by P. Dangelico
“Did you hear enter? No. No, you did not. Get out.” I flop back down and cover my face with the down comforter.
“I’m sorry for what I said last night.”
So he thought waking me at this hour was a good idea? “I don’t give a fresh load!” I shout extra loud, the sound muffled by all the goose down. Nothing but the best for Mr. Fancy McButterpants. “Beat it, Vaughn.”
“Regardless, I still apologize. I know you’re not with Harper.”
That does it. That pushes me right over the edge. I pop back up and throw the black satin mask at him. It lands squarely in the middle of his sweaty chest and slides down.
“You don’t know a damn thing. I could be doing the entire team for all you know.”
Straightening, he stands with his legs spread apart, his body infused with a fresh need to argue. “So you’re admitting you’re with him”
“Vaughn,” I say über calmly. “If you don’t get out, I will bludgeon you with this.” Reaching under the bed, I grab Gabriel and hold him up, all fourteen inches and two pounds of solid plastic and metal. The end of the cord almost whacks me in the eye.
Vaughn’s face drops. Determination turns to doubt, turns to resignation. “I’m taking a shower,” he mutters and stalks back into the bathroom.
“Good choice!” I yell, waving Gabriel around for good measure. Except it’s not good. It’s soooo not good. Because I’m instantly picturing him naked. Flopping back down, I cover my face with my pillow. My pale skin feels blowtorched. Abstinence is a dangerous thing.
By the time the private party wraps up at two am and I punch out, I’m a character out of the Walking Dead. Stepping out the back door, into the alleyway, every muscle I possess braces at the gust of below zero wind that hits my face. It’s so cold my brain hurts.
The headlights of a shiny black town car parked a few yards away turn on and my suspicion perks up. I keep a close eye on it as I pass, my hand already on the can of mace I carry in my purse.
The tinted window slides down and a man eyeballs me. Around fifties, judging from the silver threaded into his black hair. His dark eyes look eager. Why the hell would they look eager? My suspicion grows.
The driver’s side door bursts open and he pops out. The noise makes me jump and wheel around.
“Miss Jones?” He holds up his hands as if to apologize. “I’m Fredo Alvarez. Mr. Vaughn sent me to pick you up.”
He’s wearing a long black wool coat and what looks like a suit underneath. Groan. It all makes sense. My face must say everything I’m thinking because the guy takes a tentative step closer.
“Look, Mr. Alvarez, I already told Mr. Vaughn I was not in need of a car. Sorry he wasted your time.” With that, I turn and keep walking. Not surprisingly, I hear hurried steps behind me.
“I really need this job,” he shouts, desperation kicking his voice up a notch. I stop and turn. He looks anxious. He definitely looks anxious. “This is the first job offer I got in two years.” He’s talking fast, the anxiety spreading to his voice. “My cousin works for Mr. Vaughn. That’s how I got this gig.”
Are you kidding me? How is this my life?
“I’ve been out of work so long I don’t mind begging.”
Wow. No messing around––he went for the knock out punch. My shoulders slump in defeat, my heart bloodied and bruised. Without a word, I start walking back to the town car. Mr. Alvarez doesn’t know it but my Achilles heel is someone laying their weakness at my feet. Show me your boo-boo and my resolve folds quicker than a bad hand of cards. He couldn’t have played it any better.
“Come on Mr. Alvarez. You’re driving me home,” I mumble, so grumpy I could chew glass.
“Fredo. Please call me Fredo.”
While he holds the door open, I slip into the back seat and glance up at him. The anxiety that was all over Fredo’s face a moment ago is gone, replaced by a small smile threatening to grow larger. “Call me Amber, Fredo.”
I should’ve known he’d get the last word. Freaking lawyers. Score one for team McButterpants.
Chapter Ten
Ten days. Ten days without seeing hide nor hair of him. Unintentionally, we both did our best to avoid each other, falling into a routine of sorts. Well––maybe not so unintentional. Like clockwork, I hear the shower run at the ungodly hour of five thirty every single morning. From that point on, I wait an hour and a half before going down to an empty kitchen because I know he leaves for work by seven.
If I were a better person, a more mature person, a wiser person, I would simply forgive him and brush it aside as no bigs. Spoiler alert: I am none of those things. I knew he didn’t have the highest regard for me––especially not after the scene at the jailhouse––however, being labeled a baby mama? Which in his thesaurus has only one synonym, gold digger. Mmmmno. No. You can call me many terrible things, but you cannot call me a gold digger. That, I will not take kindly to. And frankly, it stings. I was laboring under the false impression we were friends…of sorts. Whatever, friendly–er. But I guess we aren’t. We’re not even back to square one. We’re pre-square one. We’re not even talking.
I can hear the water running. It started five minutes ago at exactly five twenty-five. I hear it so clearly I may as well be lying on the bathroom floor. No way am I getting back to sleep.
To say that my nerves feel scraped raw is putting it lightly. Not only because I will be a wreck tonight when I sling booze until two am, but worse, all I can do as I lay here growing angrier by the second is picture water cascading down his stripper worthy body in slow-mo.
My ovaries are staging a near riot. My lady parts are meeting with their union leader, estrogen, ready to go on strike. For whatever reason, this turkey gets my juices running, something not a single other person has managed to accomplish in the last two and a half years. Go figure.
A loud crash intrudes into my filthy thoughts. Really loud. Curiosity and a touch of worry kick me into action. I jump out of bed and head for the bathroom door. With my ear smashed against solid wood, all I get is the sound of the shower running.
“Fancy? You okay?”
“No.”
I rip open the door and halt. Holy shite. The glass shower door is shattered, broken pieces everywhere, some of them on top of Vaughn who is standing in the middle of it clutching his bleeding hand.
“Don’t move,” I very calmly order.
In a flurry of activity, I run back to my room and shove on sweat pants and sneakers, then I run to Vaughn’s room and locate his. Once I’m back in the bathroom, I gingerly step over the broken glass scattered on the floor and reach into the shower to turn off the water still coming down on him. He’s shivering and the water is hot. I wrap Vaughn’s bleeding hand in a towel.
“I’m going to help you step into your sneakers and then we’ll get you dressed and go to the hospital. He remains quiet, nodding in understanding. This is not good. God help me if he swoons.
“Lean on me while I help get these on you.” I bend and help him step into his running sneakers, lace them tightly. Then I escort him out of the shower, where I locate a towel and wrap it around his waist.
Vaughn follows me into his room. “My sweats are on the top shelf in the walk in closet.”
I grab them and return to find Vaughn calmly sitting on the end of the bed, holding his now blood soaked towel close to his bare chest.
“Keep pressure on it,” I tell him as I help him get his sweatpants on. Next comes his zip up hoody. I hand him a clean towel to replace the blood soaked one and we head downstairs. All the while I keep a close eye on him, looking out for signs of potential swooning. I am screwed if that happens. No way can I handle two hundred pounds of dead weight.
After I help him with his down jacket, I grab mine and bolt outside to hail a cab with my wounded roommate in tow. The extreme quiet is starting to worry me.
“Lenox Hill emergency room. Take Park,” I bark at the cab driver, the adrenaline finally catching up with my mouth. The silent man next to me is unusuall
y pale, his brow furrowed by pain. “Don’t faint on me. Okay? We’re almost there.”
His big brown eyes meet mine, his full lips edge up weakly. He gives me a small nod as we pull up to the emergency room entrance. I throw the driver a twenty and tell him to keep the change. Due to my grandmother’s condition, if it’s one thing I know it’s my way around a hospital. The waiting room is mostly full. I lead Vaughn to an empty seat. “I’ll take care of it. Let me.” His steady gaze holds mine for an amount of time I deem less than comfortable. Then he hands me his wallet.
Silent and serious, he holds my gaze until I walk away, headed for the check in desk, taking the uncomfortable moment with me.
“I had to give you two layers of stitches. The laceration was deep,” the young surgeon states in a perfunctory manner.
“At least, it’s his left hand,” I cheerfully throw out for consideration. Why does that sound dirtier than I intended? God knows this guy does not need to use his hand; he’s got women lining up for that honor.
“Make an appointment to see me in fourteen days to remove them,” adds the doctor.
“I’m supposed to leave for Florida tomorrow,” grumbles the patient. Vaughn’s color has returned. And with it, it brought a hella bad attitude. Sitting on the emergency room gurney, he takes the sweatshirt I hand him and shrugs off the hospital gown.
I am a sicko, a sick human being. Because what do I do? I stare. I stare so openly that I’m surprised I don’t have a cartoon bubble above my head of two people doing it doggy style. For the love of chests, the man is injured. He still has blood smeared on his abdomen and I’m ogling him like we’re at an all male burlesque. Classy.
“Bring your hot as fudge assistant.”
Vaughn’s attention snaps up to me. “Hot as fudge?” He scowls. Somebody’s grumpy. He usually handles my teasing without so much as a bat of a long, thick lash. “I travel solo when I’m working.”
“Think, Vaughn. She can help you dress.” I toss this one up with a wink.
Judging by the look on his face, you’d think I offered him a steaming slice of dog shit pie. “Andi’s like a sister to me.”
Wow. He sure seems bent out of shape over my suggestion about his assistant. This man is full of surprises.
“You have a sister?”
“No––but if I did I would feel the same way about her as I do Andi.”
“Okay. I get it. You’re not in lust with your assistant. I just assumed…”
“You assumed wrong,” he barks, as if I’ve egregiously offended him.
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. For the first time since I’ve met this man, he’s not perfect. No siree. He’s angry and impatient, and generally in a bad mood. And it makes me smile. I’m smiling like the village idiot because although it took twenty some odd stitches in his left hand to do it, the shiny veneer is gone.
After the doctor finishes bandaging the turkey’s broken wing and hands him a prescription for painkillers we grab a cab back home, during which he is dead quiet and in deep contemplation for the entire ride.
“I’m going to clean up some of the broken glass,” I announce as soon as we get back to the townhouse.
Vaughn walks past me, into the living room, the only room in the house that’s almost done being renovated, and throws his big body down on the couch.
“Hell no,” he snaps, looking up at me with an incensed glare. “Let that fucker do it tomorrow. Then, I’m gonna fire his ass. He’s lucky I don’t sue him.”
“Whoa there, counselor. You can’t fire him now that I have something to hold over him. He’s going to be working double time by the time I’m through. Besides, it will take forever to find someone else. You know it will. And I have to do something about the glass––it’s the only working bathroom we’ve got if you get my drift.” He grumbles something I can’t make out, his attention directed over my shoulder. “Use your words.”
His attention swings back to me. Although he’s wearing a determined frown, nothing in his eyes suggests he’s heard me teasing him.
“I keep thinking it could’ve been you. You could’ve been seriously injured.” His eyes flicker away.
It’s a constant source of surprise and amusement that my best efforts to poke the bear simply bounce off of him. At the moment, however, I’m feeling neither amused nor surprised. What I am feeling is a strange burn in my chest. “I don’t see how it’s any better that you were injured. So we agree. You’re giving me the green light to blast him.”
His lips twitch, then slowly begin to lift up. “Fine. But don’t touch anything,” he orders, his tone brooking no argument. “I’ll take some of those old pieces of sheetrock and lay it over the glass on the bathroom floor. At least we can use the toilet tonight.”
It’s Sunday, which means I usually have the night off. Unfortunately I’d volunteered to work a private party so I call One Maple and switch with a bartender who owes me. It’s clear that logistically I have to help the patient prepare for the trip the stubborn ass insists on taking tomorrow.
“Party tonight. Where can I get the prescription filled?” When my query is met with silence, I turn away from the fridge to get a look-see and find him steeped in deep thought. Seated at the island in the kitchen, he’s staring at the glass of water before him.
His phone rings again, for the umpteenth time. It’s been ringing nonstop since we left the hospital. I’m actually surprised he’s letting most of the calls go to voicemail.
“I’m not taking that junk.” He sounds strangely forlorn, or sad, or something like it. Which bothers me. An urgent need to make him feel better gets a hold of me. Ten days ago I was ready to make a eunuch out of him and now I want to see him smile. The man is turning me into Sybil.
“You look like you’re in serious pain, Vaughn. I don’t want you to suffer. And since I can feel your pain as acutely as if it were mine, I’ll take a couple of those babies with you––only out of solidarity of course––and then, just for giggles, we can do a marathon of The Leftovers.”
“Negative on the pill party.”
“All kidding aside, let me fill the prescription, in case you need one tonight to help you sleep. Your lobster claw is going to be throbbing later.” With the way the doc bandaged his left hand, it basically resembles a lobster claw, as I’ve affectionately been referring to it. It’s also totally useless.
He holds up said claw and stares at it with a pout, which turns into a grimace. The pain etched onto his refined features bothers me. I turn back to the stove and grab the pan.
“Word of caution, I haven’t cooked in a really long time so…you know…” I say, shrugging. I push the scrabbled eggs off the pan and onto a plate with two slices of that millet bread he likes that tastes like dirt. “Just sayin’.” I place the plate in front of him. “Also, you should know that my cooking repertoire is extremely limited. We’ll have to get take out when you get back. And I know what a health food freak you are so tell me where to pick up the grub you like.”
His eyes meet mine. There’s something fathomless in them. Whatever it is, it pulls me in and won’t let go. The Monday Night Football song comes on and he blinks out of the moment. Saved by the proverbial bell. Even though I’m going to break out in hives if I hear that ringtone one more time.
He takes a tentative bite of his eggs. “Not bad. Needs a bit more seasoning, but otherwise really good.” Smiling, he digs in.
That earns him an obvious eye roll. “I was on tenterhooks. So glad you approve, Fancy Pants.”
“What else can you make?”
“What else? Mmmm, let’s see––” Truth: I can’t cook to save my life. My food is always one of these horrible things: too salty, too bland, or too overcooked. “I make a mean margarita.”
He smiles and I get happy, happy that I’ve done something to pull him out of this strange funk he’s been in since the hospital.
“I wouldn’t call that nutrition.”
“You’d be surprised at how many people wo
uld disagree with you.” While he finishes his eggs, I turn to wash the pan.
“I had a lot of allergies when I was a kid.”
The inflection in his voice gets my attention, the admission tentative, as if he threw it out as bait to see if I would bite. In all honesty, I want to bite. As much as I try to stop myself, I do find him interesting, drawn to him in ways I don’t want to contemplate. Turning, I wait for him to continue.
“I was kind of sick for a while.” He glances up to measure my reaction. Whatever he finds persuades him to continue. “Ever hear of Celiac disease?”
“I’ve heard of it, but I’m not familiar with what it is.”
“It’s an intolerance to wheat proteins, and if left untreated can trigger a host of other problems––including cancer. I have to eat well to feel good and I’ve been doing it for so long it’s second nature to me.”
“That’s why you don’t drink beer.”
“Yeah. No barley or rye, either.”
The doorbell rings.
“If this is one your stalkers, I will––”
“It’s Andi,” he says, interrupting the beginnings of my mini tirade. His lips press together in a stiff line. “She’s coming with me.”
“I don’t understand. You tell people you’re gay?”
Plush mouth pursed, Andi wiggles it side to side while considering her answer. In the meantime, I hand her a glass of soda and she takes a sip.
“I don’t tell people I’m gay. I told a new client that was getting excessively pushy about hitting on me that I’m not a fan of men and somehow he translated it as me admitting I was gay. News spread faster than athlete’s foot in a locker room.”
As soon as she walked in the front door, Andi began gushing personal information from the spigot that is her mouth as if the valve were broken. Which has now turned into one of the most entertaining and simultaneously bizarre conversations I’ve had in a long time.
“Doesn’t it bother you––having to lie?”
“Ethan works exclusively with football players. I’m not saying they don’t know how to behave themselves, but it shuts that conversation down before it even begins, and frankly, makes my job a lot easier.”