Bad Boy Benefits: A Standalone Little Sister's Best Friend Romance

by JD Hawkins

  “I hate to disappoint both of you,” I say calmly. “But I’m likely not seeing Asher again.”

  Harriet looks at Brent, who shrugs, and then she says, “No problem. I mean… It would be good if you did.”

  “But it isn’t an issue if you don’t.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Photos last forever, and these ones have legs.”

  “Your profile has been ‘raised’ already by this.”

  “And unless you do something really embarrassing.”

  “Like, ‘get drunk and storm a televised awards show in a clown costume’ embarrassing…”

  “Then this is nothing but good for us.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Harriet and I have a ton of ideas for the publicity campaign running up to the launch.”

  “And this whole thing gives us so much momentum to work with.”

  “Right.”

  They stop again, looking at me expectantly.

  “Momentum?” I say, skeptically. “Isn’t the launch over six months away?”

  They share a look that is this time conspiratorial.

  “Brent and I have been working really hard at this.”

  “Yeah. Like day and night hard.”

  “We could launch it in three.”

  “Three months?” I exclaim. “I haven’t even gotten my preliminary designs down.”

  “You should work on that, then.”

  They nod eagerly like puppies.

  “It would actually be better to launch sooner,” Brent says.

  “We’d catch the seasonal changes,” Harriet adds.

  “Cheaper to stock our stores in advance.”

  “Better ad-rates, too.”

  “And especially now that we can work with all this recent attention.”

  “There’s just one thing missing,” Harriet says, her voice slowing cautiously.

  I take a moment before asking, her tone worrying me a little.

  “What thing?”

  She doesn’t even look at Brent now, but simply winces as she says, “The actual jewelry. Even if you had your designs ready to go, we still have to find a manufacturer. No supply chain, no sales.”

  “We sort of left it to you because… Well, you did say you wanted to handle that yourself.”

  “But if you’re too busy, we have a few ideas for already-made designs you could approve that would have your name on them—”

  “Stop right there,” I say, raising a palm to interrupt Harriet. “If I said I’d handle it, I’ll handle it. There’s no chance I’m putting something out with my name and somebody else’s taste. I’m not curating this collection, I’m designing it. From the ground up.”

  “We’ve gathered some catalogs already,” Brent says, ignoring me.

  “We were actually going to put together like a little ‘report’ today,” Harriet says.

  “So that you could go through and choose.”

  “Make it easy for you.”

  “Some of them are stunning.”

  “Though the best ones are smaller manufacturers.”

  “So there are issues around quantity, even if we want to go for a capsule collection that’s limited release…”

  I’m not even listening to them now, drifting off into my own thoughts. The plain, obvious fact is that good jewelry is hard to come by. Even harder when it’s unique. Virtually impossible to find pieces that are well made, unique, affordable, and exclusive for me to put my name onto. All the reports and catalogs Brent and Harriet can make won’t change the simple economics of fashion. And anything less than spectacular simply isn’t an option—I’ll torch the whole idea before I put my birth name on something ugly. All of which means I have only one option…

  How ironic, I think to myself. There I was worrying that everything that had happened with Toby threatened my very self-identity, as a woman with utter self-control and composure. A woman who knows exactly what she wants, and even more exactly what she doesn’t. A woman who could say no to any man, because none of them have anything she wants. And now Toby might be my only chance to maintain my self-identity as a woman of taste and excellence.

  My jewelry line failing isn’t an option. That means I need to work with him. Better to eat a little humble pie in front of Toby than the entire world. Whether that’s the only thing he’ll make me do is the question…or perhaps whether I’m opposed to doing it is.

  “Excuse me,” I say, picking up my phone and standing up, “I have to make a call.”

  “We can leave,” Harriet says.

  “No.” I smile. “I’ll need some fresh air for this one.”

  I take the elevator down and move through the lobby, my mind still churning over what exactly to say when I arrive out on the street, so that I pace a little before I make my call, high heels clicking purposefully on the sidewalk.

  I hit dial, and Toby answers after the second ring.

  “Maeve?” he says, and I hear the chatter of his shop quickly disappear as he moves somewhere quieter.

  “You sound surprised to hear from me.”

  “Unless you’re calling just to fuck with me then yeah, I am.”

  I laugh and say, “Oh sweetie, when have I ever been cruel?”

  Now he laughs, but there’s something different in it. A little less enjoyment in our back-and-forth, a little more gentleness. I start to wonder if he’s genuinely hurt by our call last night, but discard the thought as soon as it occurs.

  The only thing I could hurt on Toby is his ego.

  “Strange timing,” he says. “That’s all.”

  “How so?”

  “I was just thinking…that we should talk.”

  I grimace as he says it, a hand to my face. I sigh heavily. Already this conversation is going the wrong way.

  “Ugh…Toby…” I say, trying to find the right angle. “I need your help… Which means I need you—us—to be able to operate at least a little normally… As normal as we used to be, at least. But if you—we—can’t…then it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just find another way.”

  “No, of course,” he answers quickly. “I’ll help you. What is it?”

  “It’s fine,” I say, almost apologetic now. “Forget it. I don’t want this to get messy again. And I definitely don’t want you to feel like I’m…using or…manipulating you.”

  “Maeve,” Toby says, his voice firm, no longer gentle. “You’re my sister’s best friend. I’ve known you for over six years. I might be a dumbass, but I still have priorities. If you need help, I’ll help you. I’m…at least trying to do the right thing from now on.”

  There’s something weighty about the way he says the last sentence, as if it’s a smaller part of something bigger, and I’m not sure whether to take it as ominous or encouraging.

  “Okay. Well. It’s the jewelry line,” I say. “The plan is to launch in three months now, and I haven’t got a single piece in my collection. I need it to be great, Toby. And I’m sure you of all people know how hard it is to find—”

  “Say no more. I’ll fix that. We’ll fix it. No problem.”

  The ease and confidence with which he says it assures me more than anything.

  “Okay. Good. I’d be extremely grateful,” I say, only realizing how insinuating it could sound once the words leave my lips.

  “Tomorrow,” he says. “Friday. Can you come to my shop after closing time—eight? I usually stay late on Fridays to do the bookkeeping. I could leave the stock out instead of securing it away so we can look through it, talk design and logistics.”

  “That…sounds perfect actually.”

  “Tomorrow then,” Toby confirms, conclusively, as if everything between us is forgotten now in lieu of his desire to help. “Don’t worry, Maeve. I’ll make sure you get the best.”

  I hesitate a moment before responding, and he hangs up, as if there’s nothing more to say. Perhaps not. But I suddenly feel like there’s a whole lot that could still happen.

  17
r />   Toby

  Nine p.m. I’m sitting in the backroom, in the dim glow of a standing lamp. All the jewelry cases are still laid out in front on the sales floor and the bright lights are on there, but the front windows have been emptied and the security grills are rolled down and locked, horizontal metal shutters blocking out the light from the street. I texted Maeve a couple of hours ago telling her to use the side entrance.

  I sent Sharon home early, then did a rush job on the bookkeeping that I’ll double-check on Monday. Did I tell Maeve eight or nine? Why would she take her time? She seemed pretty panicked about the whole thing on the phone.

  I’ve spent the past hour in a state of agitation. Tension building up as slowly and as surely as the minute hand is moving on the big clock in the shop, which I check every minute. I’ve already laid out a bunch of pieces to show Maeve on cloths around the shop, pacing back and forth and changing a few of them up, sitting and jogging my knee for a few minutes before bouncing out of my chair to pace again. I’m feeling like a caged animal, a boxer before a fight, a last day on death row.

  I’m not going to tell her. Not tonight, at least. Even though that bizarre talk with Hazel made it clear in my mind that I need to. It would be a dick move to tell her how I’m feeling just when she needs me most—when she needs me to be a friend (and only that). And I’m not interested in hearing what she thinks unless it’s the truth, unless the playing field is fair. Besides, it’s not like I’m in a rush to open myself up to be crushed anyway.

  So not tonight, but I can still show her I care. I would have helped her out even before all of this began. I might be flaky, crude, irresponsible, sex-obsessed and as emotionally sophisticated as a pubescent boy—but I’m also generous. I’ve always liked helping people. I’d give anyone the shirt off my back. Maybe it’s that I’ve always found the best things in life rarely last, so you may as well pass them around when you can.

  Now that Maeve’s given me the ideal opportunity to show off one of my best attributes, I’m not going to pass that up. I want her jewelry launch to be even more spectacular than she does. Just knowing how happy that would make her, how much it means to her. Thinking about her being happy…even if she ends up crushing me, I want that.

  I jump out of my seat and do another lap around the shop, checking the clock, checking my watch. Then one more time. Then back into the backroom, where I slump down into the couch we squeezed in between the two large, cluttered desks.

  It’s not that she’s a little late—we never made the time concrete. It’s not the waiting. It’s not even the fact that I’m not used to sitting around and doing nothing. It’s that the more I’m here, alone, expecting her, the more chance there is for my mind to wander, and go places that can only cause trouble.

  Three knocks at the door. Hard and fast. Almost impatient.

  I’m on my feet and across the room like I just caught fire, pausing with my hand above the doorknob to take a breath, then opening it.

  “You ready?” she asks.

  I have to stop myself from smiling at the sight of her. It feels like forever since I have. Too long. Even the vivid, detailed, and vibrant way she’s burned into my memory not quite capturing the experience of being near her, of seeing her for real.

  She’s dressed simply, and yet she’s perfect. Tight black jeans, the rip on one knee revealing a glimpse of skin. A loose, striped, soft pink sweater than hangs over her shoulders and arms like a robe, making even the smallest movement seem like some graceful bird-dance. A small black purse and a pair of high-heeled sandals that reveal her pretty feet, her delicate ankles that I once had my teeth on…

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” I say, standing aside for her to enter. “I’ve been waiting.”

  She steps past, eyes revealing nothing but still painfully beautiful. I catch a wisp of her perfume as she passes and it stirs something deep and animal in me that I have to force back down.

  I close the door as she steps carefully past the piles of boxes, glancing around the backroom.

  “Thanks for doing this,” she says, her keen, observant eyes scanning the cluttered desks, the worn couch, the cabinets lining the walls. “We’ll compensate you, of course.”

  I glare at her so hard she notices and stops looking around to stare back, my offense written all over my face. It would be a bad enough suggestion if she were just a friend, but with all the other stuff, the idea of “compensating” me feels like a kick in the teeth. A way of distancing herself, a way of pretending I’m not doing her a personal favor. And there’s the “we”—as if there’s someone else with her right now, and she’s not alone with me, as if it was never about just the two of us.

  “If I was doing this for money, I wouldn’t be doing it,” I say firmly.

  She picks up on my tone and smiles, looking away as if recalculating.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. “I just wanted to show my appreciation somehow—and this is company business, so it’ll come from Harrold’s.”

  I decide to let it slide, but the distance it created between us remains. So this is how we’re gonna play it, huh… I step past her into the shop.

  “I’ve laid out some stuff you might be interested in,” I say, now using the same tone I use for first-time business meetings, formal and calm. “We’re not going to complete anything tonight, but if you give me an idea of what you like—stones, metals, designs—then I can sketch some stuff up for you later and then we can look at getting some samples.”

  She follows me into the shop, where I’ve stopped next to one of the cloths I’ve laid out. She’s still clutching her purse like she’s a casual shopper just dropping by, and the tension between us is a little uncomfortable, as if we both want to be elsewhere now.

  I watch her eyes carefully take in the pieces, studying them as if reading them. She says nothing for a while, and my mind goes back to just a few weeks ago when she came into my shop looking for a gift. How animated and effusive she was back then, how easy and electrifying our relationship was, and how different it is now.

  I take a step back so she can see the next layout. She says nothing, reveals nothing. I step back again so she can move to the next. Nothing.

  “You don’t like anything here?” I ask finally.

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  She frowns. “They’re not me.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means that this jewelry is going to have my name attached. It has to represent the same things I do.”

  I let out a quick chuckle.

  “Something with spikes then?” I quip. “Jewelry you could use as a weapon?”

  Her eyes dart up toward me, that slight, composed smile. And suddenly that tension between us seems even more dangerous, but slightly more enjoyable. She steps away from the counter and moves around the shop, making her own route around the things I’ve laid out. I stand back and watch her. Trying not to think of the haughty grace of her body. Struggling not to get sucked in to her allure.

  “Something like this might work,” she says, finally taking off her purse and putting it on the counter to pick up a bracelet. I move beside her as she turns it in her fingers. It’s a complex, Victorian-style gold bangle engraved with floral swirls, gypsy set stones all around. “Tell me about these gems.”

  “That’s actually a pretty classic piece—blue zircons, Australian opals… It’s the pearl that makes it work, though—the opaque whiteness bridging the metal and stones well but still allowing the colors to pop.”

  She glances at me, only for a second, but I can see she’s impressed a little.

  “How expensive would something like this be?”

  “Expensive,” I say. “Around five thousand, though I could discount it about twenty percent if the mood strikes. There are millions of dollars’ worth of jewelry out here on the counters—but better to work from the top down. You find pieces you like and I’ll find the closest substitutes for
your budget.”

  She puts the bracelet down and moves away from the counter. I stand back and watch her look around some more. It’s like a dance now, her moving like some bird between branches, me waiting for her to be still a moment before I come close again.

  There’s noise outside, cars and people, but faint through the slats of the security grills, so I’ve tuned it out. My focus on her, the only sound I hear is the soft knock of her heels against the carpeting of the shop.

  “Oh,” she exclaims, with uncharacteristic emotion, immediately darting toward one of the counters. “Now this is exciting…”

  She picks up a chandelier earring of delicate but intricate design. Small diamonds but a lot of them, bristling light against a golden bezel frame that gleams like liquid. She holds it aloft and I see a glimpse of her expression—eyes wide and lips parted—that I’d only ever seen before when we…

  She turns away to move toward the large mirror near the entrance of the shop and hold the earrings up beside her face there.

  “Dim the lights,” she says.

  “What?”

  “The lights,” she says, not taking her eyes from the mirror. “They’re too bright. Jewelry always looks good in the bright light of a shop, but who actually wears it in such conditions? I want people to love my jewelry, not just buy it.”

  I smile as I move to the switches, not telling her that I believe just the same, that I never buy a piece I haven’t seen in the natural light of day, that the shaded standing lamps I have in the shop aren’t just for show, aren’t just for their antique aesthetic.

  I turn off the ceiling lights until there’s just one in the far corner of the shop lending a dim glow, the light from the backroom seeping in from the other corner. We’re almost in pitch-black for a few moments until I turn on a standing lamp.

  Now the shop is dark, the light low, warm, and soft. A different place. One with shadows and secrets. The jewelry glimmers in the dark as if we’ve invited spirits into this place. I look over at Maeve and see that her eyes shine now, slivers catching her blonde hair, the curves of her body revealing and hiding themselves with an erotic power that turns me dumb and simple.