Just For Now (A Flirting With Trouble Novel) (6 page)

“Words aren’t exactly a crime, Rainey,” he finally says, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, if he’s a total dick, that sucks, but it’s pretty hard to prosecute.”

I shake my head. “In this case, it’s leading to some self-harm behaviors. She got her ass kicked by some kids at school and this Jimmy prick essentially told her she deserved it.”

“What a dick,” Smith mutters. I inhale deeply, then nod.

“Pretty much.”

“Look, I can see what I can sniff out about him, okay?” Smith stretches his arms up over his head, then drops them to his sides. “If I hear anything you can use or that you should know, I’ll tell you. But, look, I gotta be honest—a lot of parents have trouble with their kids. This Jimmy guy might be a total asshole, but he also might just be a disliked stepparent.”

I nod, although I don’t technically believe what he’s saying. I know that Charlie is dealing with someone who hates her as a her and probably didn’t like her as a him all that much, either.

“Thank you.” I smile. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

But Smith isn’t looking at me anymore. A glance over my shoulder reveals who he’s staring at with that goofy expression of awe all over his face. Cyn is standing at the bar with Carson and Wyatt. She’s laughing and, when she looks over at us, shoots a wink in our direction.

My friends. My best friends. They’re so damn happy that I’d probably hate them if I didn’t love them so much.

I just want to feel that same level of happiness. I just want to find someone who will watch me across the room and see me as the most beautiful, most sexy, most gorgeous woman alive.

And if that’s too much to ask, maybe I can just score someone who considers me “every college freshman’s wet dream.”

Might be a little less poetic, but it sure as fuck doesn’t make it any less hot.

Part Two

Chapter Seven

The first few weeks of Charlie’s internship are the best and worst thing to happen to my super-crazy boss crush.

It’s the best because Charlie keeps me occupied. She’s adorable and a hard worker. She loves the preschoolers and will volunteer to do anything with them. And they, in turn, love her back so freely, so openly, that it’s a joy to watch.

But it’s the worst thing because it keeps Owen and me apart. For the rest of his first week, he’s mostly out of the building anyway. He has a handful of budget meetings and annual staffing reviews, not to mention the trainings that Remy had already scheduled ahead of time. Multiply that with my new assistant being around constantly and it’s given us just about zero time to talk.

“I want to buy boots,” Charlie says. She’s had her face buried in her phone all afternoon, and, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t convince her to do locker room duty without throwing some cash in her direction. I can’t really blame her. The locker rooms are perpetually gross.

“What kind of boots?” I ask. I’m admittedly distracted. Charlie sighs.

“Uggs, I think. There are these kinds you can design yourself. I think they’re totally adorable.”

“That’s a good idea,” I say, but I’m only half paying attention. I’m shuffling through a stack of grant applications with deadlines due within the month. There haven’t been a lot of budget meetings lately, but today Owen went to the first one in at least six months. Last time Remy attended, he said there was huge talk about closing a few of the less-money-friendly centers. Some of the more suburban centers bring in a lot more money than we do. Their preschools and organized programing are huge factors. We just keep applying for grants and hoping we stay afloat.

“I wish I had a place I could keep all my stuff,” Charlie says quietly. She scrolls along her screen. “If I actually managed to afford these Uggs, my stepdad would totally set them on fire. Or give them to his daughter.”

I look up then, blinking at my new intern.

“Things aren’t any better? At home,?”

She shrugs. “I mean, they aren’t horrible or anything. I’m mostly ignored. But Jimmy—he always talks about me to my mom and uses guy pronouns all the time. ‘Charlie is such a problem. HE needs to grow up. HE needs to get a job. HE needs to move out.’”

I frown.

“You’re fifteen. Where are you supposed to be moving to?”

She shrugs again. “Dunno.”

A succinct, but effective, response. I purse my lips and look back down at the papers in front of me.

Twenty-five-thousand-dollar grants available to nonprofit organizations for after-school or out-of-school youth programing, primarily youth-centered programs which facilitate safe environments for at-risk populations.

Which gives me a very half-baked, but very persistent idea.

“Hey, Charlie?” I ask, the words slow and methodical.

“Yeah?”

“What if you were able to keep your stuff here?”

She looks up, her blue eyes wide—probably looking a little wider with the cobalt liner carefully drawn around them.

“You mean, like, have a room?”

I grin. “Probably not. But what if there were a safe space for you to lock up belongings that matter to you? Is that something you’d take advantage of?”

“Um, yeah!” Charlie says, nodding enthusiastically. “I tried that with my locker at school but it was busted and my lock didn’t work. If I could keep stuff here, I would totally do that.”

I narrow my eyes and look up at the ceiling. Grant money isn’t going to come to me for one kid I’m managing to help. Grant money is only coming to me if I can help a significant portion of people.

“Do you have friends at school that are like you?” I ask Charlie, looking back at her. She chews on her thumbnail as she considers my question.

“I mean . . . like, they’re like me how?”

I stand up and walk over to the front of my desk, leaning back against it.

“Like you in the sense that they don’t have a safe space to call their own—at school or at home.”

Charlie snorts. Literally.

“Uh, yeah, you could say that.”

I raise a brow.

“Meaning?”

She spins around on her rolling chair.

“Meaning that there have to be at least—God, I don’t know—fifty people who hate life as much as I usually do. I mean, they might not be transitioning, but they sure as shit hate who they are now.”

“Language, Charlie,” I admonish, but it’s a halfhearted version of scolding. I’ve already moved on in my mind to logistics. Where could I create a safe space for teens? What would I call it? How would we publicize it?

“Rainey?”

“Hmm?” I’m staring off into space, but I refocus on Charlie. She’s got her face tilted up and a small smile plays at her lips.

“If this were a safe place—for lots of people, not just me . . . they’d come here. Like, my friends and classmates and stuff? They’d come here every day.”

That’s enough incentive for me.

***

“So, let me make sure I’m following.”

Owen leans back in the plastic chair in the preschool classroom, which makes him look like a giant. It would be hilarious if I weren’t singularly focused on his reaction to my proposal.

“You want to apply for a grant that will allow us to open a what now?”

“A Safe Space,” I supply. “I mean, we don’t have to call it that, but that is what I was brainstorming. It would be a spot especially for older, high-school-age students. They would each be provided with a locker or some kind of locked space where they can keep things that are valuable and meaningful to them. They’d have a contract they sign—like a rental agreement or something.”

“And why would we do that?” Owen asks, eyebrows raised.

I sit on the windowsill and glance out over my shoulder at a group of boys playing street ball on our not-so-regulation basketball courts. The weather has been so warm lately that the kids have been spending more and more time outside instead of in. I watch them for a long moment—the pure joy on their faces, the perspiration on their brows. I like to think they’re more alive and happy when they’re here. I want to give them a reason to stay.

So, that’s what I say to Owen.

“I want to give them a reason to come here every day. We have snacks, we have a pool, we have basketball courts. After that, what do we have? Seriously? What can we offer them?”

Owen shrugs.

“I like snacks.”

I give him a look and he holds up both hands.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I was kidding. No, I think it’s a good idea. There is absolutely no money for this long term. We’d definitely need the grant. But if you can keep costs down, I think you could go ahead and start working on a basic proposal. Maybe start pitching it to the kids and see how they react.”

“Seriously?” I ask, eyes wide. He tilts his head to one side.

“Did you really think I’d say no? It’s a good idea and it’s good for the population.”

I nod slowly. “No, I know . . . I guess I figured your budget meetings would have us cutting corners all over the damn place.”

“Oh,” Owen says. He stands up and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Well, Remy gave you budget guidance in the past, right? Just be careful about expenses.”

“Can I use the county card?”

Owen blinks.

“You have a county card?”

I nod. “Remy had one made for me since I did most of the purchasing . . . Is that not okay?”

Owen shrugs. “I don’t know, honestly. I’ve got a budget meeting this week. I’ll find out for sure. But as long as you don’t spend more than you usually do for programs, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

I’m so incredibly thrilled, but I don’t say anything to Charlie for fear that things won’t work out. In fact, I force myself not to even do online research until she’s left for the afternoon with promises to be back here right after school tomorrow. Once she’s left for the day, I feel like my work can actually begin.

It’s dark when I finally manage to look up from my work and take stock of my surroundings.

“Shit—what time is it?” I say aloud to no one. The rest of the staff is long gone, and I stretch my arms over my head before glancing at the wall clock. Almost seven. Jesus. Since when do I stick around work this long?

There was a time when I’d go out with the girls on a Thursday night—a time when I’d be the first one at the bar at happy hour and the last person to leave, and rarely leave alone. Now, honestly, I’m not even sure I like going to the bar anymore. Most of the time, it comes in second to binge-watching
Orange Is the New Black
and eating cereal right out of the box.

Cyn and Carson were my wing-women. Then Cyn met Smith and started her teaching job. Then Carson and Wyatt fell crazy in love. And then I . . . I started staying at work two hours later than necessary. I did the thing people do when they’re lonely and alone. I’ve completely immersed myself in my work.

I don’t know if I’m sad or impressed.

My parents say I’m wasting my time here, but nights like tonight? As I shut down my computer, with hours of research under my belt, I wish they could see me. See my commitment. Yes, I was born with silver spoons all over the damn place, but I never drank the Kool-Aid. I never relied on the money my parents threw around—not since I realized the strings that were attached to every dollar they spent.

I glance down at my phone.

No texts. No messages. No Facebook notifications. I don’t even have a pet that needs me to feed it back at home.

And something about that statement—about going back to that empty apartment? I just can’t face it today. Not yet.

I walk through the dark office and into the small staff bathroom. There’s a bin of bathing suits we’ve got for teaching lessons. I find one in my size and change into it. It’s a tight red one-piece, a little more restrictive on the tits than I’d like, considering they’re practically spilling out of the scoop-neck top.

The burden of a great rack—what can I say?

I remove my shoes and pad down the hall, turning on a couple lights as I go. The pool is treated with chemicals on Friday nights, so I know I’m good to swim, even if it’s technically been locked up for the night. The way I figure it, access to an indoor pool is a bonus of the job that I very rarely ever take advantage of.

I make it to the main pool doors and I realize that no one’s locked them. I walk over to the women’s locker room entrance and realize they’re still open, too. I roll my eyes. I don’t know who was on duty tonight, but someone definitely dropped the ball.

I’m halfway through the locker room, cursing at the anonymous non-closer, when I hear something. I stop in my tracks and listen.

It’s water.

I take a few steps forward, then stop again.

A splash.

Fuck. Someone’s swimming.

I feel my stomach drop to my knees. We’ve had break-ins before—usually people looking for the nonexistent cash they think might actually be at a youth center. But there’s clearly someone here tonight, and that someone is swimming.

I creep around the sinks to the exit, leaning up against the cold cinder block wall and breathing as slowly and as quietly as I can manage. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and I consider heading back to my office to grab my phone. Instead, I manage to get enough balls to glance around the corner and out at the main pool area.

At first, I don’t see anyone. I squint through the shadows and notice some rippling in the water. Then a dark head emerges from beneath. I still can’t make out features yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s a guy.

He’s swimming laps, I realize. Back and forth along the lanes painted on the bottom of the pool. We don’t have actual ropes or formed lanes like at private pools, but you’re still able to maintain something remotely athletic.

I start to inch forward, perplexed. The average person who breaks and enters probably isn’t the lap-swimming type. Which is when I notice the pile of clothes on one side of the pool, the black Converse sneakers piled on top of blue jeans and an orange BYC polo shirt. The realization blooms over me just as the dark head resurfaces.

The person in the pool is Owen. My boss, Owen, is half-naked and wet, sliding through the water with graceful strokes.

I open my mouth to say something aloud, then snap it shut. Owen—again, Owen, my boss—presses his hands against the edge of the pool and, with a grace I’ve certainly never had, pushes up out of the pool. The water sluices down his body and I almost swallow my damn tongue.

I’m standing there in my suit—shoeless, towel-less, and staring—when Owen glances up and sees me. For a long second we both just freeze, looking at one another in complete surprise.

Then a smile—the kind that’s a force of nature—spreads out over Owen’s face. And something deep inside me begins to melt.

“You caught me,” he says, reaching around to rub a hand over his hair self-consciously.

“Caught you?” I ask dumbly. He nods.

“I figured it would be a good way to start getting some exercise. I hope that’s not totally weird.”

I shake my head, trying to give him an answer that isn’t just staring at him with my tongue lolling out of my mouth.

“Not weird,” I finally say. Apparently I’m limited to two-word answers tonight.

He glances back at the water, then over at me.

“So, do you want to join me?”

I close my eyes briefly. I know this is a bad idea. I’m absolutely sure of it. And that doesn’t stop me from nodding and moving toward him.

I need this moment of reckless abandon.

I need to make a terrible decision and live to regret it.

I need to feel alive.

“Absolutely,” I finally say. Then I dive into the water without looking back.