Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel (16 page)

“
Y
ou ready
?” I straighten my tie and look at Lucy.

“As ready as anyone can be for this guy,” Lucy responds, smoothing her hair. These days, I tend to refer to Halford as “the asshole,” but Lucy’s a bit more politically correct than me. Of course, she also hasn’t had to deal with him one-on-one as much as I have. Ever since The Arrest, I’ve been literally at his beck and call, running myself ragged to fulfill his every wish. All of which could have been avoided if I hadn’t missed that one, crucial meeting.

My head starts to hurt, so I focus on the crosshatch pattern on my tie. When the feeling passes, I look up and find Lucy eyeing me suspiciously.

“Are you okay?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Sorry.” Lucy crosses her arms. “You’re just not being yourself lately.”

God, now I’m snapping at Lucy? I really need to get ahold of myself.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just a little on edge.”

“Halford can do that to people,” she says, although by her expression, she clearly knows it’s not Halford that’s bothering me.

“Well, no sense in delaying the inevitable,” I sigh and reach for the doorknob. “Let’s get this party started.”

Inside, Halford is already situated in his massive office chair, which was wheeled in especially for him. He’s reclining with his feet up on the table, coffee in hand.

“Jackson, good to see you. On time and everything.” The jab is intentional. “Have a seat. Kelly,” he waves to his assistant hovering nearby, “get this man whatever he wants. Espresso? Scotch?”

“Black coffee would be great,” I tell her.

As usual, Halford does not greet Lucy, nor does he offer her anything to drink. Wordlessly, she pulls up a chair beside me.

“Kelly, would you mind getting Lucy a coffee, too?” I ask, looking straight at Halford. “She takes it with cream and sugar.”

“Certainly, sir.” Kelly nods and bustles out of the room, her short skirt swishing behind her. Halford watches until the door shuts and then turns his attention back to me.

“So, what do you have for me today, Jackson?”

Today we’re choosing contractors, or, more accurately, Halford is voting contractors “off the island.” Two weeks ago, I brought him a list of thirty-five local and national contractors. We spent that meeting whittling down the list to fifteen. Today, the goal is one.

“They all look so same-y,” he comments, flipping through my presentation: fifty-five pages of slides that are the culmination of two weeks’ worth of work—two weeks and more ramen noodles than I care to count. He pauses about midway through. “Garcia Constructing?” He pulls the page out of the packet, crumples it, and tosses it on the table. “Looks too mom and pop. They ain’t building my mall.”

My jaw clenches, but I keep my cool.

Just pick one
, I beg silently,
so I can get the fuck out of here.

Two hours later, we’re down to five contractors. Papers are strewn all over the table, and it’s a wonder I haven’t torn my hair out of my head, but at least we’re down to five, and that’s good enough for today. It’ll have to be, because I have other work to do.

“I think we’ve made good progress,” I tell Halford as Lucy and I gather all of the discarded papers. “Let’s sleep on it, and I’ll have Lucy set up a meeting for next week so we can make our final selection.”

We say our goodbyes, shake hands, and are nearly out the door when Halford’s voice comes from behind.

“One last thing, Jackson, before you go.”

I turn.

“What was the final decision on the waterfall? Did we wind up going with that, or the fountain?”

I look at his smug face and feel my teeth grind down against each other.

That. Fucking. Waterfall.

“The fountain, Halford. It was always the fountain.”

His face remains impassive, but there’s no way he doesn’t remember this. We’ve talked about it at literally every meeting. Does he do this intentionally?

Lucy touches my sleeve, but I shake her off.

“We never considered a waterfall, Halford, despite how many times you bring it up, because it’s literally not possible with the design
you
chose.”

Still his expression remains blank. It’s as if he’s implying
Yes, and . . . ?
I swallow hard, intending to stop myself, but one more look at his face and I think
fuck it.

“You hired me for my expertise, right?” He offers no answer, so I barrel on. “Well, then you should trust that when I say it can’t be done, it can’t. Be. Done. Jesus. Are you this much of an asshole to everyone, or just to me because I missed one goddamned meeting?”

The room is silent, magnifying the sound of my heavy breathing. Lucy is frozen in place, staring at me in horror. I, likewise, am stiff as a board, waiting for a reaction. Blowback. Something.

Halford stares at me for what feels like an eternity. Then, he throws back his head and laughs big, raucous, bellyfuls of laughter.

“Jackson, I have to applaud you,” he says once he’s calmed down. “You finally stepped up to the plate. I’ve been waiting for this for months.”

My jaw slackens. What is he talking about?

“All my life, people have bowed and scraped, trying to please me—all because I have money and they don’t.” He leans back and crosses his arms. “Money is power, Jackson. You know that. I know that. And I don’t wield my power lightly.”

No kidding
, I want to say.
Because you’re an asshole
. Fortunately, this time I keep my mouth shut.

“However, throughout this whole project, you’ve pushed back. You care about the goddamned shopping mall more than you care about giving me every bell and whistle I ask for. I admire that.” He gives me what could almost pass for a smile. “I respect a man who can stand up for what he believes. Even when I don’t agree.”

Seeing my surprise, he shrugs dismissively.

“Sure, I’ll admit it: I egged you on. I wanted to see how far I could push you. But I guess even polite, reasonable guys like you have their breaking point.”

I can’t form words. This guy was jerking my chain the whole time? Because he . . . respects me? It makes absolutely no sense.

Seeing my lips open and close wordlessly, Lucy jumps in. “Jackson is a good guy,” she agrees, “and he cares deeply about every project his firm undertakes. He always puts the good of the project ahead of his own personal preferences, and sometimes, even, the preferences of his client.”

“It always works,” I finally manage to blurt out. “The project always turns out exactly how the client wants, even when they don’t know it’s what they want until it’s finished.”

Halford merely shrugs and nods.

“So we’ll pick the final contractor next week,” I tell him, anxious to get out before I ruin the moment, “and with that in place, we should be able to break ground by June.” Giving a final good-bye nod, I reach for the door handle. Yet, as I push the door open, I hear his voice again, lower this time.

“I still ain’t having no amateur contractors working on my mall. So, you best bring a few more options.”

I stop in shock and look back.

No smile, no smirk; he’s not joking.

Lucy hurries me out of the office.

O
n an ordinary Thursday
, or at least an ordinary Thursday two weeks ago, I’d be at the Library. It would be smack in the middle of my shift, and I’d be balancing trays of sandwiches and drinks, smiling at everyone around me. However, it’s not two Thursdays ago, and I don’t work at the Library anymore. Instead, I am sitting inside a beige cubicle, in a square windowless room, facing off against one big, blank spreadsheet.

The room is silent but for the tap-tap-tapping of fingers against keyboards and the occasional ring of a telephone. No one ever raises their voice; in fact, I sometimes go hours without hearing a human voice at all. I would give anything to hear Cash make a joke to a customer, hear Cassie giggle at something Ryder said. But I haven’t seen any of them since I quit the Library.

I didn’t intend to quit. In fact, part of me couldn’t believe that Jackson and I weren’t just going to make up. Every day I worked, I kept thinking he’d come by and apologize, and I’d apologize, and we’d have the most amazing makeup sex, maybe behind the bar, after closing, or in his car . . . .

But he didn’t text.

He didn’t call.

And he didn’t show up.

Then, one day, when I was working at the Library, he walked in, saw me, and walked right back out. That was the day I finally quit. Unfortunately for me, that was the same week Yoga Shunya decided to cut back my classes. Three yoga classes a week aren’t enough to pay my rent, never mind the debt I accrued from my medical bills. And debt collectors don’t look very kindly on debtors who quit their jobs. So, ironically enough, Jackson ended up being right: it was time to grow up and get a “real job.”

Which is how I came to sit in this silent beige box with these silent beige people.

The lower right-hand corner of my computer screen blinks, indicating a time change. Two o’clock. Two hours past when I should have eaten lunch. But I haven’t eaten a proper lunch all week. It’s been all I can do these days to force down a granola bar or a glass of juice.

The consequences of a broken heart, I suppose.

Two o’clock also means that there are only three hours left until I can flee this place. One hundred and eighty minutes. Ten thousand eight hundred seconds.

“Skylar.”

I jump at the sound of my name. Behind me, Tyler is leaning up against the edge of my cubicle, arms crossed. He might be cute if he dressed better and didn’t wear those awful horn-rimmed glasses. Oh, and if he didn’t always have a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s twenty-three, literally right out of college, and they made him a manager already. A manager of one: me. Lucky guy.

“How are those schedules coming along? You gonna have them for me by end of day?”

“Yeah, Tyler. That’s what you asked for, right? I’ll have them.”

“Great.” He leans against the edge of my cubicle wall, in what he seems to think is a casual pose. In reality, he looks like he’s about to fall over. “The typing’s getting easier, right? I’m telling you, home row.” He mimes typing a-s-d-f-j-k-l-semicolon in the air.

“I’m practicing.”

“Good. Did you get those letters copied? That should be good practice.”

“Not yet.” In fact, the pile of handwritten letters on my desk has not shrunk by one single sheet.

“Well,” he nods sagely, “better get on that.”

As I stare at the pile, the air starts to feel thicker. I try to take deep breaths, but my throat keeps sticking. This could be the rest of my life: staring at colorless walls, sitting beside colorless people, heating my colorless food in the colorless microwave. Digitizing letters. Practicing a-s-d-f-j-k-l-semicolon. My stomach starts to turn.

“Are you ok?” Tyler asks, peering at my face. “You look kind of pale.”

“I . . . I think I need some air.”

Before he can respond, I grab my purse and bolt. I don’t wait for the elevator; instead I crash through the fire door, taking the stairs two at a time. Ten floors below, I burst out into the afternoon sun, sucking in air as though I’ve been suffocating.

This can’t be what the rest of my life looks like. I won’t survive it.

Crossing the street, I lean against a tree and pull out my phone. I have to talk to someone. I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy for wanting to flee a job I’ve only had for two weeks.

Shelby.

Pause at her name, hovering my thumb over the call button. Shelby has a good mix of practicality and fun; I can’t see her putting up with misery for long, but she has a proper job and doesn’t seem too reckless. She’ll have good advice. Only problem is, I landed her brother in jail a few short weeks ago. And blood is always thicker than water.

However, I don’t have many other options. I love Missy to pieces, but she and practicality aren’t exactly close companions; she’d tell me I was crazy for entertaining this corporate gig in the first place.
You ain’t cut out for that nine-to-five shit
, she’d say.
You better off flippin’ burgers. Or you could come back to Lace . . . .

Finally, I send Shelby a text.

Mini life crisis. You around to talk? If you don’t hate me, that is.

Her response comes immediately.

Don’t be silly. Can you come to me?

Thirty minutes later, we’re sitting across from each other at Kola Cup, a cozy, hipster coffee shop right around the corner from her office. The tables are made from refurbished barn doors, and the barista responded with “right on,” when I ordered my Chai soy latte, which I’m now staring at in disgust. The thought of swallowing anything feels revolting, just like it has all week. Meanwhile, Shelby is diving headfirst into her extra-large caramel macchiato with double whip cream.

“That thing is monstrous,” I laugh nervously, watching her lick white froth off the top of her drink. I still don’t know how she feels about any of what went down with me and Jackson, and her neutral expression is giving me no clues. She didn’t hug me when she walked in, but she also didn’t slap me, either.

“So what’s the deal?” she asks, taking a long sip and looking at me. “What sort of crisis are we facing?”

She said “we.” That’s a good sign.

“Well, I just walked out on my job.”

“You just—wait, what job?”

“Admin for Lockhart Fidelity. That was a big reason why I had to quit serving at the Library.” That, and the fact that Jackson and I can’t ever be in the same room again. Minor detail.

“Oh. Well I’d say congrats, but . . . .” She frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything.” I’m choking up again, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “How can anyone work in a place like that? It’s soulless, like a big black hole, only beige—I’ve never seen that much beige in my life. Even the people are beige! They’re all middle-class bores who sit contentedly at their boring computers and type random shit all day like identical brainless robots.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.

“It’s like I can feel my entire life dripping away, one awful second at a time.”

Shelby nods knowingly, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. “Corporate America—not always the most vibrant of settings. I’m surprised you took that job in the first place.”

“I had to!”

She raises an eyebrow, and I take another deep breath. Guess she doesn’t know the whole story.

“Look, I guess Jackson didn’t tell you everything, but we had a huge fight outside the police station. He told me I was being irresponsible—among lots of other things—and I realized he’s right. Eventually, everyone does have to grow up. Settle down. Get a real job.”
Eventually
being when they can’t pay their rent or their medical bills.

Shelby is about to say something, but a steamer hisses loudly in the background, drowning her out. I take the opportunity to try and force down a sip of my chai. It tastes like glue.

“Fair enough,” she says once the noise subsides. “Your brain seems like it’s in the right place. But what about your heart?”

My heart is somewhere back on that police station pavement, shattered into a million tiny shards. But we’re talking about work—not Jackson.

“My heart’s definitely not in this job . . . or any job like it.”

“Okay.” She rubs her chin thoughtfully. “Have you thought about other options? What about opening your own dance studio?”

I open my mouth to protest, but Shelby puts out a hand to stop me.

“Seriously, Skylar, I think you’d be really good at it. You’re a fantastic yoga teacher, and I’m sure you’d be even better with dance. Plus, there aren’t many dance studios in the Atlanta area, so there wouldn’t be nearly the same level of competition as with yoga.”

My own dance studio.

For a second, I let myself indulge in the fantasy: beautiful sprung timber floors, shining wall-to-wall mirrors. Boys and girls streaming in with big eyes and bigger dreams. I can picture their faces now, all focused on me as I demonstrate a plié. First position. A pirouette. My toes curl at the thought.

But then the clang of a cash register brings me crashing back to reality.

“That all sounds great, Shelby, but opening a dance studio is a huge commitment—and a huge risk. I mean, where would I even get the startup money?”

Shelby waves her hand dismissively. “Money is the last thing you need to worry about.”

“Shelby, I do have to worry about money.” I examine my fingernails, all bitten to the quick, and then look up at her. “I’m barely making ends meet as it is. The truth is that I can’t even afford to quit this insurance job, however much I hate it. Never mind trying to start a whole new business.”

“What about yoga? Aren’t you still doing that?”

“They cut back my hours.” I attempt another sip of chai and then push it away, finally giving up.

“Can you try talking to them?” She frowns and swirls her straw in her cup. “I’m sure you can work something out. Or else find another studio. But you can’t stay at that insurance job. If it’s making you miserable, it’s not worth it.”

“Okay.”

It’s a relief to have her reassurance, but I’m not confident that teaching more yoga is the solution. I’d have to teach twenty classes a week just to pay for rent and food, never mind all my medical debt. I shouldn’t even have bought this chai, really. Especially since I’m not drinking it.

Glancing toward the front of the shop, I spy a woman sitting alone by the window. She’s hunched over her laptop, typing furiously, shoulders tense, brow furrowed.

I can’t do it. I can’t go back.

“Skylar?” Shelby is studying me intently as she sucks the last of her beverage from the bottom of her cup. “I’m totally serious about doing whatever makes you happy. It doesn’t have to be the dance studio, but don’t write that off just because of money. Money’s just an obstacle—it can be overcome.”

My skepticism must be apparent, because she leans in and touches my hand. “Whatever it is you truly want, Skylar, you’ll get it. I’m sure of it.”

Is she talking about Jackson? I study her earnest face.

“How do you even—”

“I just know, okay?” She gives my hand a squeeze. “You’re strong, and brave, and you have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t do anything that makes you unhappy.”

Without warning, tears start to stream from my eyes. She looks so much like him, and now she sounds so much like him. Strong. Brave. All things he thought about me before I went and fucked everything up.

When I withdraw my hand to wipe my eyes, I hear Shelby sigh.

“I know you’re not crying over this job.”

I laugh through my tears and shake my head. “I’m not. But it’s over between us. I ruined it. He’s never going to forgive me, and I can’t really blame him.”

“Never say never.” Shelby stands and stacks my cup inside hers. “My brother can be a stubborn son of a bitch sometimes, and he definitely got my mom’s temper. But don’t worry. He always comes around on the important stuff.”

The important stuff. I guess that makes me important—at least to her.

As we make our way toward the door, she tosses the cups into the trash, and I give the hunched, tense woman by the window one last glance. She looks so unhappy. I wonder if her heart is broken, too.

Shelby and I hug in the parking lot, her rubbing my back, me sucking in the thick spring air, trying to keep from crying again. Shelby has clearly forgiven me, but no matter what she says, I don’t think she’s right about Jackson. She wasn’t there; she didn’t see his face. He’s shut me out completely this time. And it’s all my fault. He’s never coming back.