Stuck-Up Big Shot: A Hero Club Novel

by Sierra Hill

  I type out a quick reply.

  Me: Funny you should ask. . . there’s been a building evacuation. FDNY is here. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t her doing.

  G: WTF? A fire? Where is she now? Is my dog okay?

  Oh Jesus, I think I’ve gotten him panicked over nothing.

  Me: G, it’s fine. There’s no smoke or fire that I can tell. And I’m sure she’s fine. She carried Blackie down in her arms. Now go back to having fun wherever you are.

  Someone bumps into my back, and I’m about to let them have it when I turn to find Mr. Collins, a retired and renowned journalist for the New York Times, standing in his bathrobe and house shoes, looking more than a little bewildered. He’s confused, searching for his dead wife, who he talks about like she’s still living.

  I reign in my temper and place a hand on his bony shoulder. “You okay, Mr. Collins?”

  The old man glances up at me and nods. “Just a little winded, is all. And I had to leave my bird, Prissy. I hope she’s okay. And I can’t find my Diana.”

  I cock my head and give him a sympathetic nod, even though I hate that bird of his and his wife, Diana, has been dead for two years. She squawks like a motherfucker. The bird, not the dead wife. I can hear her two-stories down at breakfast and dinner every day. The bird goes nuts when she isn’t fed on time. And honestly, I think Mr. Collins often forgets.

  His symptoms are very similar to what I experienced with my Granny, who is now in a nursing facility after putting up a big fight before moving out of our family home in Connecticut.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I placate, not knowing how tonight will even end up.

  The alarm sounded, and we evacuated twenty minutes ago. Meanwhile, firefighters have been running in and out of the building in search of any telltale signs of fire. I crane my neck to look upwards, seeing no immediate signs of smoke or fire. Must be a false alarm.

  Which only aids in my frustration and need for sleep. My schedule is packed tomorrow, and I have an important client presentation I need to prepare for in the morning. The time on my phone displays three-thirty a.m. I’d been home and in bed for less than two hours before all this chaos ensued.

  Earlier in the night, I’d gone over to Margo’s for drinks, our typical weekly event. After our regular fun and dirty fuck, I was preparing to leave her place when she opened a Pandora’s Box, starting a fight with me about our relationship status.

  When I said, “What relationship status?” she went ballistic. Unbeknownst to me, something changed with her understanding of our arrangement in the past few weeks. And tonight—after I’d fucked her over her kitchen table—she unwisely started lecturing me over my “lack of engagement.”

  As in, we are definitely no longer on the same page with our fuck-buddies situation. And while I told her early on that I was not serious boyfriend material and I never would be, she seemed to forget that conversation.

  So, I got dressed, kissed her cheek, and left her place around one a.m., knowing it would likely be the last time I’d see her again.

  On top of that, my week is utter shit. I’m cleaning up a mess one of my junior analysts created with a client that cost us a couple hundred grand. Had I not caught the error, it could’ve easily been twice as costly of a mistake. I conveniently left that out of my texts to Graham.

  And Granny broke her ankle and needed to be restrained, but was otherwise doing well, according to her caretaker.

  This isn’t the first time Granny has become agitated, and her unwillingness to be helpful causes accidental injuries. It only makes my guilt rise higher, since I’m not there to take care of her and can’t get back to my hometown of Mystic, Connecticut as often as I like.

  Just like it was seven years ago when I wasn’t there for my sister, Mel, when she needed me.

  Shit. When will this week end?

  Tonight was supposed to help take my mind off things. All I wanted was to get laid and get some sleep. Instead, I stand outside my apartment building with the rest of the tenants, waiting to learn if we’ll even be able to return to our own beds tonight.

  Blackie’s name being shouted and called in a panicked and shrill voice grabs my attention. I swivel my head around, searching in which direction the sound is coming from.

  I lean back and peer down the alleyway and see Graham’s dog-sitter running up and down the sidewalk, a wool blanket in tow, calling out over and over again for Blackie, frantically stopping to ask each group of bystanders if they’ve seen him.

  Ah, shit.

  Her eyes connect with mine, and I can see tears streaming down her cheeks, the panic visible from her expression. A lump lodges in the back of my throat, bubbling up in an angry, unapologetic fireball as I stride toward her.

  Instead of helping, I unleash an accusatory attack on this poor girl. My words are full of reproach. I blame my sleeplessness and stress on my reaction.

  “How the fuck did you lose Graham’s dog? You’re supposed to be watching him.”

  She hiccups and babbles in incomplete sentences, strands of hair flying across her face as her head shakes hysterically. “I didn’t grab his leash. . . when the fireman gave me a blanket. . .” Hiccup. Hiccup.

  “I set him down. . . and then the fire truck. . . oh my God, Miles, please help me find him!”

  I’ll find it odd later that she called me by name, considering we haven’t been properly introduced, but for now, I exhale sharply and nod in resignation.

  “Fuuuuck,” I groan, rubbing my temple with fierce strokes of my fingers before pointing at her. “I’m only doing this for Graham. Not to save your incompetent ass.”

  She nods in apologetic understanding, and her eyes pierce me with recognition. It reminds me of something from the past. The pleading look. The sadness and sorrow.

  Shaking off the strange feeling, I devise a plan. “Which way did he run off? We can head that way together and then split off down the side streets in different directions.”

  The woman’s hand darts out from under the blanket and points to the right. “That way.”

  “Okay. Let’s go find Blackie.”

  She spins, her slippers slapping against the sidewalk when I snag her wrist to halt her progress. My eyes narrow with censure and brows furrow inward.

  “But don’t think for one second that I will not mention this to Graham or Soraya. You got that?”

  She sniffles, dragging the corner of the blanket underneath her nose. “Yes. I understand.”

  “Fine. Get yourself together and let’s go.”

  And then she sprints down the street with me trailing behind, feeling like a complete and utter asshole.

  But nobody ever said I wasn’t.

  4

  Sutton

  We find Blackie safe and sound in the arms of a man named Mr. Collins, who, weirdly enough, is petting him and calling him Prissy.

  Miles mutters under his breath how “lucky” and “irresponsible” I am. He even flat out told me he would notify Graham over my incompetence.

  None of that matters to me now, because I am overcome with such a profound sense of relief that I can’t speak and care little about anything else. Even the heartless words Miles said to me earlier vanish into the background.

  Perhaps if I wasn’t terrorized over the potential what ifs had Blackie not been found, I would argue with Miles as he verbally attacks me for my ineptitude. But instead, my tongue is dry, and I’ve cried my eyes out over losing, and then subsequently finding, Blackie that I don’t utter a word to anyone. Tears blur my vision as I take Blackie into my arms from the old man, and I sob into the dog’s soft coat of fur.

  It’s only a few minutes after our tearful reunion when the FDNY gives us the all-clear signal, having found the culprit of the fire alarm—a faulty wire in the main fuse—and we are given the good news that we can return to our apartments.

  I’m exhausted, shaken, and feel like the worst human on the planet.

  Although the “all’s well that ends we
ll” adage helps stabilize my mood a bit, it is the harsh bite of Miles’s assessment of my derelict dog sitting skills that stings like a wasp bite long afterward.

  Sadly, I can’t even fault him for that.

  Under normal circumstances, I believe that something like this wouldn’t have happened, because I’m a very attentive individual. I’m a strong and solid student, I remember birthdates of friends and family, and I never forget to mail in payments on time.

  I know I wasn’t operating as my best self tonight, but I should have been more careful and considered the possibility that Blackie might run off if scared by something. It was my job to take care of him and ensure his safety, and I failed miserably.

  Oddly, though, I haven’t heard a thing from Graham or Soraya. I assumed the minute we returned to our apartments, Miles would contact Graham and tell him what a horrible job I’m doing in caring for their dog.

  I’m surprised I’ve not received a call asking me to pack my things and get the hell out of their house. I sat up all night, unable to fall back asleep, nervously waiting on pins and needles for the call that never came. Now, this morning I’m not only tired but stuck in a conundrum of what to do about it. Should I preemptively notify the Morgan’s of what happened or leave it be?

  I consider my options while baking a quiche in the massive kitchen. My phone sits on the countertop, ready to alert me if a message comes through, as I whisk the eggs into a frothy foam. After I pour the egg concoction and cut-up vegetables into the baking dish, open the oven door, and slide the quiche in, I set the time for sixty minutes and make my decision.

  I text Soraya a benign message to test the waters. To see if Miles really did what he said he would do.

  Me: Hi Soraya, I hope you are all having a wonderful vacation so far. I just wanted to check in. Besides a little scare last night, which is nothing to worry about. Everything is great. Blackie is doing well.

  Technically, it’s all the truth, even though a few facts have been omitted. But it gives me peace of mind that I’ve done the right thing. No harm, no foul, as they say.

  I think about Miles and our unexpected reunion and awful interaction last night. Granted, it was under the worst possible circumstances you could imagine, but I was thoroughly confused by his behavior. His attitude was so completely different from the Miles I used to know. The pre-Melodie’s death Miles. And the fact that he doesn’t remember me feels like a knife to the gut.

  After sending the text, I decide to call my friend, Christiana, to ask her opinion about what to do from here and whether I should track down Miles and talk to him or just leave it be.

  She answers on the first ring and I begin to tell her everything about the fire-alarm fiasco and running into my new neighbor, Miles.

  “Maybe I should have taken that job as the magician’s assistant instead,” I whine, thinking back on the job offers I’d received before accepting this out-of-the-blue job last week. “At least then, I wouldn’t be in this strange predicament.”

  Before being recommended for this position through my cousin, Ben, I had poured over countless other summer jobs, hoping to find a second job to make ends meet before returning to NYU this fall. But the job had to fit into my current part-time schedule at the small boutique I work at in SoHo. The only one that had some promise was a real honest-to-God magician’s assistant, helping an older guy at kid’s birthday parties.

  Christiana laughs with a lilt of amusement on the other end of the line.

  “You? Responsible for flaming swords and knives and shit? Not a chance. You’re a bona fide klutz.”

  “Pfft,” I snort, pursing my lips together in a scowl. “I am not. Trip over your own feet one time in front of the Biochem classroom, and no one ever lets you forget about it!”

  She belly laughs long and hard. “Well, tripping aside, you’ve proved that you can make animals disappear. Ba-dum-dum.”

  I wince, crying out in a gasp. “Ouch, that was a low-blow.”

  “Sorry,” she apologizes. “Too soon to joke about Blackie running off?”

  I plunk down on a kitchen island chair, twisting my head to find the dog in question sleeping soundly on his bed in the living room. I’ve been paying him extra attention and showering him with treats today, but I still feel a pang of guilt.

  “Yes, too soon. You’re just plain cruel,” I grumble. “It’s bad enough that Miles was so rude and mean last night. I can’t believe he’s the same guy that kissed me.”

  I’d told Christiana all about it the minute I called her, sharing the details of the last time I’d seen or spoken to Miles, that he didn’t remember who I was when he saw me, and then how demoralizing his words were to me.

  He used to be such a nice guy. Now he acts like a stuck-up jerk.

  Christiana blows out a breath from the other end of the line.

  “Obviously, I can’t speak for him or his intentions since I wasn’t there. But maybe cut him a little slack. No one ever knows what’s going on in someone else’s mind.”

  I snort. “Did you just read that straight from one of our psychology textbooks?”

  Christiana and I have been friends for years now, both in the same grad program at NYU. I initially lived with her and her roommate last summer, which helped me save money for the school year and room and board but chose not to this summer for several reasons.

  One, I love Christiana with all my heart. She’s an incredible friend and brilliant woman, but she is a slob. Plain and simple. I just couldn’t deal with the mess she left behind in all our shared spaces. And being that I was the couch-crasher in our living arrangement, I had no right to call her out on it since it wasn’t my apartment.

  The second reason was her obnoxious roommate, Nadine. She thought she was the Queen Bee and the overlord because her father owned the apartment and therefore dictated how things were to go. I’d asked Christiana at one point how in the world she put up with Nadine’s bitchiness, to which she replied, “It’s all about the money. I only pay a fraction of the cost, and it beats living at home with my brothers.”

  Enough said.

  Christiana has three brothers, and they are always trying to get involved in her business. They’re the worst. Plus, renting in New York City is beyond expensive. That’s why this summer, two weeks prior to the end of my spring semester, I’d asked my cousin if I could crash with him until the fall. My scholarships and grad student stipend are enough for tuition and expenses for the school year but doesn’t cover the summer months when I’m not in school and need a place to live. And my job at Rags & Tags doesn’t bring in enough to pay for rent and other expenses on its own.

  Thus, I’d been desperate to find a secondary summer job that worked with my variable schedule and one that affords me the luxury of things like food.

  That’s how this entire dog-sitting arrangement fell into my lap, if you follow. Ben, who is several years older than me and the son of my mother’s cousin, is the one who recommended me to his boss, Graham, when he learned they needed a last-minute pet sitter.

  Fate seemed to intervene, in more ways than one. Because here I am, facing this highly unusual reunion with Miles.

  “Sutton, don’t make it about you, sweetie,” Christiana commiserates. “It was just the wrong time, wrong place. Maybe Miles has some serious matters weighing on him, and with the drama of evacuating and whatever else, he lashed out at you. And look, it all turned out fine. No harm, no foul. You have heard nothing from him today, right?”

  I heave a sigh. “Not yet. I did just get a response from Soraya saying, ‘thanks, having fun.’ But I still feel like there’s a knife hanging above my head ready to drop the moment Miles says something to Graham. I mean, you didn’t see him. He was so angry with me. That’s why I want to do something nice for Miles to show him I appreciated his help. But I don’t want it to come across as a bribe for him to keep quiet.”

  “Hmm, I see what you mean. It’s a precarious walk along a tight rope. Well, maybe you should make something
to bring over to him as a show of gratitude and leave it at that.”

  “That might work. It’s easy, a nice neighborly thing to do, and it doesn’t suggest that I’m being pushy or threatening him to keep his mouth shut about what happened.”

  “Right,” she agrees. “If you wanted to threaten, you’d use one of my brothers. They’d get your point across.”

  The timer on the oven beeps, and I choke out a laugh. “Yes, let’s keep your Guido siblings out of this, shall we? Hey, I gotta run. But thank you for your advice. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “No problem, sweetie. And who knows? Maybe if the food doesn’t work, you can offer something else in exchange. He might enjoy eating something else.” She chuckles darkly, and I gasp in mock outrage.

  “Keep me posted, babes.”

  I end the call and remove the quiche from the oven, feeling a little lighter, and less like the ball will drop at any moment. Maybe if I can talk to Miles again, offer him my gratitude, and mention our shared history and get him to remember the kiss we shared, he’ll be kinder toward me and less likely to narc on my mistake.

  How did this get so complicated?

  And how is it I’m so unmemorable to Miles?

  After I get showered and dressed, a quick glance at the clock tells me I better hustle it up if I’m going to take Blackie for a quick walk and make it to the store by ten a.m. While I’m not the opener for the day, my boss, Luciana, is a stickler for punctuality.

  When I get back from the walk, I eat a piece of my now cooled quiche and wrap the rest up for later. A few minutes of gathering my belongings before I run out the door to get to work, I remind myself I need to plan out how to introduce all of this to Miles.

  And figure out whether he’ll be happy to find out who I am and how we’re connected.

  5

  Miles

  I drag my exhausted body out of the elevator and blindly make my way down the hallway toward my apartment door, wheeling my suitcase behind me as I go.