Boss's Virgin - A Standalone Romance (An Office Billionaire Boss Romance)

by Claire Adams

  He parked the truck and we got out. Everything seemed brighter, though not necessarily in an inspiring way. I wished I had a pair of sunglasses. Some of the guys had talked about what they thought it would be like when they got out, how they’d revel in the freedom to do whatever the hell they wanted, where they wanted. A lot of the guys were like me, outdoorsmen who were not used to spending so much time inside. But now that I was actually out, everything felt like too much. There were too many choices. I could do anything right now, but I felt paralyzed faced with all the options. I reached out and rested my hand on the side of the truck to steady myself.

  Garrett came around the truck, looking down at something he was holding.

  “What on earth is that?” I asked. He had a rectangular device in his hand and was tapping away at the screen.

  “This?” He held it out to me. “This here thing is a smart phone. Not just a phone, but a computer doodad, too. Can do all sorts of things on it.”

  It was full-color, the picture as clear as a TV. Clearer, even. I handed it back.

  “That sure is different than I remember cell phones being.”

  “This thing is a little computer you can carry in your pocket. Never thought I’d see the day. Well, never thought I’d see the day when I’d be able to operate something like this, but they do a good job making it simple for folks like myself.”

  “Isn’t that something.”

  Garrett slid the phone computer thing back into his pocket. “I expect Marie will be back later this afternoon. If you want to get yourself settled in you can.” He pulled his wallet out and extracted some bills, which he handed to me.

  I tried to hand it back. “Garrett, I can’t take this, you’ve done enough already—”

  “This is an advance on your first paycheck,” he said. “This isn’t a handout. But you’ll be needing to get yourself some clothes. Marie looked around a bit to see if there was anything that Jacob or Keith had left behind, but really, you should start fresh in your own duds. You don’t need to be wearing their hand-me-downs.” He patted my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, Ollie,” he said. “There’ll be a period of adjustment. Give yourself the time to get used to everything again.”

  I nodded, feeling an overwhelming surge of emotion filling my chest. When I’d woken up this morning, I hadn’t been sure what today was going to have in store for me, but it was certainly not this. I didn’t even dare dream about something like this.

  “Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

  “Don’t mention it. And if you need anything else, just holler.”

  “Actually . . . .” I paused. “There is one thing. Could I use the blue Ford?”

  “Of course. Come on, I’ll get you the key.”

  I followed him into the house. “There are a few things I need to take care of,” I said, even though Garrett hadn’t asked. “Maybe I’ll get a few pairs of jeans while I’m out, too.”

  Garrett handed me a keychain, with a single key on it. If he thought that I was going to take the truck out and go find some sort of trouble to get into, he didn’t say a thing. But that’s the kind of guy Garrett was; he’d give you advice if you wanted it, but he wouldn’t try to keep you from doing anything. He’d let you make your own mistakes and hopefully learn from them.

  “You can just hang onto that key,” he said. “Go take care of whatever it is you need to do, and I’ll see you back here later.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thank you.” I walked back outside, thinking about just what it was I needed to do. What I needed to do was something for Jackson, because of the deal I’d made with him. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, my first week at Reynolds, not knowing how long I’d be in that hell hole. But now that I was out, I wasn’t so sure. I had to keep my word, though. I had promised him.

  Jackson had made me memorize the address, after he told me what he’d wanted me to do. This was maybe five or six months before I got released, a day after his wife, Paula, had come to visit. I didn’t go down to the visitation room, of course; I’d never stepped foot in there. Jackson’s wife visited him regularly, but after that visit he’d come to me with a request: When I got out, he wanted me to go look in on her.

  At first I thought it was some sort of joke, or a test of sorts. Jackson was in his mid-thirties and had taken me under his wing. I was the youngest guy at Reynolds, and I knew I’d have a target on my back. I knew the sorts of things that could happen to a guy in prison, or I thought I knew, but probably the reality of it was a whole lot worse than anything that I’d be able to imagine. It might have found out firsthand if it hadn’t been for Jackson, who later told me I reminded him a lot of his younger brother.

  “What . . . what do you want me to do?” I’d asked.

  “Check in on her. Take her out to dinner if she wants. A movie. You know how lonely it can be. Paula’s sister used to live a few miles away, so she had someone to visit with, but she moved to Seattle a few months ago. She’s something of an introvert, my wife, but she still needs companionship, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.”

  It sounded like a recipe for disaster, if you asked me, but I wasn’t about to tell Jackson that.

  “And I trust you,” he said. “You’re about the only person I do trust, which is why I’m asking. I could just tell the last time I saw her that she’s struggling.”

  Which was how I found myself driving over to Jackson’s house to check in on his old lady. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was supposed to do once I got there, or if she’d even let me in. Their house was on the outskirts of town, you had to drive a ways past the state highway, past Twinturn Lake, the Rockies looming in the background. The house was one-story, cream-colored with blue shutters. The curtains were drawn on all the windows, the front door sealed shut. A maroon Toyota Camry was parked in the driveway, though it didn’t look like it hadn’t moved in some time. The front lawn was patchy and overgrown. The place looked abandoned. But I checked the number again and knew that this was Jackson’s place, so I got out of the truck and walked up to the front door.

  I rang the bell twice and knocked once. Maybe she went out for a walk, or maybe a friend had come and picked her up and they’d gone shopping. Except I knew, from what Jackson had told me, that his wife wasn’t the sort to get picked up by a friend to go shopping. If she was, he probably wouldn’t have had me looking in on her in the first place.

  The door opened, slowly, only an inch or so. “Who is it?”

  “Paula, hi,” I said. “My name’s . . . my name’s Oliver Boardman, I know your—”

  “I know who you are,” she said. The door opened a few more inches, enough so I could see what she looked like. She was tall, and older than I’d thought; or maybe she just hadn’t aged well. She had an angular face and wide-set eyes, her hair was long and graying. “What are you doing here?”

  “Jackson . . . Jackson asked if I’d come check in on you. We knew each other . . . .” I let my voice trail off, questioning whether or not this had really been a smart idea. How much better was it really going to make her feel to have some guy she didn’t even know showing up on her doorstep? “I just . . . Is there anything you need?”

  The faintest of smiles crossed her face, something closer to a smirk. She opened the door all the way. “Is that a trick question? Because there’s a whole lot of things I need, but I doubt you could help me with any of it.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m supposed to try to.”

  “Enough with the ma’am. I know my husband told you to come check in on me. Well, here I am.” She eyed me like I had done something wrong. “What were you in for?”

  There was no point in lying; Jackson had probably told her anyway. “I killed someone.”

  “Someone you knew?”

  “No. Well, not really. We weren’t friends or anything. We’d gone to school together, but he was a few grades above me.”

  “And you killed him.” She looked at me closely then. “I think I remember reading so
mething in the paper about you. It was a while ago. Killed a man with your own bare hands. Crime of passion, one of the articles said. That woman never came forward, either. The one you saved. Strange, isn’t it? You’d think she’d want to come forward and at least thank you.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to be talking about this; I’d come over here to check in on her, not discuss the details about what had happened with me.

  “So, you’re doing okay then?” I asked.

  She cracked a smile. “You suddenly in a rush to get out of here?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. Because I’d like to go out, actually. Jackson might have told you that I have to be in the right sort of mood for visitors, and, as it happens, I’m in that mood right now. Let me get my purse.”

  She shut the door, leaving me standing there on the doorstep. Go out now? I hadn’t been planning on that; I figured I’d just look in on her, she’d tell me she was fine, and I’d be on my way. At the most maybe she’d invite me in and I’d sit at the kitchen table, the same table that Jackson used to sit at and eat dinner, and she’d make tea and I’d listen to her talk about whatever it was she might need to talk about. But no—we were going out.

  She reappeared a moment later, slinging a small black leather pocketbook over her shoulder.

  “Ready,” she said.

  She wore a long blue skirt and a gray cardigan and she looked sort of like a crazy librarian. We got into the truck and she told me to drive back toward town.

  “So, how’s it feel?” she asked. “Being a free man.”

  “Going all right so far.”

  “I keep imaging the day when Jackson’s a free man, just like you.”

  I kept my eyes on the road and didn’t say anything. The chances of Jackson ever getting out were zero and zilch. He’d gone to Denver one night and when he’d come back to his truck he found two teenagers trying to break into it. He beat the shit out of them both and then got his antique Winchester out of the truck and shot them as they tried to run away. According to Jackson, it later came out that the kids were on meth, but that didn’t matter. He’d shot and killed two kids who’d been trying to escape.

  “Did you have somewhere in mind that you wanted to go?” I asked Paula as we approached town.

  “I did.”

  I waited for her to continue but she didn’t. “Care to share the plan with me?” I finally said.

  She was looking out the window as though she hadn’t heard me, humming something under her breath. Was she a little crazy? Was this why Jackson had asked me to check up on her?

  “There,” she said suddenly, pointing. “I want to go there. The food’s great and the coffee’s even better. And hey—it’s got the same name as you.”

  The restaurant she had pointed at was called Ollie’s, which must’ve opened up while I’d been in prison. The last I knew, it had been the Red Hen Café, which had okay food and mediocre coffee.

  “This woman opened the place almost five years ago,” Paula said. “I don’t go out too much, but when I do, I like to come here and get the chicken pot pie.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “You should order it.”

  I wasn’t the least bit hungry. “Maybe I will.”

  We went inside. I’d only been in the place once or twice when it was the Red Hen, so I only had a vague recollection of it, but the place now seemed completely transformed. The sunlight poured in and the white walls gleamed. The memories I did have of the Red Hen were of a dark, shabby sort of place, so this was quite a contrast. The bar had been reconstructed, the chipped Formica replaced with gleaming hardwood. The counter stools were also wooden, and the tables and booths had been redone to match. The place felt both quaint and chic and I was immediately overcome with the feeling of not belonging.

  But Paula marched right in, waved to one of the waitresses, and sat herself down at a corner table. I followed and sat across from her. Luckily, there weren’t many people there.

  “Try the coffee,” Paula said. “Everything here’s good, but the coffee’s excellent.” She peered at the menu.

  The waitress came over, carrying a coffee pot. She was slightly overweight and had washed out blond hair and was wearing a shade of lipstick that was a little too bright.

  “Hi there,” she said with a big smile. “Nice to see you again, Paula. It’s been a while. Nice to see you . . . .” She paused, looking at me. “I don’t think I know you.”

  “I’m Oliver,” I said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Oliver. I’m Lena, I’ll be your waitress today. Can I get you guys some coffee?”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Paula said.

  Lena’s smile never wavered as she poured us each coffee and then said she’d give us a few minutes with the menu.

  Paula took a big sip of the coffee, made some strange moaning sound that I guess was supposed to indicate how good it tasted and then looked up, over my shoulder, scanning the dining room. “The owner’s not here right now,” she said. “This girl named Wren. She’s a looker, but you don’t want to get involved with her.”

  I drank my coffee. “Okay,” I said, as though getting involved with someone was even an option. It wasn’t, as far as I was concerned. Not now, anyway. Not for a long time. I couldn’t even begin to start to think of being that settled into my life that I might actually have a girlfriend.

  “No, I mean it.” Paula leaned across the table toward me. “I know you grew up around here, but you’ve been gone for so long it’s like you’re new in town again. And I might not go out a lot, but that doesn’t mean I’m not privy to the sorts of gossip that goes around.”

  “I’m not that interested in gossip.”

  “Most men aren’t. Not much of a surprise there. She’s a nice girl and all, Wren, but she gets around, if you know what I mean.”

  I shrugged. “It’s really not any of my business.”

  “I’m just letting you know.”

  I kept expecting to wake up and find myself back at Reynolds, that this whole experience of being released from prison today had just been a dream. I’d open my eyes and be lying there on that cot, staring up at the concrete ceiling I’d become so familiar with over the years. Today would in fact be the day I’d be getting out, but instead of Garrett being there to pick me up, I’d take the bus somewhere. I’d be an anonymous face; I’d probably have to sleep under a bridge somewhere.

  But that didn’t happen, because this, it seemed, was actually reality. I was sitting here with Jackson’s wife, at a restaurant that had the same name as me, owned by a woman who apparently got around.

  “I need to be getting back,” I said.

  Paula leaned across the table again and peered into my cup of coffee. “You’re not done yet.”

  I picked up the cup and swallowed the remainder, and it was still got enough that is scorched my mouth and my throat on the way down. “There,” I said. “All finished.”

  For a second I thought she was going to refuse; I thought she was going to insist that we stay there and order food, more coffee, talk to everyone who walked into the place. If she did, I’d have to leave her there. Except no, I couldn’t do that, not to Jackson’s wife.

  Luckily, though, she decided not to do that. Maybe she could see that I was on the verge of losing my shit if we didn’t get out of there, maybe she herself was just ready to go, I didn’t know, but she pulled her wallet out of her pocketbook, left a few bills on the table, and then we left.

  “I’m sorry,” I said once we were outside. “I wasn’t trying to rush you or anything, but I just needed to get outside. Maybe I should’ve waited a day or two before coming to see you.” That probably would have been the smarter idea. “But I promised Jackson I would.”

  After I left Paula’s, I drove back to town, trying to find a store to get some clothes. It seemed like most of the stores had changed, or moved, in the past seven years. New shops, new restaurants, I didn’t even recognize the name of the ban
k. The coffee made me feel jittery, but I parked and wandered into a few stores. I bought a toothbrush and toothpaste at the drug store, and then I went into a clothing store that had the jeans I was looking for. I got a couple pairs, as well as a few work shirts. I needed a new pair of boots. I didn’t have enough money for Luccheses, which was what I used to wear, but the Ariat boots were on sale, and I found a pair in my size. What had happened to those boots? I hadn’t worn them when I went out that night; I’d left them by the front door at my mother’s, where I was always left them so I didn’t track dirt and mud all through the house. Those boots had fit like a glove; this new pair would be far inferior, but it was the best I could do, considering I was buying them with money I hadn’t yet earned.

  3.

  Wren

  No way to escape.

  I’m trapped.

  It’s that guy, I know it’s him even though I can’t see his face, and he’s got me pinned against the wall. We’re not outside in a parking lot, though, we’re in some sort of container, with slick walls and a slippery floor and I’m trying to keep my balance but I can’t. The feeling that I’m about to fall is constant, but the falling part never comes. There is a pervading sense of sickening dread and nothing I can do to escape it. There’s no one coming to save me this time, and I can’t even seem to move my arms or legs. My brain is screaming at my limbs to move but they won’t so all I can do is stand there and wait for him to—

  My eyes flew open, heart in my throat, pulse racing. The sheets were a tangled, sweaty mess. The dull gray light seeping in through the closed blinds told me it was early morning, but late enough that I could get up. There was no going back to sleep after those sorts of dreams, anyway. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, though Dr. Mike said it didn’t matter how many times you had a recurring nightmare; it could feel just as scary as the first time you had it.

  Awake, though, I could steel myself to the outside world. This didn’t mean closing myself off or being rude for no reason; it meant slipping on that irreverent, slightly sarcastic personality that I felt somehow protected me, that kept anyone from getting too close. At the same time, guys seemed to find it appealing, so there was never any shortage of dates, though I refused to ever let them go past the first one, no matter how good that first date had gone.