All was not lost, yet.
Still queasy, I lay on my back and shoved my feet into my jeans, wiggling to get them done up. Once dressed, I folded Bad Boy’s towel and hung it over the end of his leather couch, taking in my surroundings for the first time. His bedroom may have been on the messy side, but the open kitchen/living room was simple and neat. But not homey. His white walls were harsh, not a photograph visible; only a couch, coffee table, and TV filled the space. There wasn’t even a dinner table or chairs.
The starkness was sad.
I’d made it clear this was a no-strings affair, but it was odd leaving him in bed, sleeping, this lonely apartment all he’d wake up to. No thank you note. No kiss goodbye. After he’d snapped that shot of my ass, and whatever had transpired between us, I’d never be able to meet his eyes anyway. Better to forget this ever happened.
As soon as I made it to the street, I pulled out my phone and called Gwen. Ainsley often worked on weekends, shopping for her clients. Plus Gwen’s “I know the bartender” was partly responsible for this fiasco.
Three rings later, she picked up. “Please tell me he was an epic lay.”
“I would, if I could remember what happened.”
“How much did you drink?”
“A buttload.” Which was an actual measurement of wine. A butt or barrel of wine held precisely one hundred and twenty-six gallons. Apparently when one drank a buttload they sent shots of their butt into cyberspace.
I cringed.
“Did you go shopping for dildos again?”
I was in no mood for her teasing. “Hilarious, but no. It was a thousand times worse than the dildo.” People jostled me as I scoped the street and realized I was only a few blocks from my place. Funny how I could live so close to a man as hot as Bad Boy and never have run into him. “I did a bad thing, and I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I need you to talk me off the ledge.”
I spilled my shame as I walked home, prompting Gwen to laugh for a solid three minutes. “That,” she panted between breaths, “goes down as one of your more epic drunk sprees. I still don’t understand how you could have forgotten the entire sexcapade, unless he wasn’t good. Then it’s for the best. But what a waste of a one-night stand.”
“That’s the least of my problems.” It was like she hadn’t even heard the part about my butt crack sent to my boss. At least focusing on that horror allowed me to ignore Bad Boy’s participation in my fall from grace. Mortification to the nth degree.
I stopped in front of my apartment, the sidewalk bending under my still-inebriated gaze. “What if my boss gets the email? What will I do?”
“Move to Siberia.”
I giggled, even though there was nothing amusing about this situation. The giggle grew, an uncontrollable laugh quaking my body, culminating in an unattractive snort. My world was about to come crashing down, and I had to squeeze my knees together to stop from piddling on the street.
“You really are still drunk, aren’t you?” Gwen’s amusement didn’t help.
I was still drunk. And anxious, the latter responsible for my mad cackle—aka my nervous laugh that was a cross between a wheezing emphysema patient and a two-year-old giggling at a fart joke. Gwen and Ainsley loved to get me going, if only to witness The Cackle in action.
“Yes,” I said, my laughter under control, my anxiety unfortunately not. “Definitely still drunk. And freaked out.”
“Okay,” she said, adopting her I’m serious voice, “I get that. But can we discuss this whole job thing a sec?”
“Maybe…” I pressed my back against my apartment’s brick exterior. It was either that or slide to the sidewalk. I readied myself for a dose of Gwen Truth.
Gwen was an expert at reading people. She worked at an adoption agency and spent her days interviewing candidates, making sure babies landed in the right homes. She also called me on my bullshit. When I’d convinced myself becoming a tattoo artist was my calling—I’d always been able to draw, and no diploma was needed—she’d dragged me into a parlor, ranting that I couldn’t tattoo others without knowing how it felt.
We no longer spoke of the incident.
She cleared her throat. “Fact is, you hate being a loan officer. You hate it more than when you had to perform reiki on the creep with the perma hard-on, and probably more than that Thai massage gig. I don’t even know how you touched those hairy guys. Granted, going out with this epic sendoff isn’t ideal, but it will force you to find something better. You need to make a change.”
A change I’d wished for last night. Maybe this was another form of Russian roulette, with my job instead of drinking to unleash Reckless Rachel. My boss may get my email. He may not. If he did, I’d be forced to realize my wish, which was more like a New Year’s resolution. It would compel me to face my future head on, ready or not. But having a paycheck while researching careers would be preferable.
The bruise on my tailbone pulsed. I winced as the throbbing along my temples renewed. “I planned on quitting eventually, just not flashing my boss in the process, and not without a plan. Every time I’ve been fired or I’ve quit, I haven’t had anything lined up. I think that’s why I’ve rushed into jobs. The pressure, maybe? The need to make rent forced me into bad situations.”
“I know, love. I’m sorry you mooned your boss.”
Words I never thought I’d hear.
I almost asked her about the power outage that had followed our wishes, if she’d felt a change in the air, too. It could have been the drinks or my desire to believe something bigger would help change my life, but I could have sworn a wisp of magic had danced up my arms. Better not to admit that out loud. Especially since that type of thinking was probably responsible for my drunken lapse in judgment.
Gwen suggested I inhale Advil and water before we hung up. An excellent idea. When this hangover wore off, I’d feel better. I’d play job roulette and hope for the best. If that butt shot disappeared in cyberspace, I’d put the incident behind me. I’d move on from this catastrophic night. Considering I had no memory of the sex-fest with Bad Boy, and I’d never see him again, forgetting it would be a cinch.
But my phone pinged when I opened my apartment door. A message from my boss greeted me: I wouldn’t use me as a reference.
Four
Rachel
Monday morning arrived to the tune of UB40’s “Red Red Wine,” the soundtrack to my downfall. Ignoring the subliminal message trilling from my alarm, I spent the morning reorganizing. My wardrobe consisted of blocks of order—nine-piece ensembles that could carry me from day to night to day again with the switch of an accessory. After I arranged each outfit by season, I polished the glasses on my open shelves and set them in perfect lines. Then I made my bed, tucking my lilac sheets snug enough to please a sergeant.
My goal: If I kept my visible life in order, the underlying mess may go unnoticed.
With those tasks completed, I scrolled the internet for possible jobs: Professional butter sculptor? Dog behaviorist? Pornography historian? Maybe I’d start a national walk-a-thon, all proceeds donated to Unemployed Girls with Bad Judgment.
Every few minutes, I’d dirty-look my wine fridge. Nope. Never drinking again. But the bottles prompted me to search winemaking careers. The notion of selecting grapes, overseeing the crushing and fermentation process, of bringing joy to people through each glass, was tempting. Wine also reminded me of my father, nights uncorking bottles the most vivid memories I had. The more I learned about wine, the closer I felt to him. Sometimes I’d pour a glass of a delicious new discovery by his gravestone.
My throat burned, a familiar sadness engulfing me. He’d missed another birthday. Another year of family dinners and baseball games. Some things never got easier.
Including the prospect of returning to school.
Two to three years of full-time studies, followed by an apprenticeship, when most of my endeavors had lasted but a few months, didn’t make sense. Piling school loans on top of my rent and bills wasn
’t feasible, either. Not when I was determined to support myself. Frustrated with my fruitless searching, I plunked my forehead on my desk.
My cell rang.
The sight of my mother’s name dampened my mood further. If I answered her, I’d have to admit I’d gotten fired again. Or had I quit? I didn’t even know the truth of it. But delaying the inevitable seemed like more headache than it was worth. And I’d ignored her call last night…
Steeling my nerves, I pressed Talk. “Hey, Ma.”
“I might be late for lunch today. If you get to Andros first, get us a table outside.”
Crap. Lunch. I squeezed my eyes shut. So overwrought, I’d forgotten my mother wanted to treat me to a belated birthday outing. “Not sure I can make it.”
Or deal with her crazy.
“Nonsense. We planned this weeks ago. I’ll see you later.”
She hung up. I stared at nothing and cursed my life.
An hour later, I waited at Andros, dressed in my gray skirt, heels, and white blouse, as though I’d come from the job I no longer had. My mother breezed in, oblivious to my deception.
She slung her massive purse over the back of her chair with a sigh. Her blond hair was sprayed into a solid block, her painted-on eyebrows and pink lipstick likely to melt in the heat. “I wouldn’t have been late, but the cleaning lady came today. Last time she made my bed, she put the pillows backward, so I had to show her again how I like it. I swear, I should just do it myself.”
Lydia Kates majored in melodrama. “Why don’t you?”
She raised one eyebrow, a skill I could never master. “You know how busy I am with the Healing Hearts luncheon. I’m not Superwoman. I’ve had to spend time with Alyssa, too. Things have been tough for her at home.”
I could mention five to ten hours of volunteering a week shouldn’t limit her from making beds and mopping the floor, but I’d pushed her to get involved. Helping raise money for the heart disease that took my father’s life had been her first step to regaining hers, and she’d met women like Alyssa through the foundation. Other women who’d suffered loss. I’d never belittle the effort.
“And did I tell you,” she went on, “that your aunt Sarah’s sister-in-law, Dahlia, just got diagnosed with liver cancer? Not even fifty, and The Cancer? If life were fair, those reality stars with their skimpy clothes and sex videos would get The Cancer, not poor Dahlia.”
I winced as others glanced our way, judgment in their pinched faces. My mother only had one volume—loud nasal—and on a scale from one to Mel Gibson, the woman’s inappropriateness hovered at Charlie Sheen. “I wouldn’t go wishing cancer on people, Ma.”
“Anyway,” she said, talking over me, “I’ve just been a wreck and need to drop off some soup this week, so I’ll make extra. You’re looking thin, Rachel. Have you been cooking? I bet you’re eating nothing but takeout.”
The waiter arrived in time to save me the agony of listening to her concerns—your arms are too thin, your skin looks pale, are you sleeping all right? She’d tutted around my brother and me growing up, but this anxiety, this worry someone would get sick or hurt or worse, had developed since we lost my dad. I always let her fuss. Unless she took a page from Ainsley and commented on my boring clothes. I’d take “plain Jane” any day over wearing my mother’s fuchsia blazer, complete with shoulder pads and a brooch the size of my face.
Our waiter smiled, clueless to his approaching doom. “Ready to order?”
He proceeded to write a novel on his order pad, ensuring my mother got her dressing on the side, roasted red peppers instead of red onion, green olives instead of black, no salt or feta, and an addition of chicken—poached, not seared—in her salad.
I smiled and said, “The regular Greek is fine for me.”
“Modifications are not a problem.” He gave me a wink. “I aim to please.”
Normally his blatant flirting would be cute. His strong nose and sharp cheekbones made him easy on the eyes, but attraction eluded me. I couldn’t help thinking of the tattooed back and sexy behind I’d left naked in bed two mornings ago. My mind may have been a blank where that night was concerned, but it was as though my body had perfect recall, my pulse revving for another glimpse of him. I shook the unpleasant thought away and ordered a glass of Riesling.
My no drinking motto lasted a whole two days.
My mother took the moment to latch onto the other thing I’d have preferred to avoid like the plague. “Have you spoken with your boss about a raise? You’ve put in three months, and no one works harder than my girl. If he doesn’t give you a raise soon, you’ll have to demand one.”
Time for the lies. “Three months isn’t that long, Ma.”
“Nonsense. Three months is long enough for him to know you’re a star.”
“I think you’re biased.”
“It’s God’s honest truth, Rachel. Any competent boss would see it.”
“That’s not how the business works.”
“Of course it is. You just need to stand up for what you deserve. Prove you’re not a wallflower.”
Pretty sure I’d proven that with my butt shot. “Enough, Ma. I’m not demanding a raise.” But her faith in me warmed my heart.
She lifted her chin, squinting in her all-seeing way, and that warmth seeped out. The woman knew something was up. The time I’d told her I was staying at Lexi Wallcott’s, my eyelid had twitched so incessantly my mother followed me to the house party and dragged me out by my ear.
My lying skills were up there with my ability to moonwalk.
I unfolded my napkin and smoothed it on my lap. I rearranged my cutlery next, avoiding my mother’s gaze. The flirty waiter brought me my wine, and I took a lengthy sip. I didn’t stop to smell the bouquet or swirl my glass, didn’t pick apart the nuances. But as the liquid slid down my throat, an image flashed, sharp and short: Bad Boy’s body against mine as he licked wine from my lips. Heat spiked between my thighs, the sensation potent and lingering. I could almost taste him, almost feel his fingers digging into my hips.
“Did you get fired?”
I plunked my glass down so hard, liquid sprayed my face. My mother didn’t miss a darn thing. I dabbed my nose with my napkin, planning my reply, but part of me wanted to savor that fleeting glimpse of my one-night stand. Flustered, I excused myself to the bathroom.
Where I washed my hands three times.
I could keep up my ruse, attempting to lie about my job, but there was no point. I’d played job roulette, and I lost. And maybe this was my destiny. Maybe my wish, the blackout, and Reckless Rachel had all happened for a reason. Inexplicable twists of fate occurred all the time. Just like my father’s final voice message.
Our last physical conversation had been a fight over Gabe, an encounter I hated to relive. But Dad had left me a message afterward. The day he passed away, he called to apologize. To say he loved me, only wanted what was best for me. Two hours later, he fell on his treadmill, his heart too weak to keep him with us. He’d treated my brother to a surprise lunch that day, had sent my mother flowers. He’d almost said his goodbyes as though he knew his time was up.
Maybe my actions were subconscious, too. The blackout at the club could have been more than coincidence. It could have bewitched our wishes, a higher power guiding our lives. The embarrassing stunt that had led me here could have been a mortifying type of fate.
Fate that became clearer when my eyes locked on a poster.
The same flyer I’d seen at the bar with Bad Boy was taped to the wall—the sommelier contest to earn a position at three San Francisco restaurants. Vibrating with nerves and the urge to touch Bad Boy that night, I’d busied my hands by plucking at the corner of the page, reading and re-reading the advertisement. I read it again now, more intently.
Working in a restaurant wasn’t ideal—my waitressing gigs in school had involved many forgotten orders and bad tips—but my current predicament shrunk my options. I had no job, no prospects, and being a sommelier wasn’t like being a server
. Talking wine with customers could be fun. Exciting even.
A seed of possibility planted itself behind my breastbone and grew. There was no going back from here. Only forward.
I also had a resolution to fill by next April.
I returned to my seat and clasped my hands on the table. “I wasn’t fired,” I told my mother. “I quit.”
Which was in fact true.
Her hand shot to her heart. “You were doing so well. Finally working toward something. I’m sure if you explain it was a lapse in judgment, your boss will rehire you.”
“Ma…”
“Tell him you haven’t been well. Take a week off if needed.”
“Ma…”
“Promise it won’t happen again. A reasonable man will understand.”
“Ma, I’m not groveling for my job. I quit because I hate being a loan officer.”
More truth offered.
She sagged, her shoulder pads curving forward. “I’m sorry. I just hate seeing you so unsettled. I only want the best for you.”
A heartfelt admission that echoed my father’s last words.
I wrapped my hand around her clenched fist. Her wedding ring nestled between my fingers. “I appreciate your concern, but I quit because…I have something lined up. Something I’ll actually enjoy.” I sipped my Riesling, notes of honeysuckle and wet stone lingering on my tongue, the memory of Bad Boy lingering, too.
My mother tilted her head and studied me. “If you have a job lined up, why lie about it?”
“It’s something new. I wanted to get settled before mentioning it.” There was no point discussing the sommelier contest unless I won. Admitting I’d failed at something else would only add fuel to her overprotective fire, and the lie tangled with enough fact to be passable.
She nodded, appeased. “If this doesn’t work out, I’m calling in a favor with Uncle Charlie. You’re twenty-seven, Rachel. It’s time to plant some roots. Mitchell works his tail off at his firm. It’s not fun, but he knows what he needs to do to succeed. You’ll have time for the fun stuff later.”
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 4