs. Beck asks, looking at me.

I take the pen out of my
pocket and hand it to her. She presses the little button and the recording
isn’t playing for ten seconds before his career is over.

“It seems you’ve been
caught on tape,” Mrs. Beck says. “How you’ve gotten away with this shameful
behavior for so long is nothing short of astounding.”

“I have a contract!” he
shouts, rising from his desk. “You can fire me, but I get—”

“You do have a contract,”
she interrupts. “It is a contract which you have violated in such an egregious
way to do substantial harm to this company and its employees. As soon as these
women are done with you, rest assured we’ll be coming for whatever’s left. That
is, if they haven’t taken everything.”

“What women?” he asks.

Right on cue, Annabeth
calls, “Ladies!” from the other side of the doorway and over the next couple of
minutes, every woman, assistant level or lower, every woman this
 
on this floor comes in, hands a pen to Mrs.
Beck and walks back out again.

I’ve never enjoyed
watching a grown man cry so thoroughly.

I’m about to head out the
door, but realize that I’ve forgotten something.

“Sorry,” I say to Mrs.
Beck as I make my way back into the room.

I walk to Kidman’s desk
and remove page three from Atkinson’s memo. While it’s clear enough that
Kidman’s not going to need any part of it, Atkinson was adamant that I retrieve
every copy with the extraneous hyphen.

The things we choose to care
about.

I walk back out of the
room, expecting—not applause or anything—but some kind of acknowledgment that
we’ve finally brought the bastard down. True to form, though, everyone’s back
to work and no one but Annabeth even notices my presence.

*
    
               
*
                   
*

The rest of my work day
is spent finishing up favors for Atkinson. For as much commotion as there was
in Kidman’s office only a few hours ago, I leave the building without speaking
to anyone.

When I get home, the apartment
is empty.

Dane should be home by
now, but that’s all right. Now I’ll have a chance to take a quick shower and
change out of my work clothes before he gets back.

Once the water’s pouring
over me, I’m finding it difficult to imagine getting out voluntarily. I clean
myself, rinse myself and then just enjoy the water.

I start to fantasize
about Dane coming home, finding me in the shower. We have dinner reservations
at
l’Iris
, pretty much the only place either of us
believes we might have a chance avoiding a run-in with Wrigley, but I wouldn’t
mind pretending that the shower is a waterfall and that the dim light over the
sink is a sunrise.

Maybe it’s not my exact
fantasy, but it is close enough for now.

I stay in the shower
until the water starts to turn cold.

Maybe he came in and I
just didn’t hear him.

I wrap one towel around
my midsection, another around my hair, and wipe my feet on the rug before
leaving the bathroom. It may not be an imagined waterfall at sunrise, but he
can still unwrap me before we go to dinner.

I could live with that.

When he doesn’t come home
before my exposed skin has air-dried, I start to get a little nervous.

He didn’t mention any
plans today, and he assured me that he’d gotten out of work.

I walk back into the
bathroom and finish drying myself before checking my phone.

I’m sure it’s nothing.
I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent and reasonable explanation, but he’s not
answering his phone.

When the call goes to
voicemail, I hang up and try it again, walking around the apartment as it
rings, thinking maybe he simply forgot it. If it’s here, the ringer’s turned
off.

Now I’m really starting
to get worried.

Wrigley told me to keep
my head down, that she didn’t want me to get involved. I knew it was a threat,
but could she really have done something to him?

I’m just being silly and
I know it, but still, there’s that heavy pull telling me that something’s very
wrong.

Running out of places to
look, I find the number for
l’Iris
and call it.

“
l’Iris
,
please hold.”

I sit on the couch, but immediately
get back up again. I don’t really care how long they have me on hold; I can’t
relax until I know that Dane is all right.

A minute or two passes
before the line goes active again.

“I apologize for the
wait, we don’t have any open reservations for tonight, but we might be able to
squeeze you in sometime—”

“Is Dane there?” I ask.
“This is his roommate Leila. He hasn’t been home, and I’m starting to get a
little worried about him.”

“Dane?” the man with the
obviously fake accent asks.

“Dane,” I repeat. “Dane
Paulson.”

“Ah, monsieur Paulson,”
the man says. “I will check. Please hold.”

I’ve really got to tell
Dane to do something about fake accent man. It’s really annoying.

“Yes, it seems that Mr.
Paulson has the night off tonight,” the man says. “I can leave a message here
for him if you would like.”

“That won’t be
necessary,” I tell him and hang up.

Because there is
absolutely nowhere else I know to look, I try calling his phone again, but this
time it just goes straight to voicemail.

“Dane,
it’s
Leila. You’re still not home, and I’ve been trying to call you. Just give me a
call back and let me know that you’re all right, will you?”

I hang up, feeling
completely helpless.

For as much as I care for
him, there’s still so much that I don’t know about Dane. If he has friends
outside of work, he’s never mentioned them.

Come to think of it, he’s
never actually referred to any of his coworkers as friends. When he refers to
them at all, and it’s a rare occasion that he does, he never has a single nice
thing to say about any of them.

Maybe
he and I are just too different to go on pretending that this is going to work.

Maybe
he really should be with that lunatic.

I push those thoughts
aside, though, as I really don’t know where he is or what’s happening.

Realizing that there’s no
remaining scenario I can think of that would lead to a pleasant lovemaking
session, I finally put my clothes on. Once they’re on, I realize I can’t just
sit here.

I write a note and set it
on the table.

It reads simply: “Dane,
if you see this note before you see me, call. You’ve got me pretty freaked out
here, and I’m out looking for you. Leila”

I gather my keys then
double and triple check that I have my phone with me. With that, I make my way
to the door, but that’s when I hear it.