This isn’t how I expected my life to turn out, but all things considered, I think I’ve been pretty fortunate.
When I get to the new location—or as I like to call it, Lady Bits 2.0—I’m filled with a sense of pride.
Things really turned around after I promoted Cheryl and once the word spread, things just kept getting bigger and bigger until that little store wasn’t big enough to hold it all.
The new store opens in a few days, but before that happens, there are a few things that I need to take care of.
After all this time, the person I have to thank most wasn’t there to see me close down my first store.
Eric, despite the sharp turn our relationship took while still in its infancy, did more to turn things around for me than anyone. He gave me the courage to sit back and accept help and, despite the fact that I still think the plus section would have looked better indented a little further into the ground, the work he did inside the store and outside of it really took things to a place I didn’t think they could go.
It’s a shame he couldn’t make it to the closing today.
That being said, he’s got a lot of work to do.
I walk into the nearly complete building and, even though I’ve been through these doors dozens of times now, I’m still taken aback by the size and the brilliance of the new store.
José almost runs over me as he’s helping one of his guys move a large display stand.
“Have you seen Eric?” I ask.
José still never says more than a few words at a time to me. I think he’s still holding onto some lingering fear that I’m going to have him fired for breaking into my first store.
“He’s in the back,” José says and keeps going, telling his worker to speed it up, that they haven’t got all day.
So, I make my way to the back of the new store, dodging Ian as he tosses what I can only hope is a shelled pistachio nut over twenty feet into an electrician’s mouth.
“Is Eric back here?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Ian answers and then dodges to the left with his mouth wide open, but misses the poorly thrown return volley. “Last I saw, he was back near swimwear.”
“Thanks,” I tell him and quickly move out of the way so the two can continue cluttering up the floor of my otherwise pristine new building.
Eric is crouched down, making sure that a small platform is level.
“Hey, could I talk to you a minute?” I ask.
He turns around and stands, brushing his mid-length hair away from his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just give me a minute to finish checking this. I don’t know if it’s my level or what, but this section right here is off-center.”
“It can wait,” I tell him. “Come with me, please.”
He leaves the level behind and follows me back to what will be my office when the new store finally opens.
“How are we doing on cost?” I ask.
“Well, your last-minute changes have driven things up a bit, but I don’t think we’re going to end up too far above what we’d originally talked about,” he answers.
“Will you close the door?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says and kicks the door closed.
Before the door is latched, our arms are around each other and I’m pressing into his firm chest, kissing him deeply on the lips.
When I pull away, he’s smiling.
“How did it go closing up over there?” he asks.
“Not too bad,” I tell him. “It was a bit rough saying goodbye to the old place, but with all the volume we’re moving, it just wasn’t going to work keeping it open.”
“You know,” he says, “if you weren’t such a major control freak, you could have left the other store open and just let someone else run it.”
“Oh, shut up,” I scoff and hit him playfully on the chest.
“What did you want to talk to me about, boss?”
“You know,” I tell him, “we’re getting married tomorrow. I really think you can start calling me by my name from now on.”
“Eh,” he shrugs, “while we’re at work, you’re the boss and don’t pretend like that doesn’t turn you on a little.”
He’s right about that.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks.
“Well,” I start, “first off, Linda wanted to know if you’re going to be able to pick up Jessica tonight.”
“Yeah,” he says. “She just called. I told her I’d swing by just as soon as I’m off work. I was thinking we could take her to the park tonight.”
“Cool,” I say. “Now, I know we’re running out of time and everything, but I’ve been looking at pictures of some of the more modern clothing stores, and there are a few things I’d like to implement before the paint is dry. I know the schedule is tight, but I really think we can get this done and it’s going to look so much better.”
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he groans.
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ROOMIES
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Room Available
Leila
“Thanks, I still have a few people to interview, but I’ll be sure to give you a call.”
Yeah, right. Even after the guy’s out the door, I’m still choking on his cologne.
I’ve been in Manhattan for less than a month and my internship isn’t cutting it. You’d think that, even as an intern, working for one of the major stock brokers in the world would be enough to cover a simple, two-bedroom apartment. You’d think wrong.
The big boss at my company makes something like 2,500 times my salary. Now, I don’t really expect to bring in the millions as an intern, but I should, at least, be able to hold onto an apartment.
You know, I’m really starting to think that my landlord only rented me the place for the eye-candy. The way he stares at my chest when he talks to me should have tipped me off, but I was just happy to talk to someone who heard my salary and didn’t laugh in my face.
Right now, I’m going around opening all the windows, hoping to air the place out before my next appointment arrives.
I’m waiting a while.
My final appointment of the day, a Dane Paulson, is already five minutes late.
Maybe he passed the other guy in the hall and had to be wheeled out of the building. I can’t begin to explain how, but opening the windows has only made the lingering stench worse.
I’m in the bathroom, putting drops in to lessen the stinging in my eyes when there’s a knock on the door.
“Just a minute!” I shout.
The last thing I need is for a prospective renter to think I’m some crazy, emotional woman, crying about nothing. Either that would scare him away or make me appear that special kind of vulnerable that the worst kinds of people prey upon.
Neither one is an acceptable option.
I’m at the door one minute and three tissues later.
“Hi,” I say, opening the door. “Here to see the apartment?”
The man on the other side is tall, tattooed, and handsome. His black hair is cut short enough to nicely merge into his scruff. He’s leaning against the door jamb like an antihero from a noir film. He’s got that self-important look with his chocolate brown eyes staring at me that makes it appear like he lives here already and is wondering why it took me so long to answer the door and let him in.
I hate him already.
“Yeah,” he says, acting as if he’s chewing something which, as far as I can tell, he’s not. “Are you Lily?”
“No,” I tell him. “I’m Leila.”
He leans back and looks at my door as if there’s some kind
of useful information posted on it, then he looks back at me.
“I thought the ad said your name was Lily.”
“Well,” I tell him, “it’s not. Would you like to come in?”
He doesn’t answer, but just kind of struts in, his thumbs in his pockets. “Nice place,” he says.
“Yep,” I tell him.
“That’s quite the smell,” he says. “Let me guess: modeling party?”
If it’s a line, it’s about the worst one I’ve ever heard.
“No,” I tell him. “The guy ahead of you seemed to think it necessary to actually bathe in his—what are you doing?”
He’s by the countertop, leafing through the newspaper I haven’t read myself.
“I was out late last nigh. I was hoping to get a peek at the sports section.”
Yeah, I already hate this guy. Sadly, though, I’m desperate.
I have some money from my modest inheritance, but it wouldn’t last long in a place like this. And this is one of the more reasonably priced apartments in the city.
What I really want is to get a full time position at the brokerage firm so I can save up for a nice house; you know, somewhere far away from tattooed guy and the one who swims in cologne. I’d try for a place like that now, but I’d much rather get settled into my job before I blow all my money.
“Take it,” I tell him, acting like he’s not being incredibly nosy.
He doesn’t bother looking up from the paper. “That’s all right,” he says. “My team lost.”
For the next few seconds, we just stand there: him, still going through the newspaper, me, pretending I don’t want to chuck something at his head for the impropriety.
“I’m sorry,” he says, finally looking up from the sports section. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Dane, Dane Paulson.”
“Leila Tyler,” I say and hold my hand out to shake his.
He looks at my hand, then turns his head toward the apartment. “So, what is this place: 700, 800 square feet?”
“750. Your room would be over here,” I say and start walking, but he doesn’t move.
“Nah, that’s all right,” he tells me. “I like it. I’ll take it.”
“It’s not that simple. I’ve had a number of interviews and some pretty solid prospects. I’ll need to know what kind of income you bring in, I’ll need to check your references. We haven’t even had our interview—”
“I just moved here, actually. I follow the music.”
A musician: fantastic. Not only would I have to deal with him, I’d have to deal with whatever instrument he can’t really play and all the nonsense catchphrases that go with it.
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I think I have enough—”
“Guitar, mostly,” he says. He stops looking around the apartment like he’s planning a break-in and looks at me for a moment. “Sorry, most people ask what I play when I tell them I’m a musician.”
“Sorry for my lack of etiquette. It’s been very nice meeting you, but—”
“120,000,” he says.
“What?”
“Dollars,” he answers. “I make a little over $120,000 a year.”
“That’s wonderful. Now, if I can just show you the beautiful craftsmanship in the hallway—”
“I could move in tonight. I mean, I don’t know what your schedule is like, but fuck it. Why wait?”
“Listen, Mr.—”
“Paulson,” he says.
“Mr. Paulson,” I rejoin. “I think it would be best if you just left. I’ve decided not to rent the room.”
“Look,” he says, “I know $120,000 isn’t that much in New York City, but it’s more than enough to cover my half of the rent. That is the deal, right? We each pay half, have separate bedrooms, but the rest of the place is shared?”
“That would be the deal,” I tell him, “but you’re not listening.”
“What do you pay here? It’s got to be, what, $3,000 a month?”
“It’s something like that. But I just don’t think it’s the right fit.”
“All right,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you change your mind, I’m still new enough to the city and would never know if you were fucking me.”
My mouth drops open a little. “Excuse me?”
“Fucking me,” he says. “You know, cheating me on my share of the rent.”
Right now, it’s down to him, cologne guy and the woman who walked in alone and accused me of wanting to sleep with her boyfriend. Lovely.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him.
“Sounds good,” he says as if certain the room is his.
“Okay,” I tell him, no longer caring whether he wants to see the open room or not, “I’ll let you know.”
“Sounds great,” he says and smiles. He turns and heads for the door. “Oh, by the way…”
“Yeah?” I ask, frustration thick in my voice.
“Would you mind just leaving the sports page on the counter? New York newspapers are thicker than what we had back home. I can never find the damn thing.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I tell him.
He’s out the door a minute later, and I’m on the phone with my friend Mike.
“They can’t be that bad,” he tells me, somewhere around minute fifteen of my diatribe.
“You have no idea,” I tell him. “Today was a cakewalk. Yesterday, I had four twenty-year-olds come in here, not so much to look at the room as a living space, but a spot for their weekly swingers’ club meetings. Don’t even ask me what that entails, and I’m not saying that because I haven’t been very well-informed. Then, there was the cat lover.”
“Cat lover doesn’t sound so bad,” Mike chuckles.
“Oh, did I not mention that she brought the cat, and that the cat was actually an old cardigan with a thin leash around it?”
“Okay, that’s pretty bad.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “We’re still going out tonight, right?”
“Nine o’clock,” he says.
“Beautiful.” It’s the first good news I’ve had all day. “I think I just need to get out there and get shitfaced.”
He laughs. “You always say that, but after cocktail number one… well, I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen you finish cocktail number one.”
I ignore him. Tonight’s a night to get hammered and make some bad decisions. “I’ll see you there.”
I hang up the phone and try to visualize what life is going to be like. You know, as soon as I’ve clawed my way out of the hell that has been this week.
* * *
By the time Mike and I are at the club, I’m starting to forget about the relentless cavalcade of freaks and psychos.
Ultra-repetitive dance music can do that to a person.
Just to prove that I’m not such a cheap date, I order my customary cocktail—a tequila sunrise—and a sidecar.
I’m not entirely sure what a sidecar is, but it always seemed like the thing to order at a bar.
“I’ll bet you a shot of vodka I end up drinking at least one of those,” Mike teases.
He’s lived here his whole life. In fact, he’s the one that got me the interview for my current position.
Mike and I met when I was seventeen and I came through Manhattan on a school field trip. He helped me find my hotel after I got lost trying to find Tiffany’s.
What can I say? I loved the movie.
“You’re on,” I tell him and down the sidecar in a single tilt.
It’s a terrible idea—I realize that before I finish the thing—but it gets Mike’s attention.
“So, how much of the sunrise do I have to drink before you give me my shot?”
“Hell, I’ll buy you the vodka now just to see what you taking a shot looks like.”
“Drop the money,” I tell him.
As his back is turned, I take in a few slow, deep breaths, trying to fight the urge to vomit right here.
He turns back to me, shot in hand
.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s see it.”
“I’m not drinking it straight, though,” I tell him. “You’ve got to at least get me a chaser.”
He turns his back again and I sit down on the bar stool.
I think I’m already feeling the alcohol setting in.
I’ve never been much of a drinker.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “What’d you get me?”
“Cola,” he says. “Now, let’s see this shot.”
I scoff and take both the shot and chaser in my hand.
“Take a deep breath,” he says. “Hold it in and don’t let it out until you’re drinking the chaser.”
“You’re acting like I’ve never taken a shot before.”
“Have you?”
I’d rather not answer that question, so I take a deep breath and down the shot of vodka. It’s a sensation unlike anything else I’ve experienced.
It’s not a pleasant one.
“Here,” Mike says, patting my cola hand, spilling a little in the process. “Sip it slow so you don’t get a ton of carbonation in your stomach.”
I do as instructed, trying to make my expression portray nonchalance. That falls apart as I take a short breath before the vodka taste is completely out of my mouth.
“Hold your breath,” he says. “Drink the soda.”
He’s laughing.
Mike and I became pen pals when I got back to Waterloo.
He’d given me his phone number and address in case I found myself lost again. We’ve always been closer friends than anyone I ever spent time with back home.
When dad died, he was the one who got me through it.
Now, though, he’s laughing at me, and I kind of want to punch him in the face.
By the time I get halfway through the cola, Mike puts his hand on the glass.
“That’s more than enough,” he says. “You don’t want to get sick.”
“I thought that was the point of the chaser.”
“The point of the chaser—” he sighs. “Who cares? You did it! You took your first shot!”
The people at and around the bar look over at me with surprise and confusion. It doesn’t help matters that Mike’s holding his hands above his head like I’ve just accomplished the unthinkable.
Escort (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) Page 51