Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel

by Erin St. Charles

  Janine in Toledo

  Dear Janine:

  I can understand why you are reluctant to commit to your boyfriend. Consider the fact that bad things happen when a large group of men away from home drink too much and lack adult supervision. Do you trust your man? Has he ever given you any reason to doubt him before? What are your gut instincts, and what would give you the assurance that his love is true? Sit down with your boyfriend and talk to him about your feelings. Ask him how this happened. Was this woman sitting on anyone else's lap? Only you know whether you should believe him. Talk it out, and trust your instincts.

  Ida

  I’m not completely on board with Ida's advice. After three years, it seems to me that Janine's boyfriend should know better than to let some strange woman sit on his lap. Even with booze freely available, grown men know how to stay away from strange, half naked women. But what did I know? I hadn't had a boyfriend in ages, and even the one I had wasn't really my boyfriend after all.

  I turn on my flatscreen and tune into the news. While it plays in the background, I clear away my dishes, put my food away, and change into yoga pants and a t-shirt. I pull up the banking app on my cell phone to make a remote deposit of the check Lincoln Cooper gave me.

  I place the check on my kitchen table, but when I take a photo of the front, I realize the amount on the check is wrong. It is really wrong, to the point where there might even be an extra digit.

  The man has paid me double my already inflated rate.

  I pick up the check and frown at it. Surely, this is a mistake? I examine the check carefully. It is signed with Lincoln's slanting scrawl. In the memo line, he has written a note: See my text.

  Only, I have already deleted all of his texts, so there's nothing to see. Unless...

  I frown. I pick up my phone to see that yes, I have a new text message, sent nine minutes ago.

  6:45: Tough Customer: Please reconsider turning down this job. As you can see, I'm prepared to make this worth your while.

  He has included an emoji with an eyebrow raised, just like Stephen Colbert, the late-night television host. In my mind's eye, I can see him doing just that, and I laugh out loud. Then, I remember I'm annoyed with this man and stifle the giggle. Lincoln Cooper is too slick for his own good. He must've anticipated I would kick him out of my house and refuse to work for him any longer, but he also knew I wouldn't wait too long to deposit the check.

  “Well played, Mr. Cooper, well played,” I say out loud.

  Despite all my protestations, I'd be a fool to turn down that much cash. He knows it. I know it.

  I look at the screen of my phone. I start to type "Sure!" and decide it sounds too eager, so I delete it. I start to type a couple more times, decide both responses sound dumb, and erase them.

  I sit at the breakfast bar with the phone in front of me, and I just look at it. Then I decide I'm being foolish, so I pick up the phone, then yelp in surprise when it begins to ring. I drop the phone like it's a rattlesnake, and it hits the breakfast bar surface face down. I pick it up, bobble it, then I finally answer.

  "Hell—hello?" I cringe, because I sound like a teenager whose crush has just called her. I clear my throat and try again.

  "Hello, Mr. Cooper," I say, my tone clipped and professional.

  "Hello Smack," he says, his bass deep and throaty. The man has a voice made for phone sex, and I’m not mad when he calls me. My body goes soft and gooey. I squirm on the wooden bar stool. Then I remember he called me the nickname I can’t stand.

  "Ah...hi," I say grumpily.

  "Are you ready to accept the position?" he asks, cutting to the chase.

  "Um..." I respond stupidly.. He has the kind of voice that would sound good saying filthy things in my ear, and I’m distracted. I think he knows his appeal, and he probably knows I prefer to communicate via text and email. Lincoln likes to punctuate text messages with emojis and animated gifs, and I make a point of being businesslike in my responses. I do it to avoid any inadvertent flirting. I shift in my seat again, cross my legs, and try speaking again.

  "Yes, I–I am," I say, managing to sound normal.

  "Excellent! Have a good weekend," he says. "I'll see you Tuesday morning, bright and early."

  I start to say that I'm looking forward to it, only to find that Lincoln has already ended the call.

  Shoulders sagging, I lean back in my chair, staring at my phone. The phone buzzes with an incoming message from an unknown contact. I have an idea who it is without even looking. But masochist that I am, I look.

  Unknown Number: Baby, I miss you.

  I sigh and roll my eyes when I see the message from my ex-boyfriend, Howard Becker, who uses aliases to send me text messages. We broke up months ago, but he tries to contact me every now and again. I block the unknown number and slump in my chair.

  What have I gotten myself into with Lincoln Cooper? How did I let this man talk me into working for him?

  I ask myself these questions, but I know the answers already. It's money, plain and simple. Lots of money. I'm going to be busier than a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest, but the idea of working hard doesn't bother me. What bothers me is how closely I’ll have to work with the man himself. Unfortunately, I'm no stranger to inappropriate relationships in the workplace, and I'm confident I can avoid such a thing with Lincoln. I don't care how attractive he is.

  I realize for the first time in ages, I have my very own real life dilemma. I purse my lips and think about how I will attack this new development in my life.

  I pick up my tablet, pull up the Dear Ida website, and look for the "contact us" form. I decide it can't hurt to have Ida weigh in on this new development in my life.

  I start typing.

  I finish the note, hit "send", and wonder again what I've gotten myself into.

  Chapter Six: Lincoln

  The following Tuesday, Samantha spends half a day in my office. Although we agreed she would maintain her other client relationships, I'm still annoyed that I do not have her undivided attention. Around lunchtime, I step into my reception area to invite her to lunch and discuss the fact that she refuses to make me her sole client. Today, she wears a blazer over her customary jeans and t-shirt. Her bush of coppery curls is twisted into a loose bun that looks as if the whole mess would fall apart if I removed a single hairpin. She is turned away from my office door and presumably does not hear me when I enter.

  "Email me the details for this engagement, and I'll have a look when I finish with my current client," she says, holding her iPhone to her ear. "I really can't work on this right now, but I promise I'll have a look at it later this afternoon."

  I stop in my tracks, curious to know who is trying to steal her time from me.

  "Okay, Peter, I'll get back to you by the end of the day," she says in a tone of voice I have come to know from her. A tone that indicates she is smiling. I cannot hear what Peter says on the other end of the line, but it appears she has plans for the rest of her afternoon. These plans are part of the reason she does not work for me exclusively. Quite frankly, I'm annoyed by this all over again.

  "Okay, hon, " she says. "I'll talk to you later."

  Hon?

  I clear my throat, and she jumps like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. She whirls around, her hand on her chest, breathing heavily. Her pretty lips are parted, and she gives me a dirty look.

  "You scared me!" she exclaims. "Why are you sneaking up on me like that?"

  "Why are you taking personal calls while you're working for me?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest like Mr. Clean, but more well-dressed and with more hair.

  She squints at me, confused. She tucks the phone into her bag.

  "What personal calls?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

  "Your boyfriend?" I point out, gesturing at the phone in her hand. I don't know why I feel compelled to point out her chatting with the boyfriend, versus any other sort of personal call. It's none of my business who she has in her pers
onal life, which underscores the fact she shouldn't be making personal calls here, regardless of who she might be chatting with. This is a place of business, after all, and I'm paying her to do businessy things for me, not jabber on the phone like a middle schooler. I'm about to tell her all of this when she interrupts me.

  "I already told you, Peter is not my boyfriend, he's my client," she says, looking irritated with me.

  "You call all of your clients hon?" I ask, because who does she think she's fooling?

  "Peter is a client and a friend," she says. "Not that I have to explain this to you."

  She matches my grumpy expression with a sour one of her own. She’s indignant—a little too indignant, if you ask me. Of course, none of that makes any difference. What she does in her personal life is no concern of mine. Except when she does it at my place of business.

  We face off for long seconds, glaring at one another. The fact that I'm her boss seems to have little to no effect on her propensity to give me shit. I'm standing up, and she is sitting down, one jean-covered leg draped over the other.

  A buzzing sound comes from her purse, no doubt the sound of a text message being received.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” I ask, curious as to whether Peter Shark is sending her more messages.

  She cocks an eyebrow and says breezily, “Not right now.”

  "You have a sassy mouth for an employee," I comment. Her face turns red beneath her lovely complexion, and her glare deepens into a scowl.

  "Mr. Cooper—" she starts to say, but I interrupt her by holding up a hand.

  "Please, call me Lincoln," I remind her, and not for the first time.

  She lets out a ragged sigh. "Lincoln," she says, sounding exasperated. "As I have reminded you on more than one occasion, I am not your employee."

  It occurs to me that Samantha has been pretty adamant about not being an employee, and not working for one person, from the very beginning. I wonder why she feels that way. In all the rush to get her help with the new restaurant opening, I hadn't spent much time getting to know about her background.

  "In any event," she says, "I need to get going."

  We go through the list of errands we agreed she would handle, and it turns out, she has taken care of everything.

  "Why don't we have lunch and catch up a bit more?" I suggest, not really understanding why I want to have lunch with her. She's already finished today's tasks, and frankly, she completed them much more quickly than I would've thought she would. Not to mention the fact, I'm supposed to play hoops with my friend Brad at our health club. I could always cancel with him, though. Lunch with Samantha is business, isn't it?

  Her face falls slightly at my suggestion, but she quickly recovers. "I'm sorry, I can't have lunch today. I've got to do something for a client this afternoon."

  She picks up the oversized tote bag where she seems to keep everything she owns, gets to her feet, and sashays her fine ass out the door.

  I watch her leave, my shoulders drooping, and wonder why I feel disappointment. This was just a business lunch, right?

  When I arrive at the health club, Brad, a fraternity brother I met when we both attended Southern Methodist University, is already there. Brad and I kept in touch after college and still get together for basketball or drinks. The weather is nice enough that fewer people work out at lunchtime these days, so we are able to get on a court pretty quickly.

  "I was just about to leave," says Brad, cocking an eyebrow at me. "What took you so long?"

  I shrug it off. "I got caught up at work," I say, hoping that this is the end of the conversation.

  "I thought you said you got a new temporary assistant to help you out?" he asks.

  "It's a long story," I say. As I do not want to have a conversation about Samantha with Brad, I take a basketball from the rack and start dribbling. I give the ball a semi-hard shove at Brad, and we play for thirty minutes. After we exercise, we shower, change, and hit the juice bar for recovery smoothies.

  Brad's been giving me funny looks as we sit and drink smoothies. Finally, I’m sick of it and give Brad a pointed look.

  “What?” I say, irritated.

  "You never did tell me how it's working out with the new girl," he says.

  "You mean Smack?" I ask, then cringe when I realize I've used her nickname.

  "Who is Smack?" Brad asks. He puts down his smoothie and peers at me curiously.

  "Oh, it's kind of a nickname," I say. "Her email address is smack@cooperrestaurantgroup.com. I call her Smack."

  "You call her that…to her face?" he says, continuing to give me an odd look. I feel myself blushing at sharing the nickname with Brad.

  I decide not to go down that conversational rabbit hole. "She's doing great," I say. "She's efficient, bright...she's a great stand-in for Sheila."

  "I see," says Brad. He takes out his phone, opens a browser window, and starts typing with his thumbs. I hope he isn't googling Samantha, but I suspect he is. Suddenly, the contents of my smoothie become fascinating and worthy of my undivided attention. I stare into the tumbler as Brad completes his search.

  Soon, he holds the phone out for me to see. He gives me a shit-eating grin.

  "That her?" he asks, trying to keep a straight face.

  I try looking everywhere but at Brad and his phone. Finally, I sneak a peek at the phone, and there she is. It's a social media photo. She's at the Dallas Zoo, standing in front of the elephant fountain with a child on either side of her, her hands on their shoulders. Her hair is loose, her smile is broad, her teeth pearly white. She's wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top, and I can see many inches of smooth brown skin. I wonder if those are her children?

  "I think I understand the source of your being late today," he says. "And certainly, a lot of things are starting to add up."

  "What's starting to add up?" I ask, feeling a little defensive.

  "If I had someone this cute running around my office, waiting on me hand and foot, I'd be late for basketball too," he says, waggling his eyebrows in a sinister fashion.

  I say nothing. I let Brad come to whatever erroneous conclusions he wants.

  "Is she single?" he asks.

  "How am I supposed to know that?" I ask with irritation. Although, I’m pretty sure she’s single.

  "I bet she is," Brad says. "The caption says that these are her godchildren. She looks single to me."

  I furrowed my brow at him. "Put that away," I say. "Don't be a jerk."

  But Brad continues grinning like a fool. I decide to change the subject.

  "I have this thing I'm going to," I say, launching into an explanation of the charity event Marcia Pittman wants me to attend. "I need a date—a plus one only. I'm not interested in a relationship right now."

  Brad narrows his eyes on me. "You sure you need a plus one?" he smirks. "I think you should ask Smack.”

  "It's not like that," I say, meeting Brad's narrow-eyed stare with a grumpy one of my own. "And don't call her Smack."

  "What is it like?" he asks. "And why don't you want me calling her Smack?"

  Because only I get to call her Smack, I think with a scowl.

  Brad finds my expression funny. I want to slap the smirk right off his face. I make a show of glancing at the time on my phone. "I need to go, I have a call with my investor," I lie.

  I get up to leave, but Brad catches me by the elbow. He flashes me an understanding smile.

  “I’m going to fix your girl problems,” he assures me with a confident smile. I’m wary because Brad is the one who put Marcia Pittman in my path. His judgment is suspect.

  “You are?” I ask.

  “Yes. I have a buddy who owes me a favor,” Brad says. “I’ll have him figure out what Samantha’s story is.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “He’ll do a background check on the woman, and based on what you learn, you’ll know how to proceed.”

  I think about Samantha’s need to maintain professional distance from me,
no matter what I’m willing to pay her. I think about the text messages she often ignores.

  "I know just the girl for you," he says. "Let me call her and see whether she's willing to do me a favor. She just broke up with her boyfriend. It might do her some good to get out and mingle."

  "Okay," I grumble.

  "Gina is a nice girl," he says. "You can distract each other, and who knows, you might even hit it off."

  Chapter Seven: Samantha

  Lincoln and I have been working together for a couple of weeks, and I feel we have fallen into a good rhythm. He complains daily about me having other clients, even though I am the one who bears the brunt of all the juggling.

  By the end of the week, I am exhausted and want nothing more than to take a long shower, eat, and pass out for about ten hours. As I step off the elevator to the hall leading to my unit, my cell phone chirps. I am so tired I almost don’t pick up, thinking I could return the call later.

  I let myself into my unit and collapse on the sofa in front of the television. I turn it on and began to flip channels aimlessly, wanting nothing more than for my brain to turn off. I find an entertainment program and turn the volume down to a murmur and lay long enough to catch my breath.

  The phone buzzes again. Cursing, I look at the display and see that Hannah, my bestie, is calling me. I give the phone one of my patented scowls, wondering why the hell she’s calling me.

  Then it dawns on me. I grab my purse and keys, heave myself off the couch, and head for my front door. Locking the door behind me, I sputter into the phone, "I'm on my way," because the moment I saw her name appear on my phone's display, I remembered that I told her I would watch her kids tonight.

  Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Hannah's small bungalow. She's all dolled up when she answers the door, wearing a little black dress, and her hair is done up in a beautiful French twist. Her brown skin glows with health, and her green eyes sparkle.

  "You forgot, didn't you?" Hannah says and gives me a shrewd look. I don't answer because her daughter and son tackle my legs and bounce up and down excitedly.