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

by Claire Adams

  “A release of tension is kind of what I was hoping for in the first place,” she says.

  “Why don’t we start with a massage and see where it goes from there?” I ask. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything to drink or eat? I think I have microwave popcorn around here somewhere.”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “Would you mind if I take off my shirt? You know, for the massage.”

  At this point, I’m not entirely sure whether standing my ground is going to be a helpful or a harmful tactic. Denying her what she came here for seems like a good idea in theory, but I can’t help thinking back to what it was like when my mom got sick.

  I would have done just about anything to try to get away with what was going on, and I did do just about everything.

  I was nineteen when it happened, when she was diagnosed anyway. After that, everything just happened so fast.

  She was diagnosed. She was in the hospital. She was gone. I know there was a lot more to it than that, but it’s the way that I remember it. There was no time to adjust, to make peace with the fact that she was sick, only after she died.

  Then, there was nothing left but time.

  Dad dove headfirst into the business and I was just left there alone. I’d just gotten my first apartment not long before, but when the diagnosis came in, I spent most of my time at either my parents’ house or the hospital.

  Even though I worked for my dad and I was almost always surrounded by my brothers, none of us ever really talked about it.

  Before long, my brothers started moving away from the city, one by one, until I was the only one left at the company and, although my dad was always there before I showed up and he was always there after I left, we never said more than four words to each other at a time, and it was never about anything but work.

  I don’t like beer anymore because I lived off it for almost a solid year after my mom died. In the end, though, it didn’t even help anymore.

  “That’s fine,” I tell her. “Just make yourself comfortable.”

  She removes her shirt, but quickly takes the blanket from the back of the couch.

  “Could you turn your heater on?” she asks.

  I’ve gotten so used to having to cut back on utilities that I don’t even notice anymore how cold it’s gotten in the apartment.

  I walk over to the radiator and turn it up; feeling that permeating warmth that always makes me feel two times as tired as I was before the heat was on.

  “Would you mind if we wait on the massage until the room heats up?” she asks.

  “That’s fine,” I answer.

  I sit down on the couch and she rests her legs on me. It’s nice having this kind of closeness, but there’s still some pretty thick tension in the air.

  Not wanting the entire afternoon to be just one big awkward silence, I ask her to tell me a little bit more about herself.

  “What do you want to know?” she asks. “I’m pretty boring.”

  “I doubt that,” I tell her. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Not far from the city,” she says, “although I never really believed that I’d live here. You?”

  “I grew up in the Bronx,” I tell her. “I came to Manhattan after I took over the company.”

  “How’d that happen anyway?” she asks.

  “My dad retired,” I answer. “It was either I take the business or someone else did or we just close the whole thing down altogether.”

  “You know,” she says, “for giving your whole life to it, it doesn’t really seem like something you’re all that interested in.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I smile. “I love what I do, or at least it pays the bills. To tell you the truth, I think I’m just doing it because there’s really nothing else for me to do.”

  “I’m kind of the same way,” she says. “I started Lady Bits because I wanted to make some kind of statement, but it seems like a lot of other people wanted to make the same kind of statement around the same time, so I don’t know if I’m a trailblazer or just someone who jumped on the bandwagon.”

  “I think what you do is important,” I tell her. “Granted, I haven’t seen a lot of action in the plus department because we were always working through there, but the racks and shelves you had set up for the interim seemed like they were filled with stuff you don’t normally see.”

  “That was the goal,” she says. “For some reason, people always think that if you’re a bit bigger than the average, you’ve got to end up in some frumpy crap or else it’s muumuus until the end of time. I think one of the reasons that women don’t feel beautiful is that they’re forced into choosing only one kind of clothing that’s deemed appropriate for their body style, but you give someone the freedom to choose the same things that are available to all other types of women and you just see her eyes light up. It’s a pretty wonderful thing.”

  “Having a purpose is a hell of a thing, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says, “I guess. After all that bullshit with Burbank, though, I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to keep the place open. Once the construction was done, we started getting a lot of our customers back, but once they got a look at the new prices, I don’t know. We haven’t bounced back yet.”

  “Give it time,” I tell her. “Things have a way of working out, and until then, I’d say start looking for other suppliers.”

  “I just don’t have the time for that,” she says. “I’ve made a couple of calls, but Burbank’s got agreements with a lot of the people in town not to undercut his prices. He really fucked me there.”

  I rub her leg, saying, “I’m sorry about that. I know I’m partially responsible for it.”

  “No,” she says. “I wanted to blame you—I did blame you for a while, but what it really came down to was the fact that I was already so on edge that the slightest thing would have sent me over just as much as you did.”

  She leans toward the coffee table and grabs the remote. Flipping on the television, she surfs through the channels for a while before turning the TV back off again.

  “You know what’s funny?” she asks.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I have these boxes at my parents’ house, boxes full of all the medals and certificates and shit that I won over the years. I used to go home almost every night and think about those boxes at least once. When I was stressed, I used to go through my apartment and figure out where to put everything,” she says. “I haven’t done that since the last time I stayed at my mom’s, just after she got sick.”

  “What’s stopping you from picking the boxes up?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “The same thing that’s always stopped me, I guess.”

  “And that would be…?”

  “Most people look at stuff like that from when they were a child or a teenager and they get all misty-eyed and revel in how proud they are that they accomplished blah, blah or blah, but every time I try to talk myself into opening up that closet, I just shut down,” she explains. “I guess I don’t want to be reminded of all the disappointment each of those trinkets ended up being.”

  “Let’s go get them,” I tell her.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head, “I really think I’d be much more comfortable, you know, not doing that.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “I’ll even help you unpack them and set them up. While we’re doing that, you can tell me about them.”

  “They’re really not that interesting,” she says. “It would end up being like forcing you to look through a photo album for hours, and I just really don’t feel like it.”

  “Come on,” I say in an intentionally petulant voice.

  “Oh yeah,” she mocks. “That’s sexy.”

  “I just want to know more about you,” I tell her, “and I think it might help you think of better times.”

  “I don’t know that they were better times,” she says. “They were just a little less bad.”

  “Well,” I tell he
r, standing up, “let’s change all that. The best way I’ve found to feel better is to get up and do something. So, grab your shirt and I’ll help you load up the car.”

  She sits up, the blanket falling from her breasts.

  “Or, you know, we can just go now and leave the shirt here,” I smile.

  Finally, she laughs.

  It’s soft and it’s short, but the sound is sweet in my ears, her smile invigorating.

  “Would you mind if we stop by the hospital first?” she asks. “I’d kind of like you to meet my mother. I know that’s the sort of thing that usually happens after the fifth date or something like that, but you know, I think it would be better if it happened now when we know that…” she trails off.

  The end of the sentence, as far as I can tell, would have been something to the effect of, “she’s going to be alive when we get there.”

  I bend down and pick up her shirt from the floor.

  Handing it to her, I say, “Yeah, let’s go see your mom.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bring Your Daughter to the Cancer Ward Day

  Jessica

  The closer we get to the hospital, the less confident I am in my suggestion to have Eric meet my mother. He’s a perfectly nice guy. Why would I want to throw him into the lion’s den?

  When we come around the corner and the hospital comes into view, I’m ready to just turn around. Apparently sensing my growing unease, Eric puts his hand on mine.

  “How do I introduce you?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” Eric responds.

  “Well,” I start, “I can’t really call you my employee, and I don’t think the nature of our relationship would make than an accurate explanation anyway. I could call you my friend, which is true, but it doesn’t seem to quite capture things. At the same time, we’ve never really had the boyfriend/girlfriend talk either, so when we walk into the room and I say, ‘Hey Mom, this is Eric,’ what do you think comes after that?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess we’ve never really defined the relationship, have we?”

  “No, we have not,” I answer. “Thoughts?”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind being your boyfriend,” he says, “if that’s at or around where you are.”

  He grabs my hand and rubs my knuckles with his thumb.

  “You and your honeyed words…” I titter as we pull into the parking lot.

  “I don’t think it really matters,” he says. “I think it’d be enough if you just said, ‘Hey Mom, this is Eric.’ Why overthink it?”

  “Well, maybe I’d like to know for my own reasons,” I slip.

  This is about the worst time possible to define the relationship, but I do like to be prepared whenever I know I’m going to have any kind of interaction with my mother.

  “I’m assuming something along the lines of ‘the sexy guy that gives you mind-blowing orgasms’ wouldn’t work, huh?” he asks and, if nothing else, at least I’m laughing as I pull into the parking spot and turn off the car.

  We just sit here for a minute, though.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Not really. I don’t know. Usually, I’m nervous to be around my mom because of the way she is—you know, as far as her personality. Now, I’m still worried about that, but I haven’t seen her since the surgery, either. Kristin says that she’s recovering pretty well and everything, but she can’t really move that much right now. They removed not only the tumors, but a fair amount of cartilage as well. I guess I’m just hoping that you’ll somehow come up with a reason for us not to go in there right now.”

  “If you don’t want to go in there, we don’t have to, or if you’d rather go in there alone, I can walk you to the room or I can wait here. It really comes down to what you want to do,” he says. “I’m not here to force anything.”

  My hands are still on the steering wheel, and I’m looking down at the empty ignition, wondering if it actually would be better to just put the key back in and drive off into wherever.

  “Let’s go,” I tell him.

  The key, at least as far as I’m telling myself right now, is not to think about it, to just keep walking until we’re in the room. Once we’re there, it’s not like we’ll really be able to leave anyway.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and quickly dial my dad’s cellphone.

  “Hey sweetheart,” my dad says, “I was just thinking about you.”

  “Hey Dad,” I answer, “I’m at the hospital. Are you here?”

  “No, sweetheart, I ran back home to get a shower and take a nap, but I’ll be back there in about an hour if you want to stick around,” he says.

  “Is Kristin here?” I ask. “Do you know?”

  “She was when I left,” he says, “but I don’t know if she’s still there.”

  “All right,” I tell him. “We may or may not be here when you get back.”

  “Who’s we?” he asks.

  “You remember Eric?” I ask, still not quite ready to define the relationship.

  “Oh, that young man who brought you to the hospital last week?” he asks. “Yeah, I remember him. He’s there with you?”

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “Would you mind if I speak with him for a moment?” my dad asks.

  I don’t stop walking, but my pace slows enough that Eric turns to see what’s going on.

  “Why?” I ask my father.

  “I’d just like to say hello and tell him thank you for being such a comfort to you. I can tell that he cares about you,” my dad says.

  “How can you tell that?” I ask.

  “It’s just the way he looked at you when he came with you the last time,” my dad answers. “And how nervous he was when he was talking to your sister and me.”

  “That’s quite the sixth sense you’ve got there, Dad,” I snort.

  “I promise I won’t embarrass you,” he says.

  I pull the phone away from my ear and tell Eric, “Hey, um, my dad wants to talk to you.”

  “He does?” Eric asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s the nice one.”

  “All right,” Eric says cautiously and reaches his hand out.

  I give him the phone and he says, “Hi, Mr. Davis, this is Eric.”

  While my dad is the nice one, he’s always been a little protective of me and Kristin. I’m just hoping he’s not giving that clichéd “You break my daughter’s heart and I’ll break your neck” line.

  So far, I’m not seeing any signs of terror on Eric’s face, so I’m hoping for the best.

  Eric’s talking quietly for most of the brief conversation, but finally he turns back toward me, saying, “Sure thing,” and “Yeah, I will. It’s nice talking to you, too, sir. Here’s Jessica.”

  He hands the phone back to me. Before I put it back to my ear, I have to ask: “Sir?”

  “It’s the respectful thing to say,” he explains.

  I shake my head and put the phone back to my ear. “Hey, Dad what’s up?”

  “I’m going to go ahead and stay here,” my dad says. “You’re coming home after you visit with your mother, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m thinking of—”

  “Great,” my dad interrupts. “Well, just give me a call when you’re leaving and I’ll make sure I’m decent for when you get here. Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

  “All right Dad,” I smile. Wouldn’t that be the twig and berries on top of the uncomfortable sundae that is this little field trip? “I’ll see you when we get there.”

  “I love you,” he says.

  “I love you, too,” I answer and hang up.

  “Shall we?” Eric asks and we make our way to the elevator.

  When the doors are closed, I ask him, “So, what’d you two talk about?”

  “Nothing much,” Eric answers, watching the number above the door switch from one to two.

&nbs
p; It’s like he’s hiding something, but I have no idea what it could be.

  “Nothing much?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “He just wanted to say thanks for me coming with you. That’s all.”

  “Okay,” I answer.

  The door opens and I grab Eric’s hand as we turn down the hallway toward my mom’s room. There are no loud expressions of disappointment or sarcastic remarks coming from the room so either Kristin’s gone or my mom’s asleep.

  Right now, I’m hoping for the latter.

  We come around the corner into the room and my mom’s lying back in bed, watching television.

  “Oh, hi dear,” she says when she sees me.

  I walk over and give her a hug, saying, “Hey Mom. How are you feeling?”

  “I feel great!” she exclaims. “I can’t move too much, but whatever the doctors gave me for pain—you know, there are people that take this stuff just for fun? I used to think they were crazy and I certainly wouldn’t do it myself, but not everyone’s cut out for that kind of thing.”

  Maybe drugged up is almost as good as asleep. At least she’s in a good mood.

  “Who’s this, then?” she asks.

  “This is Eric,” I answer.

  Eric moves forward to shake my mom’s hand, either not knowing or forgetting that she can’t really move to reciprocate. My mom, on the other hand hasn’t taken her eyes off of me.

  “No,” she says, “I mean who is he?”

  I was really hoping I could get away with the brief introduction and not have to settle on an answer for the question, but here we are.

  “He did some work for the store a while back,” I tell her. “He’s the one who headed the crew that did the remodel.”

  “So he’s an employee?” my mom asks.

  “No,” I tell her. “He’s helped a bit after the remodel and all that, but I wouldn’t say that he’s an employee.”

  “So who is he?” she asks, but just as quickly moves on, saying, “You know, there are spiders in this world that flick their hair at you when you invade their space?”

  “I didn’t know that,” I answer, smiling.

  “Does Eric?” she asks and leans her head forward a bit, whispering, “Who is he again?”