The Broken One (The One Series Book 1)

by Selene Maxley

  Dave is pretty much on par with what I expected based on the voicemail he left and our email exchange. I can tell a lot about a person from the sound of their voice and their cadence. I responded to his voicemail through email in my typical attempt to keep the upper hand.

  I know he expected a man; they always do. Before-Mom loved Johnny Cash, and she must have known I’d need a name to make me tough, like the boy named Sue. When you have a boy’s name in elementary school, you get teased relentlessly: ponytail tugged, pushed down, all that good stuff. In middle school, my classmates discovered that I share my name with a salty sea, which also didn’t go well. As an adult, I suspect it’s a bit of a turn-on, though I’m not sure why. Possibly it’s because people love something that feels wrong. I know I do.

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Dave,” I reply as I follow him back through the doors to a glass office for my interview.

  The office seems designed for intimidation. Though I suspect its walls are soundproof, it puts its inhabitants on display for the entire floor. I see the value in a room like this immediately, and I think of all the people I can make sweat in here. Starting with Dave, apparently.

  The office is a cool 72 degrees, but I can see the beads of sweat on Dave’s forehead as he takes his seat across from me. I wonder if they’re new or if I missed them on my initial assessment of him. He could have been running behind and had to jog to make our interview on time. I pretend not to notice when he dabs his forehead.

  The interview is much like any other that I’ve been through, though admittedly Dave is a little weird. It’s only ten minutes in, and his whole face is sweating. I attempt a discrete look down at my wardrobe choice to check for any lapse in judgment. I chose my Career Caspian mask today—toned-down makeup with Femmebot lips, low heels, and a button-down top tucked into my paper bag-style high-waisted pants. I belong on the cover of a catalog titled Boring Outfits Designed to Guarantee Your Co-Workers Won’t Think About Screwing You While You’re Talking. My silk top is opaque navy, I haven’t missed a button, and my nipples aren’t hard.

  I’m starting to think he might be sick when I notice the snickering from two gentlemen as they walk past and look from Dave to me, shaking their heads. One of them appears to be saying, “poor son of a bitch.” A little about me: I ignore any attention I get from men when I’m not explicitly trying to get it, so it’s easy for me to forget that I’m attractive. While being reminded of this is flattering, it doesn’t feel good to watch this man drip with sweat in an interview he is conducting.

  “Excuse me, Dave,” I say, interrupting him. “I’m so sorry, but I didn’t have time to use the restroom before this interview, and now I wish I had. Would you mind if we take a quick five-minute break?”

  The relief is plain on his face, and he replies, “Of course! We walked right past a women’s restroom on the way here. Would you like me to show you?”

  “I remember seeing it,” I tell him. “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

  I hope that my small act of pity gives him the time he needs to get his shit together. I can’t have him feeling too embarrassed to call and offer me the job later this week. I don’t have a backup plan.

  When I return to the observation-slash-interview room, Dave has managed to compose himself, and we’re able to continue without much more sweat. He tells me as I get up to leave that they’ve already scheduled a few more interviews, and he feels obligated to give them their shot. It’s clear, however, that he’ll call to offer me the job.

  “I understand. I’m glad you have several set up. You should know what the market looks like and the value I bring to the table. I look forward to hearing from you later this week.” This could sound arrogant, but I try to say it in a way that I know can be heard as sincere and confident. I’ve never been very good at being humble where my work is concerned.

  Chapter 4

  I reach the lobby exit at exactly the same time as a petite Asian woman about half a foot shorter than me. She’s wearing a pair of the cute leather loafers I’ve been looking everywhere for without any luck. I hold the door for her, saying, “I love those shoes. Do you mind if I ask where you got them?”

  “Thank you! I got them right near here, actually. At Marshalls. Do you know where that is?” she asks me.

  “No, I don’t, but I’m sure I can find it. I just moved to town, so I’m still figuring stuff out.”

  “Yeah? I’ve only been here a month. Transferred in from the Miami office. Are you a transfer, too?

  “No, I just interviewed for the auto insurance consultant position. What department are you in?” We’ve stopped outside the doors and need to step out of the way of people going in and out.

  An average-height man with a shaved head and a neck tattoo approaches us with a look that makes me long for the relative privacy of the glass interview room. As he passes, he says, “Looking good, Ceil!”

  “Not even in your pathetic dreams, Andrew,” she fires at him, holding up her middle finger without so much as a glance in his direction. This girl is my soul sister. “I work in sales. I’m Ceil.”

  She offers me her hand. Ceil is beautiful, with long, shiny, black hair that hangs to her waist and amazing brown eyes. Andrew might be an unprofessional ass, but he doesn’t lie; she does look good.

  “Caspian,” I tell her, shaking her outstretched hand.

  “You need to check out that store when you have time. Sometimes I go there on my lunch, so if you end up working here, we could go together. I don’t know many people yet, and as you probably noticed, there aren’t many women working here. I could use a shopping buddy.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Come to think of it, I was just about to drive through somewhere for food and then go walk around the store now if you want to join me,” she offers.

  I can’t believe how relieved I am. I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school, and I can tell that Ceil and I could really get on. “I would love that. Thank you so much!”

  Ceil drives a black Toyota MR2 soft-top that suits her. She takes us to a local drive-through chain that’s popular in Tucson. Ceil says the place is popular with the party crowd at night because it’s so cheap and it’s open late. I go for tacos, and she orders each of us a drink I’ve never heard of, Horchata. I’m in love after the first sip. It’s milky and cinnamon and rice. It’s essentially rice pudding in liquid form.

  We chat through the drive-thru and while walking through Marshalls. She moved here for a change of pace in her job, she doesn’t have family here, either, and she lives in an apartment near mine. I feel comfortable just existing with Ceil and am surprised that I haven’t once had to think about how to act or what to say or not say. I have one of the worst trucker mouths on a woman, and Ceil keeps right up.

  Walking through a clothing aisle, she grabs a pair of orange cargo pants and holds them up. “Aren’t these amazing?” she asks me enthusiastically.

  “Oh, god, no,” I laugh. “We have vastly different styles, aside from those beautiful loafers.”

  “You just don’t know what’s good,” she tells me with a chuckle.

  “Where could you even wear something like that?” I ask her, genuinely curious.

  “Everywhere but the office. We could hit a club, and the guys would flock to this jock,” she says matter-of-factly, holding the pants to her hips and dancing seductively. I can’t help but laugh.

  She swipes a loud printed scarf and some oversized yellow sunglasses off another rack and throws them on. “Or we could hit a coffee shop, and hipsters would line up to grind this bean,” she adds, thrusting obscenely against the accessories rack next to her.

  I’m downright crying with laughter by the time she’s done acting out all of the ways she will draw in her suitors. She’s free and uncontrolled in a way I have never been. It’s refreshing to be near someone like this.

  The sense of easy familiarity reminds me of Josh. I haven’t talked to my older brother in weeks, not since he told
me he was getting married. I’m genuinely happy for him, but I’m also shocked. It’s probably the first time I realized life goes on, even when you aren’t part of it. I remember with a little guilt that he doesn’t even know I’ve moved yet.

  I’ll call him this weekend. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, and now I’m not sure if my tears are from laughing or my thoughts of Josh. I wipe them away and pull Ceil along, making our way to the shoes. Ceil grabs the last pair of her loafers from the shelf, only these are a honey brown, and hers are black.

  “Size 10?”

  “Well, that was lucky!” I tell her. “I think I actually like the brown better,” I add, sliding them on my feet.

  “Me, too. They didn’t have a 7 in that color, so I bought the black,” Ceil says, lifting a pair of boots from the shelf.

  “It must be nice to have dainty feet,” I sigh, glancing at my watch. We’ve been gone 45 minutes. “We should check out. I don’t want to make you late. I’ll grab a cab from here so you don’t run over your hour.”

  “I don’t mind. Your place isn’t far.”

  When Ceil drops me off, we exchange numbers, and I find myself hoping more than ever to land this job.

  Chapter 5

  Dave called and offered me the job on Wednesday. I start on Monday, but tonight I’m going out to celebrate my success. I’m rolling out Alexis for the occasion, along with her definitive stacked, black, strappy heels. When I’m Alexis, I flaunt every single curve my momma gave me. I’ve always been 100 percent certain that songs like Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls” and AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” were written for me, even if they were before my time. I have thick “American” thighs, a great booty, and a small waist in comparison. When I’m Alexis, they’re the songs of my soul.

  I have packed myself into a red dress that fits just right. A little black dress is a nice girl’s best friend; a little red dress is a naughty girl’s best friend. This dress is the color of the devil’s lips. It’s form fitting, has a deep U neckline, and covers just enough to make guys and girls alike wonder what it would look like on the floor. My bare legs still glisten from the baby oil I used after my shower.

  My hair flows in loose old Hollywood waves down my back. I can’t stop myself from running my hands through it no matter how hard I try, so I skip the hairspray. My makeup is light, my lashes are big, and I’m currently painting my lips with Forbidden Love, the most perfect red ever created.

  When my driver pulls up to the curb, I pop the lipstick into my clutch, rate her 5 stars, and strut into the bar.

  Sliding myself onto a stool at the horseshoe-shaped bar, I signal the bartender and attempt to scan the crowd without being obvious. It’s a busy night, and it takes the bartender a few minutes to make his way to me and take my order, a coke with grenadine and a lime. I don’t drink. I like to keep a clear head and have never consumed anything that could alter my cognitive abilities. When the salt-and-pepper-haired man brings back my drink, I hand him cash and scan the crowd.

  My first hit makes eye contact and heads toward me while I sip my drink. The collar of his polo is popped, and I can smell his cliché body spray from across the room; it smells like a high school boys locker room. I hate him already. Every female over the age of puberty knows this spray, and while it’s acceptable until the age of 18, wearing it after is a surefire way of being labeled a fuckboy and ensuring no one will take you seriously.

  He’s perfect.

  While Fuckboy is introducing himself, the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen steps to the bar just past him. His mahogany skin is smooth and clear over his cheekbones, which are highlighted by the lights over the bar. His button-down shirt is stretched tight across his wide shoulders, and its long sleeves are cuffed halfway up his arms. He looks like he just walked off the set of a photo shoot for a magazine spread titled “From Office to Evening in 5 Minutes!” He orders a beer and doesn’t appear to notice me. I find this incredibly annoying. I can hear my new friend talking, but I’m busy searching the left hand of this mystery man for a ring. Surely, he’s married, and that’s why he’s standing four feet from me without seeing me.

  No ring. What the hell?! My curiosity is piqued in an unhealthy way that tells me I need to divert my attention back to the safety of Fuckboy. I’m about to do just that when Mr. Delphic’s eyes lazily flick up to mine, then to my new friend, and back to me. He hasn’t even looked down at my body, and this somehow adds to my interest.

  “Kick rocks, dude,” I tell the poor polo-popping fool without looking away from the beautiful stranger.

  Fuckboy follows my eyes to the mystery man and says, “You heard her, beat it.”

  “I meant you,” I tell him without looking away from Mr. Delphic. Our eyes are locked in battle, and I’m not sure if I’m the moth or the flame. Flame. I have never, nor will I ever be, a moth.

  Fuckboy is confused and asks, “Is he your boyfriend or something?”

  At this, Mr. Delphic’s lips turn up slightly into an amused smile. I’m starting to get irritated, so I have to break eye contact to drive my point home. “Or something. Fuck. Off.” I say the last two words slow and deliberate.

  When he finally steps away, Mr. Delphic takes the stool diagonal from mine and sips his beer. “I kind of feel bad for the guy. You could have at least told him your name and let him buy you a drink,” he says. I empty my glass, and he signals the bartender to bring another. His tone is casual, and he doesn’t seem to be affected by, or even interested in, my appearance. I would guess that he’s gay, but there was something in that stare that got my blood pumping.

  When the bartender slides me my drink, I slap a five into his hand; I will keep the upper hand in this situation by any means necessary.

  “Put it on my tab, Lou. Keep that as a tip,” he says.

  He must be a regular.

  “Do you come here and force women to let you buy them drinks often?”

  “Only when they look like they need one,” he replies with a wry smile.

  Have I made Alexis too stiff? No. Of course not.

  “There are other ways of helping me loosen up,” I reply, and our flirting is starting to give me an unfamiliar tingle.

  Alexis doesn’t get tingles. Alexis does an analysis: Attractive guy? Clean looking? Not too buff? No chance of ever seeing him again? Game on.

  My hand is swiping through my hair before I realize it, and I’m sure it’s ruffled out of place now. The warmth in my cheeks tells me they’ve flushed.

  I am losing it here. I need to move on.

  His eyes follow my hand and linger at the curls near my neck. “What’s your name?”

  “Alexis.”

  “Like the A.I.?” he asks, misunderstanding what I said.

  “Well, I am brilliant like her, but I have a few features she does not,” I say, shifting my weight on the barstool so that I can cross my legs. His eyes get dark as they follow my legs, and his hand gets tighter on his glass. So, he is human. My tingles are getting stronger, and I know I should leave. But I don’t want to.

  It’s just one guy. Just one night.

  His voice has gotten heavier when he replies, “So you do.”

  I feel someone knock into me and am suddenly plummeting from the barstool. I instinctively reach out to keep from falling to the floor, catching Mr. Delphic’s arm. The muscles flexing under his shirt as his hand wraps around my elbow sends a thrill through me. I remind myself not to go another year between hookups again. My traitorous body is reacting to his too easily.

  The drunk who banged into me is apologizing and holding my other arm when Mr. Delphic shoots him a murderous glare. The drunk drops my arm and puts his hands up in the universal signal for “my bad.” When I look back at Mr. Delphic, he’s quiet and looks to be debating something internally before telling me there’s a private room off the side of the bar that we can go to that’s quieter.

  “Lead the way, sir,” I say, following him around the bar.

 
With the sound of the door clicking shut behind us, I do a quick survey of the room. I am surprised by how comfortable it looks. I assumed it would be sleezy, but it looks like it rarely gets used. There’s a utilitarian style desk toward the back with a spiral bound ledger and a laptop, a couple of black chairs on this side of it, and a floral couch on the right wall that doesn’t quite seem to belong. In the back-left corner is another heavy-looking door with a deadbolt that I assume leads outside of the bar.

  He must know the owner.

  “I’m sorry about that guy. Lou will cut him off. Did he spill anything on your dress?” he asks, spinning me around to look for stains. I can’t help but admire the way his mahogany fingers look on my fair ginger arm. He’s warm and glowing. I’ve wished a thousand times that my mother would have given me her ginger hair instead of her ginger skin. You cannot bottle the good red, and here I am stuck with dirty blond hair that I have to add highlights to every eight weeks and pale skin that never tans, only burns.

  I slide my hands up both of his forearms and look up into his dark eyes. The light is dim in here, and I can’t make out their color. Alexis’s black wedges make me just over six feet tall, and he’s still got another inch or two on me. His hands fall to my waist, and his grip tightens when I move mine up to his chest and take a step closer. The carbonation from the soda feels very strange in my stomach tonight.

  When his hands slide down to my hips, I let out an embarrassing little gasp, and his mouth is on mine. I part my lips slightly, and it’s all the encouragement he needs to take the kiss deeper. His lips are like soft pillows against mine, and when he drags his tongue against the back of my teeth, I feel a tightening in long forgotten areas. I’m not aware we’re moving until I feel the back of my thighs hit the cold metal of the desk. It only takes a second for my hands to find the edge and steady myself as he lifts me up onto it. His strength is impressive and earns him a groan from me while I instinctively hook my leg around him.