by Claire Adams
“That’s not right,” he says. “I don’t remember anything about any section 18c.”
“Oh, Miss Lozano!” I call out.
A moment later, my gorgeous friend comes into the room, carrying a folder. “Why, yes, Miss Tyler?”
“Did you happen to grab Mr. Kidman’s employment contract with this company?”
“Why, yes I did, Miss Tyler,” she says.
She hands me the folder.
“Thank you, Miss Lozano,” I tell her, and she leaves the room.
I open the file and toss it onto the letch’s desk.
“Don’t worry, we’ve taken the liberty of highlighting the appropriate paragraphs,” I tell him.
“Wha—Why would you do this?”
“I think a better question is why would you do this to us?” I ask.
“This is all he said, she said,” he scoffs. “Nobody’s going to believe you or your friend. I’ve been with this company for—Mrs. Beck,” he says, interrupting himself.
I turn to follow Kidman’s gaze.
There, standing in the doorway, is a tall brunette, dressed in a black pantsuit.
This is my going away present from Annabeth. And to think, I didn’t get her anything.
“I understand that’s no longer a problem?” Mrs. Beck asks, looking at me.
I take the pen out of my pocket and hand it to her. She presses the little button, and the recording isn’t playing for 10 seconds before his career is over.
“It seems you’ve been caught on tape,” Mrs. Beck says. “How you’ve gotten away with this shameful behavior for so long is nothing short of astounding.”
“I have a contract!” he shouts, rising from his desk. “You can fire me, but I get—”
“You do have a contract,” she interrupts. “It is a contract which you have violated in such an egregious way to do substantial harm to this company and its employees. As soon as these women are done with you, rest assured we’ll be coming for whatever’s left. That is, if they haven’t taken everything.”
“What women?” he asks.
Right on cue, Annabeth calls, “Ladies!” from the other side of the doorway and over the next couple of minutes, every woman, assistant level or lower, every woman on this floor comes in, hands a pen to Mrs. Beck, and walks back out again.
I’ve never enjoyed watching a grown man cry so thoroughly.
I’m about to head out the door, but realize that I’ve forgotten something.
“Sorry,” I say to Mrs. Beck as I make my way back into the room.
I walk to Kidman’s desk and remove page three from Atkinson’s memo. While it’s clear enough that Kidman’s not going to need any part of it, Atkinson was adamant that I retrieve every copy with the extraneous hyphen.
The things we choose to care about.
I walk back out of the room, expecting—not applause or anything—but some kind of acknowledgment that we’ve finally brought the bastard down. True to form, though, everyone’s back to work and no one but Annabeth even notices my presence.
* * *
The rest of my work day is spent finishing up favors for Atkinson. For as much commotion as there was in Kidman’s office only a few hours ago, I leave the building without speaking to anyone.
When I get home, the apartment is empty.
Dane should be home by now, but that’s all right. Now I’ll have a chance to take a quick shower and change out of my work clothes before he gets back.
Once the water’s pouring over me, I’m finding it difficult to imagine getting out voluntarily. I clean myself, rinse myself, and then just enjoy the water.
I start to fantasize about Dane coming home, finding me in the shower. We have dinner reservations at l’Iris, pretty much the only place either of us believes we might have a chance avoiding a run-in with Wrigley, but I wouldn’t mind pretending that the shower is a waterfall and that the dim light over the sink is a sunrise.
Maybe it’s not my exact fantasy, but it is close enough for now.
I stay in the shower until the water starts to turn cold.
Maybe he came in and I just didn’t hear him.
I wrap one towel around my midsection, another around my hair, and wipe my feet on the rug before leaving the bathroom. It may not be an imagined waterfall at sunrise, but he can still unwrap me before we go to dinner.
I could live with that.
When he doesn’t come home before my exposed skin has air-dried, I start to get a little nervous.
He didn’t mention any plans today, and he assured me that he’d gotten out of work.
I walk back into the bathroom and finish drying myself before checking my phone.
I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent and reasonable explanation, but he’s not answering his phone.
When the call goes to voicemail, I hang up and try it again, walking around the apartment as it rings, thinking maybe he simply forgot it. If it’s here, the ringer’s turned off.
Now I’m really starting to get worried.
Wrigley told me to keep my head down, that she didn’t want me to get involved. I knew it was a threat, but could she really have done something to him?
I’m just being silly and I know it, but still, there’s that heavy pull telling me that something’s very wrong.
Running out of places to look, I find the number for l’Iris and call it.
“l’Iris, please hold.”
I sit on the couch, but immediately get back up again. I don’t really care how long they have me on hold; I can’t relax until I know that Dane is all right.
A minute or two passes before the line goes active again.
“I apologize for the wait, we don’t have any open reservations for tonight, but we might be able to squeeze you in sometime—”
“Is Dane there?” I ask. “This is his roommate, Leila. He hasn’t been home, and I’m starting to get a little worried about him.”
“Dane?” the man with the obviously fake accent asks.
“Dane,” I repeat. “Dane Paulson.”
“Ah, monsieur Paulson,” the man says. “I will check. Please hold.”
I’ve really got to tell Dane to do something about fake accent man. It’s really annoying.
“Yes, it seems that Mr. Paulson has the night off tonight,” the man says. “I can leave a message here for him if you would like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I tell him, and hang up.
Because there is absolutely nowhere else I know to look, I try calling his phone again, but this time it just goes straight to voicemail.
“Dane, it’s Leila. You’re still not home, and I’ve been trying to call you. Just give me a call back and let me know that you’re all right, will you?”
I hang up, feeling completely helpless.
For as much as I care for him, there’s still so much that I don’t know about Dane. If he has friends outside of work, he’s never mentioned them.
Come to think of it, he’s never actually referred to any of his coworkers as friends. When he refers to them at all, and it’s a rare occasion that he does, he never has a single nice thing to say about any of them.
Maybe he and I are just too different to go on pretending that this is going to work.
Maybe he really should be with that lunatic.
I push those thoughts aside, though, as I really don’t know where he is or what’s happening.
Realizing that there’s no remaining scenario I can think of that would lead to a pleasant lovemaking session, I finally put my clothes on. Once they’re on, I realize I can’t just sit here.
I write a note and set it on the table.
It reads simply: “Dane, if you see this note before you see me, call. You’ve got me pretty freaked out here, and I’m out looking for you. Leila”
I gather my keys then double and triple check that I have my phone with me. With that, I make my way to the door, but that’s when I hear it.
It’s Dane
. He’s in the hallway.
He’s singing.
I throw the door open to find him standing there with a palm full of loose change, fingering his way through it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Leila!” he exclaims. “I’ve missed you so fucking much. I was just looking for my keys.”
“Come inside,” I tell him.
He stumbles into the apartment, bumping his hand on the countertop as he enters, spilling all but a few coins from his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m a little drunk.”
“No shit. Where the hell were you? I was about to go out looking for you.”
“You see,” he says, grinning and slurring his words, “this is why I love you so much. You care about people. You’re a good person, Leila.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You’re kind of an asshole. Where were you?”
“Now don’t be mad,” he slurs.
“I don’t see much chance of that,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says, completely misunderstanding what I just told him. “I was with Wriggle—Wriggsley—Wrig—”
“Wrigley?” I ask. “Why?”
“After the way she was following me today, I wanted to figure out a way to get her to leave me alone, ‘cause I don’t like her like that anymore.”
I really don’t see any version of this story making things better.
“So I called her up,” he says, “and I told her that I wanted to talk to her.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “We met up for drinks, and I told her that no matter what, she had to stay away, ‘cause I don’t like the way she’s been following me around. It’s not fucking cool.”
I’m getting pretty sick of Drunk Dane, but maybe he actually accomplished something on his way down the bottle.
“And?”
“And what?” he asks. “Oh! Right,” he continues. “I told her that I wanted her to leave us alone, but she said I was the one who called her. I guess that’s true, but she told me that she was planting seeds and I didn’t want them to grow.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.
“I think I—” he hiccups, and I swear to all that is holy, if he pukes on the floor, I’m going to get really pissed.
“You think you what?” I ask.
He laughs. “That’s a funny sentence.”
“How much did you have to drink?” I ask him. “It doesn’t look like you two just got together for a casual drink or two.”
“I’m not sure,” he says, “but I think it was a lot.”
“I’d say that’s a strong possibility.”
“You’re mad!” he whispers. “I thought you said you weren’t going to get mad.”
“That’s not what I said, you jackass, now did you figure something out or not?”
“She told me that she wouldn’t follow me around anymore,” he says. “So that’s a good thing. She also told me to pass along an apology on her behalf. She said the two of you talked a while ago and she said she came across kind of pretty rude.”
“That’s it?” I ask. “It’s over? She’s out of the picture?”
“She wasn’t in my picture,” he says. “I love you, Leilal.”
It’s close enough to a kind moment that my urge to punch him in the nose slowly fades, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy.
“But that’s it?” I ask. “Did she say anything else?”
“Yeah,” he says. “She told me that it’s not nice to call someone up just to tell them to leave you alone.” He leans toward me, his hand to the side of his mouth as if there’s anyone in the apartment for him to keep ignorant of the sloshing sound of his words. “I didn’t care.”
Well, on the one hand, it sounds like we might finally be free to actually start our relationship without having to worry about his old one trying to creep back in. On the other hand, I don’t think I could possibly be less attracted to him than I am now.
Hopefully, that feeling passes pretty quickly. Otherwise, this has been a lot of effort for nothing.
“Do you still love me?” he asks. “I still love you.”
“Why wouldn’t you still love me?” I ask.
“I do still love you,” he says, and loses his balance.
He manages to catch himself before he falls all the way to the ground, but he knocks a stack of plates off the counter in the process.
“Okay,” I tell him. “You’re taking a shower and I’m going to bring you some coffee after I get all this cleaned up.”
“You’re so good to me,” he says. “You’re fucking amazing.”
“I must be,” I sigh as I put one of his arms around my shoulders and walk him to the bathroom.
All things considered, the only thing he really did wrong was got too drunk.
I’ve done that.
I don’t know why I’m so angry with him, but the feeling’s not going away.
We get into the bathroom and I stuff him in the shower and tell him to take off his clothes.
“All right,” he says, a grin working its way up his face. “Hey,” he whispers.
“What?” I ask, leaning toward him.
“If you jump in the shower with me, we can pretend it’s a waterfall.”
With that, I’m done talking to him.
I turn on the shower, hoping that the jolt of the cold water brings him back to a more tolerable version of himself, and I walk out of the room.
It’s a miracle that neither of us got cut on the shards of ceramic plate scattered all over the kitchen floor.
The dishes were nothing fancy, but that doesn’t make me any less angry. My only consolation is that it doesn’t take long to pick up the remnants.
I can hear Dane in the bathroom.
It’s unclear whether he’s singing or just talking really loud, but I could do without hearing that voice for a little while, so I walk over to the television, fully intending to crank the volume up and drown his voice out entirely.
That’s when I hear what he’s singing.
I step into the bathroom.
“…Leila, Leila, Leila, Leila…”
The guy’s a mess, but damn it, he’s my mess.
He’s drenched and I know how cold the water is, but he’s just sitting there on the shower floor, arms open wide, eyes closed, singing my name.
It’s pretty hard to stay mad at him.
Chapter Twenty
Rough
Dane
If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then the sunlight creeping through my window is hell.
I don’t think I’ve ever been that drunk in my life.
My only comfort from this massive hangover is the soft, warm body lying next to me.
With my eyes as near closed as I can keep them while still managing to see what I’m doing, I lean over and kiss Leila on the forehead. She takes a deep breath and continues to sleep.
I remember meeting with Wrigley yesterday.
To say that I’m confident in trusting her to leave us alone would be a lie, but at least she put forward the lip service.
I get up and stagger my way into the kitchen. Now would be the perfect time to have one of those coffee machines that starts brewing at a preset time, but that’s a luxury for a different morning.
There’s a bottle of ibuprofen on one of the shelves in the cupboard, but I’m not ready for the physical effort it’s going to take to reach for it just yet.
For now, I remove the old filter from the coffee maker and replace it with a new one. I don’t bother measuring the grounds I put in the filter.
It’s a minute before I realize that a coffee maker requires water.
I open the cupboard and grab the ibuprofen.
There’s a stir in my bedroom, and I have wild and wondrous fantasies of Leila coming out here and offering to make the coffee while I’m allowed to lie down on the couch, but it doesn’t happen that way.
As it happens, Leila comes out of the room, h
er hair beautifully messy and her eyes hardly more open than my own.
“Morning,” she says, and plops down on the couch.
The television is on a moment later, and I’m left with this herculean task to conquer alone.
Somehow, I manage to put all the ingredients in all the right places and get the pot of coffee going, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to do much else if I can’t rein this fucking hangover in a bit.
There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer, but I have a feeling Leila’s not going to be particularly understanding of my situation. The last thing I clearly remember is the icy shower she dumped me into.
Things must have worked out all right, though. Last night was the first night she slept in my room.
“Hungry?” I ask her.
“Meh,” she answers. I know that’s a clear signal one way or another, but I left my decoder ring in my other pants.
“How about waffles?” I ask.
It’s the perfect crime: I get to take a few swigs of vodka to dial back my hangover, and Leila’s pacified and distracted by waffles.
“Meh,” she answers again.
Oh well.
I open the freezer and grab the vodka bottle before I even dream of touching the waffles.
This is a covert operation.
If I took the waffles out first, she’d be bound to suspect that I was up to something when I didn’t immediately close the freezer.
The vodka is cold enough that I don’t taste it for a couple of seconds, just long enough for the worst of it to pass.
I leave the bottle on the countertop. There’s no reason to put it back before I’m done with the waffles.
“Butter? Syrup?” I ask.
“I’m not that hungry,” she says.
Myself, I’m fairly certain that if I were to try and eat something right now, I’d just refund it a few minutes later.
“Okay.”
The coffee’s done, but I take another swig of vodka before I bother doing anything with that information.
“Hair of the dog?” Leila asks.
I don’t know why I still try to get away with anything with Leila around.