Foolproof

by Jennifer Blackwood

  The plane pulled up to the terminal and the fasten seatbelt sign clicked off. Would the flight attendants really notice if I stayed on the plane and got off at the Seattle stop while my luggage circled around baggage claim and my dad stewed in the car? I’d heard about people stowing away on airlines, couldn’t be too hard. Anything seemed like a better option than spending my summer at home with Dad, working at the store. The only reason I was home and not back in Texas, crashing with friends, was the fact that everyone went home for the summer, and I didn’t have a job there. No money equaled summer from hell at home.

  An elderly lady sitting to my left tapped my shoulder, giving a short reprieve from the Ryan Pity Party. “Excuse me, could you help me with my bag?” She pointed to the overhead compartment. “The purple one.”

  “Sure.” I unbuckled and opened the bin. I stared at the mass of impatient people shuffling toward the exit of the plane, most of them waiting for me to get out of their way. Probably had people who were excited to see them at home. Dad made it clear about his stance on my arrival—pure disappointment and disdain. The only double Ds I didn’t enjoy. But as my soccer coach would say, I needed to nut up and get my head in the game. Game plan: get the hell out of Spring Hill as fast as I could.

  I reached in the overhead bin and grabbed a purple bag and handed it to the lady. She smiled and said, “Thank you, sweetie.”

  I nodded and grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment. The lady reminded me of my grandma, my favorite part of coming home. If I was smart, I would have taken her offer to stay in her spare bedroom this summer but didn’t want to make more work for her. If I knew her, she’d be cooking me breakfast every morning and sewing more quilts for the guest bed. With her arthritis, she needed to be taking it easy.

  After disembarking the plane and making my way to baggage claim, I picked up my two suitcases with everything I hadn’t boxed up and shipped back to Spring Hill. Dad’s car sat in the short-term parking lot, the black Hummer dwarfing the two hybrids on either side. Showy bastard. Just because he rolled in the dough didn’t mean he needed to kill the environment in the process.

  I opened the trunk and heaved my suitcases into the back. Closing it harder than I needed, I made my way around the side and got in the car, Dad’s tropical Hawaiian air freshener stinging my eyes like pepper spray.

  “Hi, Dad.” I wiped at my eyes and hid my nose in the collar of my shirt.

  He grunted in response. After paying for parking, Dad pulled onto the five and drove toward home. His home.

  We made it halfway to the house before he spoke. “How was your flight?”

  “No crying babies, so good.”

  “Good.”

  “Yep.”

  I knocked my head into the back of my seat. I expected the cold shoulder, the disappointment that hung off his clipped words, but it still stung.

  We pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes later. He made his way into the house, slamming the garage door to the house behind him. Dad had really honed his brush-off skills, really took it to the next level. It’d been a long time since we’d been on good terms—about seven years ago, before Mom left us for her personal trainer, Hans. A fucking guy named Hans.

  After extracting my bags from the back, I shoved through the door and waddled toward the stairs, the two suitcases clutched in my arms.

  Dad called from his office, which lay adjacent to the stairs, “I left something for you in your room. A coming home present.” He sat at his desk, typing on his computer, like any normal day. If normal days counted as his only son comes home from college on a permanent hiatus.

  “Okay?” Dad wasn’t the present type. Last one I got was a trip to Mexico for high school graduation, and I was pretty sure that was only so I’d be out of his hair for a week.

  “Dinner’s at seven. We’re having Luigi’s.”

  “Sounds good.” I half expected him to ask me to chip in.

  When he didn’t say anything else, I lugged the suitcases up the stairs and dropped them in the middle of my room. A book sat in the middle of my bed. Career 101 with a sticky note plastered in the middle. I ripped it off and read it. Make good use of this.

  Bend me over and call me Betty. This summer was going to suck ass.

  Chapter Three

  Jules

  “Jules, do you have a minute?” My boss, Jack DeShane, motioned for me to come into his office when I got to work the following day. My stomach dipped as I strode toward his office, my gaze catching Mike’s picture under the Employee of the Month plaque. God, I hoped he was okay. Hopefully Jack hadn’t heard about the epic fail of a 911 call. A wave of panic zipped through my veins, my heart shifting into overdrive. The last thing I needed was to be jobless the second week of summer.

  If things had gone according to plan, I would be at my hot-guy-mecca of a job selling protein powder and muscle aids, not heckling people about buying ink and printers. But that plan backfired when my old boss, Josh, went from best boss ever to a douche canoe when I’d asked for four weeks of personal time off. Instead of asking why I’d needed the time, he booted me out faster than a drunk passed out at a bar. I learned quickly that when life gave you lemons, it squeezed them in your eye and rubbed some salt in there for good measure.

  With a two-year lease on my apartment and no more financial backing from my parents, keeping this job was imperative. And unless I wanted to spend the next couple months working at Uncle Clint’s auto body shop, getting hit on by Creeper Sam With The Neck Tat for the sixth summer in a row, paying my half of the rent from a thousand miles away, I needed to put my best foot forward.

  I sat down in the chair across from Jack and relished a few minutes of being off my feet, scanning his office. Service and community awards hung along the walls along with pictures of him shaking hands with the mayor. A photograph of him and another guy his age on a yacht, holding fishing rods, was on the wall behind his desk.

  He scribbled something on a pad of paper and looked up at me. “Mike will be out for a few weeks. He had a minor heart attack and needs some time to rest.”

  I cracked my knuckles, a habit I never kicked from when I was a teen, and peeled my gaze from the pic of the dream boat. My throat tightened, but I squeezed out the question that had clouded my thoughts for the past day, ever since the taillights of the ambulance disappeared on Cornell Boulevard. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Yes, but in the meantime, we’re getting a new employee. My son, Ryan, is back for break and will be filling in while Mike is out on leave.”

  Jack squinted at his Rolex on his fake-and-bake crisped skin. Dang. I never knew office supply stores were lucrative. “He should be here any minute. Just wanted to give you a heads up.”

  “Thanks, Mr. DeShane.”

  He nodded, the skin around his baby blues crinkling when he smiled. “Call me Jack. And, no problem, but let’s make sure no one else ends up in the hospital this week.”

  A nervous laugh escaped my lips that sounded like an old man wheezing his way through the nursing home to get to Bingo Night. “Yes, sir.” He was kidding, right? I checked again, a small smile still on his lips. Okay, he was, but I couldn’t help feeling a little responsible.

  “Have a good day.” He went back to typing on his computer, and I took that as the cue to leave.

  I stepped out of the office and into the main store, already missing the refuge of the chair. Blisters be damned, I always wore heels to work because, no matter how you cut it, work pants didn’t look the same with flats. After a six hour shift, my feet blazed like Satan himself had taken a torch to my toes, but at least I did my pants justice. One thing in my life I had firm control over.

  With a quick scan of the store, this Ryan person proved to be an elusive creature. I already knew the other employees, so it shouldn’t have been too hard to spot someone new and most likely close to my age in an ugly lime green shirt that made anyone wearing it look jaundiced.

  As I walked around the counter to my spot
at Customer Service, a deep thumping bass vibrated outside the store, the beat rattling my chest. I looked out the window as a silver Honda Civic rolled into a spot in the parking lot, and the driver cut the engine.

  The door swung open, and out poured a guy who looked like he should be on Greek Row making the walk of shame rather than going to work. I assumed this was Ryan, because a) in the two weeks I’d worked here I had yet to see a guy under twenty-five come in before nine a.m. and b) he had an Office Jax shirt draped over his shoulder—always a good sign. His wrinkled gray T-shirt hung loose on his chest, and his jeans were a little baggy. The guy looked like shit. He kicked his door shut and sauntered toward the warehouse, staring at his phone the entire time.

  Once he got through the sliding doors, I called out, “Morning.”

  He kept staring at his phone and waved his hand in the air dismissively. The hell? No hello? Not even a grunt of acknowledgement? Ryan was sporting the Coors Light blue mountain equivalent of a first impression: ice cold.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes late. Jack always emphasized the importance of being on time with this job. As if to hammer in the point, he stuck his head out of the office and bellowed, “Ryan? In here. Now.”

  Ryan shoved a hand through his disheveled dirty blond hair and strode past me, still staring at his phone. He slammed the door shut once he got inside his dad’s office.

  Shouts erupted from Jack’s office a few seconds later, both men talking over each other. I couldn’t make out much, but I clearly heard the younger DeShane say, “I don’t want to work register with that chick. Put me in furniture or printers.” My heart stuttered. Not that I made everything about me, but I was pretty sure he was talking about me, since I was the only other worker at Office Jax at the moment. And now he was calling me some chick? God, get out of the nineties, asshat. If we were sticking to the throwback theme, at least call me Princess Consuela Banana Hammock.

  An eerie silence cut through their conversation like someone had pressed pause. A few seconds later Ryan ripped open the door and stalked toward the back, green shirt in hand.

  Without even looking at me, he grumbled, “Morning.”

  I stretched my neck side to side and took a measured breath, biting back any sarcastic remark that loomed in the back of my throat. He was probably just having a bad day, recovering from a rough night. I should cut him some slack.

  Jack popped his head out of his office. “Jules, can you help Ryan move freight in back? I’ll watch the register.”

  I nodded and reached for the soda I’d stashed under the counter at the beginning of my shift. Guzzling down half the bottle, I willed the caffeine to hit my bloodstream in time to carry paper across the store.

  As I put the bottle under the register, Ryan came back to the service counter wearing his Office Jax shirt, which actually looked good on his tanned skin. Damn him. Seriously, who could pull off chartreuse? He glanced at my feet, crossed his arms over his chest, and huffed out a dramatic sigh, especially for a guy in his twenties. “We’re wasting time. Hurry the hell up, princess.”

  For a few moments, all I could do was stare. My brain must have been malfunctioning; no way someone I didn’t even know just insulted me with sexist remarks.

  I looked at him, hoping I was wrong. He stared back—I couldn’t even say it was a stare, more like a scowl. Nope, all my synapses were firing. He’d definitely called me a princess.

  Hell to the freakin’ no. My arms are full, buddy. No unloading your baggage on me.

  My body finally caught up to my brain, and I put my hand on my hip and bit down on my cheek hard enough to draw blood. Who did he think he was, coming in here and bossing me around like he was the CEO? He pivoted and strode to the back, pushing through the swinging black doors. I stared daggers at his profile as I made sure to take my sweet time walking to the freight area.

  My new goal for today was to put this jerk in his place. Jack may have told me to keep everyone out of the hospital, but I would make sure to give Ryan his money’s worth in the attitude department today. He wanted to start off on the wrong foot? Ryan DeShane messed with the wrong chick.

  Chapter Four

  Ryan

  Jules’s heels click-clacked behind me as we made our way to freight. She looked just like royalty, all blond hair, big blue eyes, and manicured nails. She had enough ice on her one ear to flag down nearby planes. Even her name was princessy. Jules. Slap a pink frilly dress on her and she’d be the real-life version of Princess Peach. I chuckled to myself. Peach was the perfect name to describe this chick. Even if the Office Jax uniform downplayed her looks, I had a hunch she was just like my ex-girlfriend, Lex—high maintenance and impossible to please.

  Peach’s glare lasered into my back as I marched to the storeroom. I didn’t need to look in her direction to know I’d be met with pouty lips and narrowed eyes that had a little too much eyeliner for my taste. Seemed like I elicited that reaction a lot from women the past few weeks.

  Stopping at a palette of printer paper, I turned to Peach. “Jack says we’re having a sale on Kodak paper this week, so we’ll need to fill an endcap. You gonna be okay carrying paper in those?” I pointed down to her ridiculously high heels. Who wore heels when they were going to be on their feet for hours? Completely impractical. Hot as hell, definitely my type, and a big flashing neon light labeled don’t even go there again.

  Peach cleared her throat, and I turned my gaze toward her.

  “I’ll be just fine, but thanks for the concern.” She grabbed five reams of paper and made her way across the freight area, stopping just short of the double doors to the main floor entrance. She spun around on her heels and said, “By the way, my name’s not chick or princess, it’s Jules.”

  Shit. She heard me call her chick? I forgot the walls were made out of one-ply toilet paper. No use denying it. I could tell her initial impression of me was the same as mine for her: uninterested. Maybe uninterested was taking it a little far. There was definite interest, and I knew where that led.

  Picking up an armload of paper that stacked up to my chin, I said, “Whatever. We’re wasting daylight here. Get a move on.”

  She arched a brow, her eyes burning a hole through my forehead. “Excuse me?”

  What was with me? Normally, I didn’t take digs at people, especially cute girls I didn’t even know, but between the nasty text marathon I’d just endured with Lex and fighting with my dad, it just reiterated why I needed to push her away.

  I was pretty sure she already hated my guts, so I went for the final nail in the coffin by matching her arched brow and raising her a blood-boiling head tilt. “Did I stutter? I said you should get back to work.”

  Shit. That was such a dick thing to say, and I should punch myself in the nuts for speaking to a woman like that, but I couldn’t stop. She sucked in a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. She cradled the stack of paper in one arm and jabbed a finger into my chest. “I don’t know what’s up your ass, but barking out orders isn’t going to fly.”

  I took a step back. Damn. She may have been easy to rile up, but Peach didn’t mess around. A girl who called it like it was—refreshing.

  She exited the back before I could respond, the swinging door crashing into me as I made my way to the front of the store. Before I knew what I was doing, I chased after her, those damn heels clicking at warp speed. How could someone walk so fast in those ridiculous shoes? And why was I trying to catch up to her? If I was smart, I’d listen to the little voice telling me to run like hell from the smokin’ blonde.

  “Jules.” I caught up and cut in front of her. And apology started to form in my mouth, but at the last second I turned away and focused on the display case. Wringing one out was like trying to get my ‘68 Camaro to come to life. It started with a sputter and died before the ignition could catch. It was smart to keep my apologies in the same place I kept my car—in storage. I shook my head. Don’t start getting soft, look where that got you. A cheating girlfrien
d and a broken heart. No thanks. “Never mind.”

  Our gazes met, and I stared at the thin line of eyeliner that coated her lids. She shot me a quick fuck off glare and went back to messing with her reams of paper.

  I clutched my stack of paper tighter in my hand and focused anywhere but her direction.

  Peach was the least of my worries. I had bigger issues to deal with—like Dad and that whole figuring-out-what-to-do-with-my-life deal. I’d spent three years confused as hell about what to do, none of the majors a good fit. This summer was my final attempt to get my shit together and figure out my future career. My uncle generously scored me a spot in the police academy in Waco if I didn’t come up with any other career options before then. Dad hated the idea of me joining the force, but, at this point, it seemed like the best option.

  After a minute of silence, both of us working side-by-side, she said, “Are you always such an asshole? Or only on Mondays?”

  I deserved that. “Mondays and Wednesdays. Tuesdays and Thursdays are reserved for compliments.”

  “Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind for tomorrow’s shift.” She moved to the other side of the display and dropped the paper to the floor with a thud.

  I smiled. Peach had a pretty good sense of humor under that immaculate exterior. Lex hated my jokes, always dismissing them with a scoff or a glare. I shook my head and returned my focus to stacking paper on the display shelves.

  Just as I lined up the last ream, a boy band pop song started on the radio, my molars grinding in response. The corner of Peach’s eye ticked as the main singer hit a note in the Whitney Houston range. Finally, someone else who shared my dislike for nineties music. She couldn’t be that bad.

  And if she wasn’t that bad, why the hell would she want to work at Office Jax? Office supplies were the asshole of conglomerate America. With her looks, she could easily bat her lashes and get a cushy spa job.