The Job (New York City Bad Boy Romance #2)

by Claire Adams

The rest of the scenario plays out and Cheryl does an outstanding job. When Jessica enters Cheryl’s “office,” she’s unrepentant and, the case being cut-and-dried, Cheryl fires the employee.

  Despite a rocky start, the next couple of situations go off without a hitch and we finally come to a logical stopping place for the day.

  Jessica invites Cheryl to join us for lunch and we all go out and have a pleasant enough time.

  That all changes, though, as soon as the store’s locked up, Cheryl’s on her own way and I’m back in the car with Jessica.

  “What the fuck was that?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry about laughing,” I tell her. “You just really caught me off-guard with the whole ‘Hey man, nice dick’ thing.”

  “Do you have any idea how serious sexual harassment is?” she asks. “Of course you don’t, you’re a construction guy with a team of construction workers. Sexual harassment is what your people do.”

  “You know, I’m pretty sure that was sexual harassment,” I tell her.

  “And I thought we were going to have her run through the thing without any help that first time. You completely undercut my authority all morning,” she accuses.

  “Whoa,” I start. “I’m not saying I did a perfect job all around, but I was not trying to undercut your authority at all. She asked me a question—a good question, I might add—and I gave her some direction. As sexual harassment is such a serious thing, I think it’s best to know as much about what to do as possible. I would actually suggest springing for a course for your employees, or at least Cheryl as a manager, on sexual harassment and what to do when or if it happens.”

  “This is why I hate doing this,” she says. “I’m no good at it and I just come off like an idiot. Meanwhile, the meathead steals the show and comes off like he should be running things instead of me.”

  “Meathead?” I ask. “Seriously? I get that you’re upset, but I don’t see how insulting my intelligence is going to make anything better.”

  “Never mind,” she says. “I’ll just take you home.”

  This—whatever this is between Jessica and me—is going to be more difficult to navigate than I thought.

  “I thought we were all going to go to lunch,” I tell her.

  “Well, Cheryl’s already gone and I’m pissed at you. I don’t really see the point right now,” she answers.

  I know better than to put the words “calm” and “down” anywhere near each other right now, but given this particular situation, I’m finding it extremely difficult.

  “I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds, and I certainly wasn’t trying to undercut you in any way. I really do apologize for the way I acted at the beginning of that role play and during the whole currency thing,” I tell her. “If it’ll help at all—”

  “The currency thing?” she asks. “What are you talking about?”

  “The currency thing,” I tell her. “You know, when you went on for five minutes about how to tell a Canadian dollar from an Australian dollar.”

  “What about it?” she asks.

  Danger! Danger!

  “Never mind,” I tell her. “It was nothing.”

  “Tell me,” she says.

  “Well, do you accept foreign currency?” I ask.

  “Not as a general rule, no,” she answers.

  “Couldn’t you have just told her that?” I ask.

  She sighs. “I know. As soon as I started going into that, I realized it was a mistake, but I felt like I had to keep going with it until I reached a believable stopping place. I just get so nervous with this sort of thing. I really have no experience training managers.”

  “I know,” I tell her, “and I really am proud of you for what you’re doing. It’s not easy to start doing things differently than you’re used to. I’d just say try to relax a bit and it’ll come.”

  She starts the car and glances over at me.

  “You do have a nice dick, by the way,” she says, smiling.

  I chuckle, saying, “Why thank you, it’s always nice to be appreciated.”

  “Do you still want to go to lunch?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I could eat,” I tell her. “What are you in the mood for?”

  “I don’t know,” she says and starts to pull out of the parking spot.

  Her phone rings.

  “Would you mind answering that for me?” she asks. “I really don’t like to talk and drive if it’s at all avoidable.”

  “Sure thing,” I tell her and pull the phone from her purse. I answer the phone with a “hello?”

  “Who’s this?” a woman asks.

  “This is Eric,” I answer. “Jessica asked me to answer the phone.”

  “Oh,” the woman says, “this is Kristin, Jessica’s sister. Can you just tell her that Mom’s in the hospital and she needs to get up there?”

  I cover the phone and tell Jessica to park the car.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  I hand her the phone and answer, “I think I should drive.”

  When we get to the hospital we walk through the doors and Jessica finds a nurse, asking her where to find room 235. She points us in the right direction, and we just go.

  Kristin didn’t have a lot of details for Jessica, but she said that there mom had fallen and that the doctors were concerned that her cancer had spread farther than they had thought.

  I hold her hand as we get on the elevator, but when the doors open, she runs out ahead of me.

  Kristin’s coming down the hall, a look of terror on her eyes. As I approach, she says, “They took her in for surgery. They’re going to try to remove all of the cancer, but Jessica, it’s spread.”

  “What are they saying? Is she going to be all right?” I hear Jessica ask.

  “I don’t know,” Kristin says, tears forming and falling from her eyes. “It’s really bad, Jessica. She’s had it for a long time, and they don’t know if they’re going to be able to get it all or if they’re going to be able to treat it. The doctor says he’s still…”

  Jessica hugs Kristin close, allowing both of them the security to break down. I want to help, but I don’t want to be in their way, either.

  I don’t know what to do here.

  “Where’s Dad?” Jessica asks.

  “He’s in Mom’s room watching a World War II documentary,” Kristin laughs, breaking some of the tension. “I think they’re up to the Battle of the Bulge.”

  There’s no sign from Jessica that she wants me to follow them, so, not wanting to invade a very solemn family moment, I let Jessica know that I’ll be right out here in the waiting room if she needs anything.

  She turns her head and says, “Thank you,” before walking off with her sister.

  After about an hour, I walk up to the room and ask if I can get anything for anyone.

  The father, startled by my presence, stands up and walks over to me, saying, “I’m Harold, Jessica and Kristin’s father. You must be Eric.”

  “I am,” I answer and shake his hand. “I’m sorry to meet you under such difficult circumstances.”

  “Well, we don’t pick the situations, the situations pick us,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “I didn’t know if anyone was hungry or thirsty or if you guys needed anything,” I start.

  Jessica shakes her head and Kristin ignores me entirely. Harold thanks me for the offer, but tells me that none of them are likely to eat anything until the surgery’s completed.

  “All right,” I say. “Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right out here.”

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Jessica asks.

  “Sure,” I answer and we walk outside.

  “I appreciate what you’re doing,” she says when we’re clear of the doorway, “but you really don’t have to stick around here. It’s probably going to be a while before we hear anything, and I think it might be best if you head home and get some sleep. I know I got you up really early and it’s already been a pretty long
day for you.”

  “I really don’t mind staying,” I tell her, “but if you’d feel more comfortable if I were to go, then I’ll do that. Whatever you need.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “I’ll call you later, all right?”

  “All right,” I tell her. “Please do let me know if you need anything or if you want to talk—”

  “No, that’s fine,” she snaps, then softens her tone. “I’ll let you know if we need anything. You can take my car if you need,” she adds.

  “I couldn’t do that,” I start, but she doesn’t let me finish.

  “Kristin drove,” she says, “so she can drop me off on her way home.”

  “All right,” I tell her again. “Just call if you need anything.”

  “I will,” she says and smiles. “I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” I tell her. “Let me know if you need to talk—”

  “That’s all right,” she says interrupting me. “I’d better get back in there.”

  It’s not until I’m down the hall, down the elevator, out the door of the hospital, across the parking lot and starting up her car that I realize why she reacted the way she did when I told her we could talk: My mother died of cancer.

  * * *

  I’m home for a few hours before I convince myself that it’s all right to get some sleep. I don’t dream, or if I do, I don’t remember any of it.

  When I wake, it’s to the sound of my phone chiming.

  With blurry eyes, I look at the screen.

  It’s a message from Jessica.

  The message reads, “If I were to stop by, is there any way that we could not talk about my mother or your mother or anything to do with the word cancer?”

  I call her number, but she quickly rejects it.

  A message comes in a few seconds later, saying, “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “What happened?” I write back. “Is everything okay?”

  My eyes are dry, so I close them, but I’m wide awake now.

  The phone chimes again and I read, “Never mind.”

  I quickly write back, “Yeah, we don’t have to talk about any of that.”

  Wearing nothing but an old pair of sweatpants, I get out of bed and head to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.

  My phone chimes.

  The message reads, “Open your door.”

  The drink of water can wait.

  I head over to my door and look out the peephole. Sure enough, Jessica’s standing just outside, her hands on her hips.

  I open the door and she walks in without a word.

  “Hey,” I tell her. “I didn’t know you had my address.”

  “I got it from Irene,” she says. “That’s the problem with having mutual friends: it’s harder to escape one another.”

  “Ah, got ya,” I answer. “What’s up?”

  “Can we maybe just not talk about anything?” she asks.

  “That might be a little difficult,” I start, but as she turns to walk back out the door, I add, “but I’m willing to try.”

  “Good enough,” she says. “Got anything to drink?”

  “No,” I tell her. “I don’t usually keep alcohol in the house. I don’t really drink that often unless I’m out playing pool with…”

  The impatience coming from Jessica is pervasive.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask.

  “This,” she says, and in two long, but quick steps, she’s right in front of me, pulling my head down toward her and pressing her lips into mine.

  I kiss her back and put my arms around her, the desire inside me going from zero to a hundred miles per hour in nothing flat.

  I pull back after a few seconds and start, “Are you sure you’re—”

  “Shut the fuck up or I’m out the door,” she says.

  If those are my options, the choice is simple enough.

  Despite her seeming penchant for drinking when she’s stressed, I don’t taste any alcohol as our lips meet and part and rejoin time and again.

  She’s pulling her shirt off and our mouths are hardly apart for a second as she lifts the fabric over her head, unhooking and dropping her bra as a simple flourish at the end of the motion.

  “Tonight,” she says, “I don’t want for us to have sex, I don’t want for you to make love to me. Tonight, I want to fuck. Do you think you can handle that?”

  A lot inside of me is saying that this is wrong, but I remember what it was like seeing my mom go in for treatment after treatment, surgery after surgery. If our roles were reversed, I’d probably be looking for the exact same thing.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I can handle that.”

  “Good,” she says and pulls my pants down, my cock already hard.

  She slips her long skirt up and around her hips and she takes my hand, leading me over to my own kitchen counter. Leaning forward, Jessica rests her arms on the counter and her head on her arms.

  I position myself behind her and run my fingers over her slit.

  She’s already wet, so I slide myself inside.

  The next fifteen to twenty minutes—I don’t watch the clock—feel great physically, but in every other way, it’s just detached, almost lonely.

  Every time I start to kiss her skin, she repositions herself and the only word she ever says to me is, “Harder.”

  When I get close, I ask her where she wants me to come.

  “Anywhere but inside of me,” she says. “I’m not on birth control.”

  When I’m done, I grab a towel and go to clean her up, but she grabs the towel from me and cleans herself. She turns around to face me, and she’s crying.

  I take her into my arms and her fingers curling into the skin of my back as she sobs against my chest.

  What I want is to ask her what happened, but I don’t want her to up and leave, not when she’s feeling like this.

  At this moment, I don’t know anything more than the fact that she’s still crying.

  I hook one strap of her shirt with my big toe, the shirt falls out of my grasp and I grab it again.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “I don’t want you to get cold,” I tell her and bring the shirt up to my hand and give it to her.

  “Thanks,” she sniffs. “Do you have any tissues? I’m sorry I’m like this right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I respond, still nervous to push for more information. “There are tissues on the counter in the bathroom.”

  “Would you mind if I sleep here tonight?” she asks.

  “Not at all,” I tell her. “I’ll tell you what,” I smile, “you can even have the bed.”

  “You mean it?” she asks. “I mean, it’s your bed. I’m not just going to kick you out of it.”

  “Whatever would make you most comfortable,” I tell her.

  Regardless of anything else, I know what this feels like. Maybe what I felt isn’t exactly what she’s feeling now, maybe it is. Either way, I know that gutted feeling.

  “Thanks,” she says and walks to the bathroom to grab a tissue for her nose and another for her eyes.

  I give her some space while remaining close enough that she doesn’t even feel a hint of alone right now.

  She comes back out of the bathroom with a blank expression on her face and she doesn’t say anything as she walks past me toward the bedroom and shuts the door behind her.

  So, this will be two nights on the couch. I could be irritated, but tonight’s not the night for that.

  In the morning, though, I’m going to try to talk to her and hopefully find out what happened. If I don’t know what’s going on, I can hardly do anything to help.

  Not that there’s a whole lot I can do to help anyway.

  * * *

  When I wake up, it’s morning or early afternoon. All I know right now is the sun is bright coming through my window.

  I rub my eyes and sit up on the couch. It takes a few seconds to remember why I’m here and not in bed, but when
my brain comes back to me, I get up and walk to my bedroom.

  The door’s open, the bed is empty.

  “Jessica?” I call, but there’s no answer.

  I’m having a hell of a time remembering whether it’s Sunday or Monday. Until I land another contract, it doesn’t really matter so much, but that might tell me where Jessica went.

  I call her name again, but she’s not here.

  My phone is on the coffee table, but there’s no message from her.

  Apparently, though, it’s Sunday.

  I type a message, “Hey. Sorry I wasn’t up when you left. How’d you sleep?” but I don’t bother waiting for a response.

  The hot water hasn’t run out, so if she took a shower this morning, it’s been at least an hour.

  I clean myself and take a quick look through the help wanted section, not expecting to find much. This isn’t usually how I get my jobs anyway, but it’s always worth a look. My phone starts ringing, though, so I quickly fold the paper and answer the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Eric,” it’s Jessica, “are you still planning on coming in to help finish up training with Cheryl?”

  “I didn’t know we were doing a second day,” I tell her, “but yeah, I can come in. Are you already at the store?”

  “We’re not at the store,” she says. “We’re at the bar. I think you should join us.”

  I laugh. “What kind of training are you doing in the bar?”

  “Mostly which liquors go best with which chasers,” she says. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Sure,” I tell her. “Where are you?”

  She gives me the name of the bar and I catch a cab. I’m not sure if I’m going to end up drinking anything or not, but it’s clear enough that they’re already drinking.

  I didn’t bother to don anything fancy, just a clean white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. When I walk into the bar, though, I realize that I might be a little overdressed.

  Calling this place a bar is misleading, as it’s more of a dungeon with people drinking in it. It’s not a sex or fetish club by any means, but I’m certainly wearing the most clothing out of anybody in here.

  I find Jessica sitting at the far end of the bar. She’s chatting with some woman I don’t know: certainly not Cheryl. As I approach, she just looks up at me, gives me the slightest nod and goes back to her conversation.