The Never List

by DL White

  I dumped the bag on my bed and headed straight there, salivating at the thought of soaking this night away.

  I turned on the faucet to fill the tub, tossing in a bath bomb to soften and scent the water, and pinned up my shoulder-length hair. I undressed, unbuttoning the silk blouse I had picked out especially for this date. I peeled off the camisole and the lacy bra that my date would never see, but I felt confident and sexy in them. I unzipped the brand-new black pencil skirt that had been rubbed in spots from my encounter with the concrete. Disgusted, I tossed the skirt into the dry clean pile in my closet.

  As I pushed my panties down my hips, the doorbell chimed. O'Neal's flight attendant friends were prone to visiting at all hours of the night and staying until sunrise. Occasionally, I had to step over slumbering figures sprawled out on the living room floor.

  I turned off the faucet, stepped into the bath, and turned on the jets, sinking deep into the steamy, soapy water. I exhaled a breath I felt I'd been holding for hours. Since before I left work and headed to Bistro. Since I arrived and my date wasn't waiting to meet me, and since I had sat alone at a table and 8:30 came and went, 9:00 came and went, and there was no Chris.

  I should have expected something to go wrong. It was too good to be true from the beginning. I'd heard the long-winded moans and complaints about online dating, about how there were more scammers and men looking for sex than the genuine article looking for love.

  I'd been so smug, having met a handsome gentleman right out of the gate. We'd have a romantic first meeting and look deeply into each other's eyes. Months down the line, he would drop to one knee at some romantic locale to propose. I would say yes, and we would have one of those cute stories you see on those commercials that run nonstop from New Year's Day to Valentine's Day.

  I blew scented bubbles away from my face. Now I had a story about how my first online date tried to mug me.

  A soft tap-tap at the door interrupted my pity party. "What, O'Neal?"

  "There's a man here, asking for you."

  I sat up, searching my brain for any person I knew that would stop by without calling first. I didn't know any men that had a reason to stop by at this time of night.

  "You sure it's for me?"

  "He has your wallet; he showed me your ID. His hand is all bandaged up. Es, I think he might be the dude that knocked that guy out!"

  I could have kicked myself. I hadn't even checked my bag when I got home. I was not in the mood to see or talk to anyone, not even to thank a stranger for finding my wallet and bringing it to me.

  "I don't want to talk to him. Get his number. No, wait! I'm not calling anyone. Get his email address. I'll send him a thank you."

  "I'm not your secretary. Get out of that tub and come thank this man for coming to your rescue and delivering your property to you!"

  O'Neal stomped through the bedroom, down the hall, and back downstairs. Defiant, I took my time drying off, throwing some clothes on my body and a pair of slides on my feet before descending the stairs to greet the Good Samaritan who had interrupted my relaxing bath.

  O'Neal was on the couch, intently listening to the man comfortably seated in the chair across from him. The TV was still on, but he'd at least turned the volume down. The conversation came to an abrupt halt as I entered the room. As he drew to his full height, I was reminded of his distractingly attractive features. One sleeve was unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbow. One hand was indeed wrapped in gauze and tape.

  "Uhm. Hi, again."

  "Hello, again," he returned, then angled his head to look at my face. "Ooh, he got you good." He raised a hand as if he was going to touch me, but I bobbed out of reach.

  "Yeah, he got me good. You have something of mine?"

  He turned to pick up a compact wallet that matched my bag. "I saw it after the officers left the scene; it slid underneath a car. I figured you'd need it."

  He handed it to me. I unzipped it and looked through it, not even trying to be surreptitious about checking the amount of cash still left and that all the credit cards were there. Satisfied, I glanced up to find him mid-smirk.

  "Considering what you've been through tonight, I won't take it personally that you thought I'd take something from you."

  "Yeah, well, thanks. And uh…" I gestured to his wrapped hand. "Sorry about that. I hope you're not a surgeon or anything."

  "Nah." He flexed the hand, regarding it with a casual glance. "Looks worse than it feels. I put the responding officer's business card in your wallet. Call him at the precinct. They'd like to know what you know about this guy."

  His lips bent into a smile as he slid his uninjured hand into his pocket. Something about that smile made parts of my body stand at attention, making me glaringly aware that I'd pulled a thin, summer weight t-shirt over my full breasts. I folded my arms over my chest.

  "Did you see what happened?" O'Neal asked. "Somebody left the scene, so she has no idea."

  "Aight, so here's how it went down." His face lit up, becoming entirely more animated. "From where I was sitting, my view was the parking lot. I watched her go out. The dude was in black; hoodie, cap, sneakers. He came up behind her, grabbed the bag, but she wasn't letting go."

  He glanced at me; I didn't know what my face said, but he interpreted it as an urging to continue. "Anyway, I got two fellas to come outside with me, and right as I opened the door, he pulled his fist back–"

  He mimed the move for O'Neal's benefit. "Cold cocked her. Next thing I know, I'm running right at him. Scuffle-scuffle. Then he tried to hit me. I gave him all I had. He was laid out, didn't come to until the cops showed up and tried to cuff him. It was a trip."

  O'Neal listened to the story with wide eyes and an open mouth, his gaze moving from me to him and back.

  "The paramedics checked him out. He's fine. They took care of me, too, though there wasn't much to take care of."

  He wanted me to know that he wasn't hurt much. My hero.

  "He's being booked, I'm guessing. I made a statement, so I hope it was enough to keep him there." He eyed me. I stared back, not taking the bait.

  "Yeah, well… whatever your name is—"

  "Trey Pettigrew. Nice to meet you." He extended the hand that wasn't wrapped. I ignored it, leaving my arms crossed.

  "Trey. I appreciate your help. Thank you for bringing my wallet. But I feel as bad as I look, and I've got a mean headache coming on. I'd like to call it a night."

  "Yeah, sure. I wanted to make sure you got your wallet. You mentioned that you knew the guy?"

  I tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly risen in my throat at the thought of Chris and the utter embarrassment of why I was at Bistro. "I had a date tonight. I met this guy at a... an online dating site, but he didn't show. As you know."

  An eyebrow rose, letting him know that I remembered how rude he'd been.

  "Anyway, it looks like he was waiting for me. As soon as I got away from the entrance..." That sentence could finish itself.

  Trey's lips pursed as he nodded. "Yeah. The officers at the scene were saying this is the third attack like that this month. This guy lures women out after dark, then he doesn't show up, and when they leave, they get mugged. You didn't read about that?"

  "No, I don't get The Mugging Times. Where would I read about that?"

  He chuckled, clearly finding humor in my tragedy. "I don't know, ma'am. You get the AJC paper, right? Or online? If I was going out with a guy from a dating site, I'd be checking into that kind of thing. Just passing along some knowledge."

  "Thanks for the knowledge. I'm from the school of hard knocks, apparently." I pointed at my face, my swollen eye, my bruised cheek. "I'm all learned up for the day."

  "I'm just saying–"

  "You're just saying goodnight." I stalked to the front door and swung it open wide. "Thanks again."

  "Uh huh." Trey stood immobile for a few beats before he moved toward the door. "You might want to see a doctor, by the way.”

  My brows hiked. "About?" />
  “That stick up your ass. Good night."

  He stepped out of the house and down the front steps toward a dark SUV parked in the driveway. I wanted to shout a parting shot but couldn't think of one. Instead, I slammed the door and stomped back toward the stairs.

  "I don't want to see or talk to another living soul tonight. You hear me, O'Neal?"

  "What was all of that attitude about?" He asked, ignoring my statement. He hadn't moved from his spot on the couch, where he stared at me like I'd grown another head. And antennae.

  "I don't have an attitude. Why does everyone think I have an attitude? I'm going to bed."

  I huffed, bounding up the stairs.

  "Sleep tight," O'Neal called. "Tomorrow? We gotta talk."

  Chapter Three

  Content warnings: references to mental illness.

  Trey

  * * *

  Vincent Karl, Vice President of Pettigrew Construction, walked into my office and planted himself in a chair in front of my desk. Without a word, he waited, one foot resting on the opposite knee, a ring-laden finger tapping rhythmically to whatever was playing in his head.

  As one of Pettigrew's first employees, Vincent was my father's right-hand man. He knew the business forward and backward, but that didn't give him carte blanche over my office.

  "Why haven't I heard about how the meeting went last night?" He asked, apparently tired of waiting for me to acknowledge him.

  I rolled my eyes up, working to keep my facial expression neutral. "You could do me the courtesy of knocking and waiting until I give you permission to enter. What if I was doing blow in here?"

  Vincent laughed. "Nobody calls it blow, Trey. You're too square for that, anyway."

  I laughed, dropping my pen and gliding my chair back. He had a point. "You would never bust in on my father. Don't do it to me. If I have to lock the door—"

  "I have keys to every door in this building. But fine, I'll knock from now on. Tell me about the meeting with Miller. And about what happened to your hand."

  I flexed my wrapped fingers. My knuckles were still swollen and stiff, but the skin seemed to be already healing. I had all but forgotten about the incident the night before that interrupted a dinner meeting.

  Last night's tapas and wine affair was supposed to be a casual chat about combining two companies: Pettigrew, a mid-size commercial construction company, and Miller Design, a small but enterprising boutique architecture firm. More to the point, Pettigrew was about to swallow Miller Design. Whether it would be a friendly or hostile takeover was up to Thomas Miller.

  "I had an altercation. Not with Miller," I clarified. "A young lady was attacked in the parking lot. Then the ambulance and the police showed up, and I had to give a statement. I found the young lady's wallet and took it to her."

  "Why are you telling me this long, pointless story?"

  "Because you asked what happened to my hand."

  I stood, stretching my arms and twisting from side to side. I'd been in the chair for hours. It felt good to get up and walk around, to feel the warm afternoon sun beaming into the office through the window. I moved around the desk and slid onto the corner, near the chair Vincent sat in.

  "And because I was stuck dealing with the police. We'll need to reschedule."

  The downturn of his mouth, which was more pronounced than usual, said Vincent was disappointed. "We're no closer to signing is what you're saying without saying."

  "That is what I'm saying."

  I pulled at my tie, loosening the knot, then unbuttoned and rolled up my shirt sleeves. I couldn't seem to get used to the uniform of a business professional− stiff and starched shirts, expensive ties, designer slacks, and suit jackets. The transition from field crew to stand-in CEO felt as if it had been overnight, though I'd taken over for Pops a few months ago. I still hadn't settled into the new job.

  "Saul won't be happy to hear that."

  "I'm not looking forward to updating him. That's why I'm waiting. I hope to have better news later today. Any word on the bid for the new county hospital?"

  Vincent shook his head, frowning. "I think it's way off, but we don't want to take chances. We need at least a handshake agreement with Miller. We won't get enough time to merge companies, and we need–"

  "To say we've built healthcare facilities. I know, Vincent. I know."

  "And of all the acquisition targets, Miller is the most profitable, the most organized and smack in the middle of our price range."

  "I know that, too," I assured him. "Why are you repeating things we've said in every meeting?"

  Vincent's face darkened, his cheerful smile gone. "Because, son, you don't seem to remember. This was the last project your father launched, and I don't want to see it go down the drain because you're too afraid to make a move. If I need to step in–"

  "No." I stood, stepping around Vincent, the chair, and the entire subject.

  Saul "Pops" Pettigrew put his heart and soul into his company. He hired me to work summers during high school and while I attended Georgia State University. Once I graduated, Pops began showing me the ropes, teaching me what it took to grow a business and how to keep that business innovating.

  Three months ago, Pops collapsed and had to be rushed to the ER. Stress, a high salt diet, lack of exercise, and working non-stop for the last thirty years were contributing factors to his heart attack. While he survived, he'd been ordered to take a long break, and my mother was hearing nothing of her husband doing anything resembling work for at least a year.

  One day, I was in polo shirts with the Pettigrew logo on the breast, in khakis or jeans and steel-toed boots, roaming job sites, keeping projects on course. In the blink of an eye, I had a closet full of suits and ties, starched white collared shirts and shoes that made my feet hurt. And I was being asked to take over the company.

  Temporarily.

  That's how he'd sucked me in, promising that it wouldn't be a permanent change. He would be back to work as soon as he was medically cleared. And, if I did well, I could move to any other position in the company. I could even design a new role if I wanted to.

  Months later, though, the arrangement seemed to change. Pops had been using words like retirement and successor. He'd asked me to think about taking over permanently-a word that would have made me run six months ago.

  And maybe Pops knew that. He also knew that I wouldn't want to let him down.

  I strolled to the end of the office that housed a mini-fridge stocked with soft drinks and a cabinet full of liquor, plucking a glass from the stack in the corner. After a questioning glance at Vincent, I set a second glass on the counter. I chose a nice cognac that had been a gift from a client, splashed two fingers of the liquor into each glass. I walked back to the desk, handing Vincent his mid-afternoon taste, as he liked to call it.

  Vincent was my antithesis. Vincent had a business degree and an MBA and had made a career as the right hand to the CEO of Pettigrew. He lived in satin-lined designer suits, silk ties, and shiny shoes. He'd never worked on a crew, never worn a steel-toed boot, never scaled the side of a building, never created art with dirt, bricks, cement, and steel. He was all business–proposals and spreadsheets and phone calls, not hard labor. He set foot on a Pettigrew construction site when it was time to cut the ribbon.

  It was no secret that he hoped to take over the company when Pops retired. It was also no secret that Pops didn't see it for him and was instead grooming me for the position. True, I wasn't ready to fill such big shoes. But I wasn't ready for Vincent to have an I told you so moment, either.

  "Pops asked me to handle this deal. He expects me to make it happen. I'm going to do it. I might not do it like you want me to or like he'd do it, but it'll get done. Alright?"

  "So, what now?" Vincent asked, smacking his lips after enjoying a few healthy sips from his glass. "When's the next meeting? You'll need to have an upside to tell Saul."

  I took my time answering the question. It wouldn't be the answer he was lookin
g for, so there was no sense in rushing it. "We haven't scheduled our next meeting. Miller has been avoiding my calls all day. Hasn't responded to my email. I think he's going soft."

  Vincent made a sound, an ominous rumbling from his chest. "That's bad news, son."

  I nodded, stroking my beard, sipping my drink. Things would work out. I would make sure they did.

  The sun was beginning its descent below the horizon when I pulled into the driveway of my parent's home, a rambling stone structure in a north Atlanta, well-to-do suburb, steps away from the lush greens of Atlanta Golf Club. I hadn't made it good out of the SUV before the front door swung open.

  My mother was barely five feet tall, so her sleeveless yellow maxi dress brushed the sidewalk. She grabbed two handfuls and pulled it up as she marched along the brick path from the house to the driveway.

  "I was about to call security and have them force you out of the building. You know Saul has to eat on time because of these medications—"

  "It's alright, Mom. I'm here." I leaned in to press my lips to a warm cheek. She smelled good, like peaches. "I'm sorry for showing up late. I was on a conference call. I wanted to have something good to report to Pops."

  I bent closer and made a show of taking a long, loud sniff. "Did you make peach cobbler?"

  She cocked her head back so she could look me in the face, and so I could see her terse expression, but I detected the smile that wanted to bend her lips. "And do you have good news? He's had a nice day, and he doesn't need any stress."

  "I know what kind of condition he's in. It's all good news. Now, can we go in because I also smell chicken and red potatoes?" I sniffed again. "Maybe some green beans?"

  She laughed and turned back to the house. "Putting that big old nose to good use."