by Sharpe, Elle
“Sounds great,” Barron said with an audible grin. “A lot can happen in five minutes.”
And on that ominous note, he hung up.
I lowered my phone and put my head in my hands, wondering if I’d just made a huge mistake.
My brain started mapping out the possibilities of what might happen. What the potential fallout might be. Just like trying to think ahead about the possible consequences of a business decision.
It might all depend on whether Norah actually hated me or not. If she did hate me, she might lump Barron and me together: two asshole apples from the same asshole tree. But if she did have some positive feelings for me…
It just didn’t make sense to me. Norah wanted to think of me as a bad person. I was pretty sure about that. She’d told me what she thought of me numerous times. But...sometimes in rather amorous situations. What was I supposed to make of that?
The most likely scenario was that she really did dislike me. And she knew I liked her, and wanted to torture me. Maybe she was even attracted to me despite herself, but hated me all the more for it. Because I was undeserving.
My jaw twitched in anger, imagining her thinking these things, making her hard-line judgements.
But maybe even she would be forced to change her tune in the face of overwhelming evidence. What if I made it my goal to be nothing but nice to her from now on? So nice she’d have nothing to complain about. Nice enough to smother her.
I grinned. That would probably piss her off more than anything.
Norah
“I like your outfit,” was the first thing Ronan said to me when he pulled up to my apartment building.
I’d expected him to drive up in a Bentley convertible or something, and be wearing expensive douchebag sunglasses. Instead he was driving a sensible black Honda Accord. He was, however, wearing a very classy-looking tuxedo.
“I’m not performing in this,” I quickly clarified, realizing his compliment might be sarcastic. After all, I was currently wearing a casual sundress, not nearly fancy enough for a black-tie gala. “I’m going to change when I get there.”
“Oh,” he said simply. “Okay.”
I took a hard look at him. Something was off about him. I didn’t know exactly why, but I didn’t have the desire to murder him yet. True, we were only a few minutes in, but this was still a strange development.
It was also bizarre to see him standing outside my apartment building. He hadn’t needed to come to get me himself. Surely he could have “sent a car.” I couldn’t help thinking those words in a posh British accent.
I jerked my way down the steps, lugging the big black case that accompanied me to all my gigs.
“Here,” he said. “Let me help you.”
Ronan slammed the drivers-side door shut, and came to take the case out of my hands. Such a gentleman.
“How many wardrobe changes do you have planned exactly?” he asked, as he hefted its weight into the back seat. “And are any of your costumes made of chain mail?”
“That’s gear,” I said. “Not clothes.”
“Gear?” he asked, furrowing his brow in worry. “Was there something the tech team couldn’t get you? We should have a full set-up. ”
He looked down at what I was holding in my other hand and got even more confused.
“What’s the bucket for?”
“It’s a just-in-case thing. Don’t worry about it.”
“In case you throw up on stage?” he asked. “I didn’t realize you were that nervous.”
“Ha, very funny. But no.”
Now it was his turn to study me. He could tell I was acting cagey. I probably did seem pretty nervous. And I actually didn’t think he was trying to tease me about it. He was trying to pick my brain, to understand why.
Usually we’d be five insults deep by now, at least. The lack of banter was making me uneasy.
I slid into the front passenger seat. My instincts screamed, “I’d rather sit in the back, please!” but I figured that would be pretty rude.
As soon as I closed the door I felt trapped. Ronan was inches away from me, and the whole car smelled like him. I hadn’t realized before then that I’d picked up on his scent. Not cologne, but his actual body scent—a warm spiciness that had soaked into all his possessions. His house had smelled that way too. And his bathrobe. And his body, the last time it had been very, very close to mine.
He kept giving me weird looks as he drove. Like he was assessing me. Not judgmentally, but thoughtfully. I had an eerie feeling like he could read my mind, and hear all my crazy thoughts about how good I thought he smelled. I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat.
“I’m sorry if I make you feel judged,” he said out of the blue.
I was so taken aback by this that I couldn’t reply. I tried to think of what a normal, casual response to a statement like that might be, but my brain came up blank. Instead I just stared at him, like I was waiting for time to rewind and swallow up his words.
After a few moments of silence, he kept talking.
“I know sometimes I can come off that way. You’ve told me so, in fact. So, if I ever made you feel bad, please know that I didn’t intend it that way.”
“Uh…...okay, I guess.”
I said it because I felt like I needed to say something, and “okay, I guess,” felt pretty non-committal. But the moment I said it I realized that he had just sort of apologized to me, and I had just sort of accepted.
But no, I didn’t like that. That didn’t feel right at all. Had I really just forgiven Ronan Baylor for a lifetime of jerkiness, just like that?
I recovered myself and asked, “Are you telling me you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings when you called my assignments ‘pathetic’ in front of the whole class?”
His lip twitched, but he didn’t say anything.
“Or when you basically told me I was a terrible business student, despite the fact that you weren’t a real teacher and I’d never asked for your opinion anyway?”
“I didn’t really...well...maybe I did sort of imply that, but I was just trying to…”
“Or what about that talk you gave to the seniors, when you said that, ‘Anyone who doesn’t have a solid life plan together when they graduate deserves the miserable mess their life is going to turn into?’”
“It’s never bad to have a plan,” he bit out, sounding more defensive.
“Easy for you to say. You had everything handed to you. Plus you were so judgy and over-the-top about it. Some people would say, ‘Not everyone knows what they’re meant to do right away. Some things take time. Don’t stress too much about it. Just take life as it comes.’”
He scoffed. A full-on, cynical scoff.
“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”
Oh yeah. This was more like it. I felt a twitch in my heart, like I’d been poked. This was a sore spot for me, and he could clearly tell, and he’d gone for it anyway. Sizzling rage gathered under my skin, and I felt energized, and sort of relieved. This was how I was used to feeling around Ronan. This made sense.
I shot a triumphant glare at him: he’d just proved my point.
“See? Asshole.”
He turned away from me and fixed his eyes firmly on the road ahead.
We were headed downtown, down into the business district, and traffic was stop-and-go. Ronan tapped his fingers impatiently on the wheel, waiting for the person ahead of us to realize he could move.
Fine. If he wanted to ignore me, I could ignore him too. I stared out the window.
Time dragged on. My mind flicked between my nerves about the gala and angry thoughts about Ronan. It was clear now what he thought about me: I was a fuck-up who didn’t have a real career. Maybe he’d only offered me this job out of pity.
But hey, that was fine. Good, even. If Jen’s theory was right, my voice worked whenever I was trying to prove him wrong.
Except if the theory was wrong, I might very well end up proving him right. It was like one of those stupid brain te
asers, except this one came with the prospect of public humiliation.
I needed something else to occupy my mind. I started waving vigorously at the people in the neighboring cars as we slowly slid past them. Some of them glared, or looked back blank-faced. Some of them smiled and waved back. Kids especially.
“What are you doing?” Ronan asked.
“Playing sweet and sour,” I replied. I kept my voice even, like this was a perfectly natural thing for a grown-up woman to do. “If they wave back they’re sweet. If not they’re sour.”
“Is everything a game with you?” he muttered.
“You’re sour. No question. Don’t even have to test it.”
His mouth twisted, and I happily returned to my game. He let me be for a moment as he focused on pulling the car forward. I heard the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the wheel.
“You’re right,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry.”
I turned my head around slowly. He was apologizing. Again. This had to be some kind of a record.
I was startled to see the look on his face. He looked very serious, very...genuine. It gave his face a more open look, and made his eyes gleam in a way I’d never seen before. Like they were big shiny windows into the actual human soul he might be hiding somewhere in his body.
“I have very strong opinions. If I think I know what’s best for someone I try to help them. If I think they’re making a mistake, I tell them. And I guess I tend to take a ‘tough love’ sort of approach. But that’s no excuse for being rude or insulting. So, I’m sorry, Norah. I really am.”
Man, he was making very intense eye contact. Like he really wanted me to understand that he meant what he said.
My face flushed again—not with anger this time. I kept looking at his eyes, deep into them, searching for some hint of mockery or repressed derision.
But I didn’t see anything like that. What I did see-
The car behind us honked.
We looked forward at the same moment, and saw a large gap between us and the nearest car ahead. Ronan refocused on the road and lifted his foot off the breaks.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. And I meant it, too. My anger had softened considerably.
But then I remembered the theory. I wasn’t sure that softened anger was what I wanted. I didn’t feel solid anymore, the way I did when I was grounded by red-hot rage. My stomach felt jumpy. My heart raced. My throat and my chest felt tight.
“We’re here,” Ronan said.
We’d just pulled up in front of the Baylor Prestige Hotel. The most stately and elegant hotel in the city, it spanned sixteen floors of a gloriously imposing 19th-century stone building. Old money folks tended to stay here, and it was a favorite event venue for classy-as-hell galas, even when they weren’t being thrown by the CEO’s mother. I tried not to be too intimidated.
“Are you okay getting out by yourself here?” Ronan asked. “I need to find a parking spot, it might take a while.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Again I was surprised by how normal he was being. I guess if rich people chose to drive their own cars they had to find their own parking spots, like everyone else.
“You mean you don’t have your own personal underground bat-cave-style parking situation under each of the Baylor hotels? You know, park your car on one of those rotating circles, get served a martini by a butler on your way upstairs?”
He laughed.
“Not yet. But I must say you have some promising ideas. The permits for the drilling work would be a nightmare, but other than that..”
I smiled back at him. Then I frowned. I was quickly becoming very confused. This was banter, maybe. But it was friendly. Which meant it was not good. Not good at all.
“See you in there,” I said, lamely, speaking far too fast. I leapt out of the car like I’d been bitten by something, grabbed the bucket and the heavy black case out of the trunk, and sprinted for the door.
As I’d been instructed I made first contact with the event planner, who then handed me off to the tech crew for a sound check.
Since I was a last-minute replacement I hadn’t had time to rehearse with a band or an accompanist. Honestly it was probably better that way. It had been ages since I’d performed with anyone else’s instrumentation. The “shtick” was a solo act, so I’d gotten out of practice.
Tonight it was just going to be me and my piano. It was a less classy set-up, but luckily the event planner seemed desperate and willing to take what she could get.
But me at the piano was just Plan A. I also worked with the tech team to set up the gear from my gear box, just in case Plan B— the shtick— became necessary. If Jen was right, getting enough rage in my system should be enough for Plan A to work. If she was wrong—or if Ronan kept being weirdly nice and didn’t make me angry enough—Plan B would be my only option.
As I scanned the space I found myself praying damn hard for Plan A to work.
The hotel ballroom was gorgeous. Naturally it was opulent and luxurious, but it also had a bit of an austere quality. The walls were wrapped in mahogany from top to bottom, and chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. The decorations being set up in the space only added to the sense of formality. They did not contain a single pop of color. Black seat cushions, black table clothes, clean white china and napkins. This looked like it was going to be a very elegant, very serious party. Not really a fun-and-games type of affair.
It was possible I’d made an awful mistake by agreeing to this. I might have boxed myself into a very bad corner.
I did my sound check, with a few of the songs from my Plan A setlist. It went fine. I opened my mouth, and sound came out of it. I’d expected this. After all, this was a “rehearsal,” not a “performance.” Apparently my crazy brain thought that a “rehearsal” was nothing to worry about.
I also tested out the Plan B tech. I got some weird looks from some of the crew that were setting up the tables, which didn’t exactly bode well.
Once everything had been checked and double-checked I made my way to the lady’s room to change. I exchanged the bright sundress for an off-the shoulder gown in red velvet. I was happy to see that it still looked great on me, even though I hadn’t worn it for a while. It highlighted my shoulders, which were my best feature, and cinched me in nicely at the waist. At any given time I owned two formal dresses—a short one and a long one. This one was the long one, and I had chosen it well.
I swept my hair into an updo which I hoped looked stylishly loose, instead of just messy. I spent a long time trying to figure out which wavy strands should hang free. When I was finally satisfied I applied my make-up—classic red lips and cat eyes, the one and only make-up look that I knew how to do.
I surveyed my handiwork. I looked...acceptable. I hoped. Anyway, it was the best I could manage.
I flashed myself a cheesy thumbs-up in the mirror.
“This will work,” I said to myself. “Just remember—Ronan thinks you’re a failure. Five minutes of niceness doesn’t change that fact. You have to stay mad at him. You have to prove him wrong.”
Now there was nothing left to do but go find Ronan, and let him make me angry.
Ronan
The first part of the evening—a silent auction—was already underway when Norah wandered out onto the floor. I watched her make her way through the crowd of guests in their black tie attire, moving around the room to examine the artworks on display. She stood up straight and looked confident, but I knew her well enough to spot a tiny bit of hesitance. She really must have been nervous.
My plan of being nice to her had gotten off to a rocky start earlier, but near the end there I seemed to be seeing some results. It hadn’t exactly been pleasant, acknowledging that some of Norah’s reasons for disliking me might be valid. But the way she had looked at me when I had tried to apologize—I was pretty sure I had seen her defenses loosening. The effect had been rather tantalizing.
But if I’d thought she was tantalizing before, that
was nothing compared to now. It wasn’t fair for a woman to look so elegant while every curve of her body was on display. And it definitely wasn’t fair for her wavy hair to somehow look more illicit up than down.
She was dressed perfectly for the occasion—appropriate, sophisticated, maybe even a little on the plain side in her simple dress. But the thoughts she inspired in me were definitely not appropriate. I was going to have trouble not leering at her all night, like some horny teenager ogling a bikini model.
No, that was a bad comparison. Bikini models looked into the camera and told all the sad, horny teenage boys, “I want you.” And much as the teenage boys might enjoy the illusion, on some level they always knew it was fake.
In my years as a horny teen, I had never seen a model with the kind of hot, defiant eyes that Norah had. Nothing fake about that. The glitter of enraged lust in her eyes was as real as an open flame. And the softer, searching look she’d given me earlier had been real too. My teenaged self would have lost his mind.
She saw me looking at her from across the room. My throat caught, just a little, when I realized she was giving me a version of that searching look again. Wondering why I was watching her, what my intentions were. Trying to figure me out.
She smiled at me, almost shyly, and then frowned quickly, as though she’d been caught doing something naughty and was trying to hide the evidence. She turned away to look at one of the paintings on the wall. I felt a victorious thrill travel up my spine.
And then I felt my stomach sink. A hand gripped my shoulder from behind, and the next thing I knew I heard Barron’s voice in my ear.
“So, who’s the lucky lady?”
This had been a very bad idea.
I turned to look at Barron. As usual, he looked like a hungover wannabe fashion model crossed with a hungover wannabe rockstar.
He could never just wear a classic black tuxedo to this kind of function. No, he had to wear skinny suit-pants (who knew there were such things?), a transparent mesh dress shirt (again, who knew?), and something that looked like a normal suit jacket crossed with Prince’s iconic look from Purple Rain. He’d finished it off with guy-liner and one dangling gold earring. Everything he wore was very expensive and probably very cutting-edge as far as the world of high fashion was concerned. But that didn’t make it right for the occasion.