by Lauren Helms
I don’t know why I continue to find myself in so many awkward situations, especially in the office. Heck, I can track it back to when I was working at my first law firm, Sherman, Kline, & Lefave, LLP, when my friend, Aubrey Bateman would use me as a buffer to her awkward as hell meetings with her now husband, Chance. I’m embarrassed to admit I let it happen more than once.
I sigh to myself as I detour to the fifth-floor women’s restroom. Someday I’ll find a job I love. I have to figure out what the hell I want to do with my life first, though.
I drop my bag onto the counter with a plop and assess the situation standing in front of me in the mirror.
Well, shit. I look like a drowned cat.
I start by taking my near ruined jacket off and gingerly laying it next to my bag. Then, I grab a handful of paper towels and blot my face down before trying to soak up any access water from my pant leg. I should probably just go home and shoot Mr. Bales an email telling him I’m taking a sick day. I could probably sneak out of here unnoticed.
I’m nearly settled on my decision when a stall door opens, and out pops Mr. Bales’s right-hand woman, Laura Shaw. She’s not my biggest fan, and that’s fine with me. I’ve secretly been pouring orange juice in her office plants every time she requests watering them as one of my tasks as an assistant. The woman is in her forties, unmarried, works about eighty hours a week, and loves flaunting her controller-ship around the office. You couldn’t pay me to even wish I had her job, but she’s convinced we all want to be her. No, thank you.
With her nose stuck in the air, she sneers at me in the mirror. “Wow, Kelly, you look like something my poodle dragged in.”
I dig around in my bag for my face wipes and try not to make direct eye contact with her. “I forgot my umbrella and had an unfortunate run-in with a mud puddle in the street.” I wipe my face down, removing all traces of mud and raccoon eyes.
She chuckles as she finishes washing her hands. “Sounds like another example of why you’ll never make it in corporate America, Kelly. Don’t walk to work without an umbrella when it’s raining.” She shakes her head as she turns off the faucet. “Well, I’ll be sure to let Mr. Bales know not to expect you on your A game today. We have an important conference call, so I’ll request another assistant to step in to make sure you don’t drop the ball anymore today.”
I bite my tongue and force myself not to roll my eyes at the nasty witch. She leaves the restroom just as I find I’ve also left my emergency makeup kit at home. This is what I get for switching bags five minutes before it was time to leave for work. I stare myself down in the mirror and see stringy damp hair and a pale, makeup-less face that has seen more bad luck than anyone should in the forty minutes since they left their apartment.
I look utterly miserable.
I fight back tears of frustration as I hear my phone ring from inside my bag. Briefly, I weigh the chances of this call being just another tick in the bad day column and ignoring it. Who could possibly need me this early in the day? Did I break a mirror I’m not aware of? Did I cross the path of a black cat or walk under a ladder? I don’t know what’s brought on this current bout of bad luck, but I throw caution to the wind and decide to see who’s calling.
Relief rushes through me when I see Aubrey’s face fill my screen, and I slide my thumb over the screen to answer.
“Hey, Aubs,” I sigh into the phone.
“Kell, you all right?” Her tone is laced with concern.
“Uh, it’s been a day,” I tell her, collecting my stuff and heading to my cubical. My run-in with Laura ruined my plan to call in sick. She’d know it was just to save face.
“It’s not even nine yet. How can you be having a day?” she teases.
“Well, it started with no hot water this morning. Then I left my umbrella at home, ended up in the middle of a lovers’ quarrel, and just got splashed with cold, muddy street water as I was waiting to cross the street.” I let out a shaky breath.
“Shit. You are having a day,” she says with pity.
“I’m glad you called, though. You always put a smile on my face,” I tell her. And it’s the truth. I’ve known Aubrey for a couple of years now, and she’s grown into one of my closest friends. We weren’t immediate friends, and it wasn’t until she left the firm that our friendship grew. She and I stayed in touch via social media, which led to visits and dinners when I’d visit her home city, Hermosa Beach. Now, we talk nearly every day and see each other most weekends, if only to get coffee. Speaking of which, I may need to find a new coffee spot to frequent since the whole place watched that hot mess of a breakup scene I stumbled into.
“You know I have a sixth sense about those closest to me. I always know when Chance is up to no good, and I always seem to know when you need a friend.” It’s all true. Chance is almost always up to no good, and she does have a habit of knowing when I need a GIF or funny video to brighten my day. “But let’s go back to that lovers’ quarrel for a second. Explain.”
“Oh my God, Aubs. It was horrible. It’s been a while since I’ve utterly embarrassed myself in public. Maybe since my junior year of college when I took a nasty tumble down the forum’s stairs in front of a hundred and fifty students, ending up with a nasty bruise on my ass and a sprained ankle.” I ponder for a moment, stuck in my memory.
“Ah, all right. And this morning?” she urges me to continue.
“Right, well, I tripped. And I don’t know what I tripped on exactly, but I fell into the middle of a couple fighting. Once I realized my coffee was all over them and the floor, a chair, like, came out of nowhere, and my foot got tangled in it. I literally fell into the dude getting belittled by his girlfriend. He caught me from face-planting into the table, but he didn’t keep his hands to himself. So, of course, that launched the girlfriend into a crazy tangent. I snuck out of there without further complications, but it was not my finest moment.”
Laughter erupts from the other end of the line as I give Aubrey a moment. I’m not mad; I’d laugh, too, if the roles were reversed.
“Shit. My gosh, Kelly, that’s crazy.” She tries—and fails—to catch her breath amidst the laughter.
“Yup.”
“Was the place packed? Like, how big of a scene are we talking?” she asks.
“I was in Melting Moon, so you know it was packed. And the whole place was watching the fallout while I made my ungraceful entrance.”
She gasps and says, “Oh, God!” through another round of laughter.
“Honestly,” I add, “I’d put money on it that someone got it on camera.”
“Chance, come here,” she yells, all too quick to share my embarrassment. “Get your phone and pull up Twitter.”
“You called, Princess?” I hear Chance ask. I bite back a groan, knowing he’s going to hear about my morning and will never let me live it down. Aubrey tells him to pull up the social media app and search for Melting Moon Café, and sure enough, I hear the couple from the café fighting.
“Oh, snap. Someone got the whole fight and posted it. It’s trending,” Aubrey’s shocked voice declares over the video they’re watching on Chance’s phone.
“Is that Kelly?” Chance asks, and then they both start laughing.
“Kelly, I’m so sorry for laughing, but it’s just such an amazing video.” She’s wheezes, trying to calm herself, and I smile as I wait for my computer to boot up.
“Honestly, it’s the most action I’ve seen in months,” I tell her honestly. “Once I get over my initial shock, I’ll mark it down as a successful day.”
“Oh, stop it. Though, he did get a good grab of your ass. I would have smacked him,” she replies, and I hear Chance in the background rattling on about how he would have punched a brother out for the grab if it had been her.
“Yeah, well, I was in shock,” I gripe.
“Are you coming out to see me this weekend?” she asks, and I’m thankful for the subject change. “You gonna catch some waves while you’re here?”
“I was
planning on it. Will you be around?” She and Chance are always around, but I still ask.
“Yup. And while you’re here, I want to make you dinner. I’ve got a job opportunity for you. Also, I want to set you up on a date.”
I clench my jaw. “Aubs,” I whine, “no dates! But I’ll take you up on the dinner. And, of course, I’m curious about this opportunity.” I don’t add that I won’t hold my breath. My luck with jobs is about the same as my luck with dates. Bad—as experience shows.
“Oh, don’t whine. I’ll see you this weekend. Text me later, and I promise I won’t let Chance retweet that video anymore,” she rushes.
I gasp. “He’s sharing it?”
“K, bye.” She kisses into the phone and the line goes dead.
Dropping my head into my hands, I sigh. Co-workers have started filling in around the office, and I note that my workday has officially started. I throw myself into my work and start marking things off my task list. But before long, my mind travels back to the café this morning and that stupid tweet with proof of my unfortunate fall. I stuff my earbuds into my pocket and walk to the other end of the floor, ducking into the restroom furthest away from my department’s offices. I pull up Twitter and see that Chance just tweeted out a picture of his goat, Pixy, standing in a big flower bed. I click his name and find the previous tweet, his retweet of the incident at Melting Moon Café. Shoving my buds into my ears, I watch my Internet debut.
Fuck my life.
It’s been retweeted more than a thousand times.
3
Ben
I’ve been in my fair share of nightclubs over the years. Dex and the rest of the team enjoy a night out after a big win. But the strobe lights pulsing inside the room, having to scream into your friend’s ear for them to hear you, and the smell of sweat mixed with hundreds of different perfumes and colognes is a setup for disappointment. I prefer to get wasted and stupid in the confines of my own place or hotel room. Yet sometimes, to avoid being referred to as unsocial, I tag along. However, when Garland told me I had to come out to Club Punch with him tonight, I didn’t want to turn him down.
I’ve been jonesing for something new—something different. And I’ve decided to start this new shit of saying yes when I would normally say no. Garland and a few guys from Lasso come here often when they have a guest DJ or live music, and I’ll admit, this place is pretty sweet. Small round high-tops line the perimeter of the room, and there’s a large dance floor in front of a stage and DJ booth. There are hundreds of people here tonight, but the club is so large, there’s still plenty of room as groups of people hang out together.
“Dude, I told you this place was sick.” Garland leans toward me from across the table, yelling to ensure I hear him.
I nod while I continue to take in the scene. There is a second story—for VIPs, I assume—but my gaze is drawn to the flow of the place. Well-muscled bouncers check IDs at the front while two scantily clad women stamp hands at a table nearby.
“I know it’s not your normal scene,” Garland yells, “but it doesn’t get crazy. And the music and drinks are stellar. Their house DJ is fire, and I’d be surprised if they keep him much longer before he cuts an album and makes it big time in the industry.”
“No, man, it’s pretty tight. I’d come back.” I raise my voice and lift my beer only to find it’s empty. “I’m going to head to the bar. Do you want another?” I ask, tipping my head to his drink.
He nods. “Yeah, and get their house sampler. I need to get some carbs in my belly if I’m going to keep drinking.”
I chuckle as I push out of my chair. “It’s a Thursday night, Gar. You going to get wasted?”
“Not if I don’t carb load as I drink.” He grins.
Shaking my head at his antics, I head to the long bar at the back of the room. I push past people mingling, trying not to press against them as it seems a new surge of folks have arrived. So much for this place not getting overcrowded. Finally making it to the bar, I find a spot where two seats sit open.
I make eye contact with one of the three bartenders behind the bar, and she shimmies toward me. I order another beer on tap and a Jack and Coke for Garland. She sets down our drinks while she puts in my food order. I’m surprised they even have food on the menu, but this place just moved up another notch in my mind.
The temperature is cool, but the linger of stale beer and pot wafts through the air. I take a long swig of my beer and the cold drink slides down my throat. I resist the urge to sigh when I pull the glass away. Damn, that’s good beer. Just as I set down my glass, a body rams into me from the side. Jerking forward, I grip my beer, and relief that I didn’t lose it floods my veins. But then I remember why I’m relieved and look over my shoulder as I see a smallish figure looking down at her shoes. Turning toward her, I realize she’s only a few inches shorter than me, and she’s saying something I can’t quite hear over the music.
“Are you okay?” I yell.
She doesn’t look up at me, her gaze glued to the ground. “Yeah, I just don’t understand,” she says. Her words are louder now, but her voice is muffled. She seems confused, and I start to dread I might be dealing with a drunk girl. I peek at my watch and see it’s only nine. If she’s already wasted, then she either started early or she’s a lightweight. I tentatively reach out and graze the side of her arm to garner her attention. Her warm flesh prickles at my touch, and I bite back a knowing grin. Her thick, wavy hair moves to the side as she looks up at me. Big, round eyes fill my view, and I take a step back, right into the lip of the bar. I recognize this girl, but from where, I have no fucking clue.
“I am so sorry for bumping into you,” she shouts. She’s still focused on the ground in front of her.
I mentally shake out my confusion as I drop my hand from her elbow. “I’d say it was a little more than a bump. More like a fall or a plunge.”
Her eyes appraise me to figure out if I’m being a douche—which I am—but only because I’m shit at flirting. So, I grin and give it another try. “All I mean is, you came at me pretty hard, so I hope you’re all right. Did you lose something?”
She narrows her eyes. “Is this is an attempt at a shitty pick-up line?”
I chuckle. “No. Did you lose something?” I point to the ground. “You were looking for something.”
Her face slacks. “Oh, no.” She looks down again, twisting her body around. “I was looking for whatever I tripped on.”
“Did you find it?” I ask, looking around as well. I don’t see a single culprit.
“No, but with my track record lately, I could trip on air if the moment was right. Or wrong,” she mumbles.
It’s hard to hear her when she isn’t looking at me. I have the sudden urge to gain the attention of those dark eyes again, so I reach out and touch her arm—again. She stops looking around, and I’ve accomplished my goal. Even though she’s a complete stranger, I feel this pull between us. There’s a sense of familiarity that drives me to want to know more about her.
“Do you need to get a drink?” As I gesture to the bar at my back, she nods, smiles, and steps up next to me. She faces the bar just as a plate of fried food is placed in front of me.
“Can I get another drink?” I ask the bartender and I look to the woman next to me. She asks for a Long Island Iced Tea, and while she settles onto the stool next to me, I take a moment to take her in. A lot of the ladies here tonight are dressed to the nines in skintight, cleavage-revealing tops and dresses. But this woman is wearing a dark tank top that shows off just enough and well-fitting, cut-off jean shorts. My eyes travel down her long, toned legs to find a pair of black and white Converse slip-ons. She looks comfortable and puts off a low-key, low-maintenance vibe. I fucking dig it.
“So you tripped. Do you do that often?” I ask, leaning one elbow into the bar, fully facing her. She looks down longingly at the plate of tots, chicken fingers, onion rings, and mozzarella sticks. Huh, that does look good. I didn’t even know what I was ordering, but n
ow I can see why Garland wanted it. He’ll have to wait for his food and drink, though. I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.
Looking up at me, she studies my face. I’m sure she’s trying to figure out the intent of my question. I’m just trying to flirt with her, so I give her a small smile.
She smiles back and nods. “Meh, I have my moments. This week has not been good to me.” She eyes my plate again, and I can almost see the drool fall from her mouth.
As I nudge the pile of fried goodness toward her, her eyes go wide. “Help yourself. I’m starving, but I doubt I can eat this all on my own.” Sure, I ordered this for Garland. But since he’s not standing here right now and I paid for it, I’ll gladly share with the lady who appreciates good food.
She doesn’t hesitate—which I appreciate—and grabs a tot and pops it into her mouth. Her face contorts, and I hear a faint moan of pleasure as the rich flavor hits her tongue. Damn.
“Good, huh?” I ask and snag up a tot for myself before dunking it in the dish of ketchup.