The Never List

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The Never List Page 10

by DL White


  Esme

  * * *

  This is not a date.

  Not a date, not a date, not a date.

  I lectured myself all afternoon while I marked up copies of the contract to review with Miller, who was surprised at the progress we'd made while offsite. He agreed that getting out of the office and on common ground was an excellent strategy that I should use where applicable.

  While I drove home, actually smiling at the Ferris wheel as I passed it on the freeway, I reminded myself to not get excited about having evening plans that had nothing to do with Shonda Rhimes' Thursday night lineup.

  This is not a date, I told myself, as I pulled into my spot in the garage. Tonight's hang out with Trey was just that, a hang-out. Not a date.

  But I was nervous like it was a date. I wanted plenty of time to get cute like it was a date. I had flutters of excitement in my stomach like it was a date.

  I showered, changed, fussed with my hair for longer than usual, taking it down from the bun I usually wore and letting the shoulder-length curls fly free. My face was bare except for a tinted moisturizer and a swipe of gloss on my lips. I arrived at the agreed upon spot in a pair of tapered jeans that I bought off of Instagram, so I was thankful that they fit. I paired them with a graphic t-shirt and my favorite Vans. My feet were still throbbing from standing in heels all day.

  I spotted Trey's casual stride in dark rinse, loose fit jeans, black Nikes, and a thin, Korean collar shirt in olive green. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, giving him a casual, I'm just over here being sexy vibe. Watching him, then noting how his expression changed when he caught me watching him made my heartbeat gallop.

  Trey let out a low wolf whistle as he approached, giving an obvious up and down glance. "Got me singing Ginuwine, In Those Jeans. Evening, Ms. Whitaker," he said, extending a hand to me.

  I slapped his hand away. "Knock that Ms. Whitaker bullshit off. You're only doing it to get on my nerves."

  He stepped back, then made a show of giving me the up and down stare. "You dress down real nice. No suit, no bun, hair all… out here." He chuckled, taking in the curls that were probably increasing with the humidity. "No heels. I'm a little sad. I liked those heels."

  "Do you plan on being this Quiet Storm guy all night?"

  Trey laughed. "You don't like it?"

  "You don't have to impress me. This isn't a date. You can be Trey."

  "Fine." He sighed, dropping his shoulders, his voice climbing a few octaves. "I will be Trey, then. Are you ready to go up?"

  "Up... as in the roof?"

  "Yup. The roof."

  "I guess," I said, not sure that I meant it.

  "This isn't as bad as I thought it would be."

  I clutched the bulbous globe of a bourbon glass tightly in my hands. I braved a look around at the spacious patio at 9 Mile Station, staying seated at our table mere feet from the edge.

  In actuality, we were at least six feet from the edge. There was a steel barrier around the perimeter. Still, you never knew what could happen throughout dinner to make you leap six feet sideways and topple up and over the barrier, so I stayed in my seat.

  Reservations were required, but they didn't matter, since Trey seemed to know everyone from the staff working the floor to kitchen help. He mentioned, offhand, that we'd like to sit out on the patio, so we were shown there and set up at a stainless steel high bar, set simply with a votive candle in a glass holder that flickered in the light breeze.

  The surface was now dotted with china plates since Trey had ordered multiple appetizers— crudité, spinach and chickpea dip, and smoked trout croquettes. We each picked out a drink to try. I chose a smoky, chocolatey, locally brewed barrel-aged bourbon called The Tears of My Enemies. We both thought it was appropriate for what we'd agreed to do.

  The drink made me warm. And loose. And lusty.

  I'd known handsome men, particularly in my MBA program. Most were friendly, but once they figured out that the girl with the pretty face and wide hips wasn't handing out sex and blow jobs in gratitude for attention, they stopped showing up for study sessions. Men like those were hell-bent on attaining "cream of the crop" status that shouted a preference for a certain type of woman— thin, silky haired, fair-skinned women. They deserved the best, which didn't include a shy brown-skinned woman who hid her curvy shape under oversized clothes and wore a scarf over her hair to class.

  I wasn't self-conscious with Trey. I never felt that I should shrink myself or cover up. He was working overtime to get on my good side. I never imagined what a turn on that would be. I was free to be myself, even if that meant that I was caustic and sarcastic.

  I did, though, have to step outside of myself and wonder how the hell I ended up on some rooftop drinking bourbon, thinking lewd thoughts about a man that I worked with, and letting him satisfy more than the minor items on my Never list.

  I squirmed in my seat while my mind wandered toward the possibility. I would need a man for sex. Here, right in front of me was a man. I'd bet anything that I wouldn't have to work hard to get him to agree to cross that line with me.

  Keep it classy, Esme. He's using you to get what he wants, so make sure you get what you want.

  "Do you come here a lot?"

  His eyes flicked up from the menu and settled on my face. When he didn't answer right away, I clarified my question. "You seem to know everyone. You're a regular, or you work here."

  "You could say I'm a regular," he said, sliding the leather bound menu back to the table. "Pettigrew developed this plaza. My parents became friends with the owners after they opened. This is one of my father's favorite spots—he'd have me meet him and his VP for a drink on Fridays.”

  "Oh. I heard that he had some health issues. Is he…"

  Trey gave me a polite, closed mouth smile. "Alive and well. Getting stronger and crankier by the day."

  "That's good to hear."

  "It is. I want him to get back to work."

  A waiter clad in an inky black t-shirt and black shorts brought an icy cold bottle to the table and set it on a napkin. He smiled and left as quickly as he came. Trey reached for it.

  "So. Tell me something about you," Trey lobbed across the table.

  Men thought that tell me about yourself question was interesting, but it was such a lazy way to get the woman to carry the conversation that I cringed when I heard it. It rated up there with what do you do for fun, and if I responded that I stab people who ask what I do for fun, suddenly the date was over, and I was a psycho.

  I lobbed back my usual response. "What do you want to know?"

  "What do you want me to know about you? What am I all the way wrong about? Where do I have you fucked up at?"

  That… that made me laugh. "I think you have me pegged, actually."

  "For real? I read you like a Buzzfeed article?"

  "Buzzfeed has lists and quizzes like what kind of pizza you are."

  "You..." Trey paused, then pointed a long finger across the table. "You're a homemade pizza."

  "See?" I nodded. And giggled. Giggled? Fuck this bourbon. "You read me like a book I wanted to finish, but I can't because you spoiled it for me."

  "I didn't spoil it," he argued. "Trust me. Keep reading."

  "Whatever." I rolled my eyes up to the dusky evening sky and took a dainty sip of bourbon. "I don't want to read it now."

  "Figures. I know you, huh?"

  "Stubborn? Obstinate? Know it all?" He nodded, grinning wide while he held an Anderson Valley Hazy Sour Ale aloft. "You think you're smart, don't you, Trey?"

  "I went to Georgia State too, so I am as smart as you," he replied. "But it doesn't take a genius to figure you out. You make it easy. You don't hide your feelings or your personality. Even with strangers, you exude Esme-ness."

  "Esme-ness," I repeated. "Explain this."

  "No nonsense. No bullshit. Bullet train to the point."

  "Ah. My sisters will love that this essence of me has a fancy word."

  "Sist
ers. How many?"

  I laughed. "Two."

  "Two? You make it sound like there's a whole bunch of them."

  "They're a lot. Jewel and Jada. Jewel teaches eighth grade math."

  "Older? Younger?"

  "Older by ten years. They're twins."

  "Identical?" I nodded. "Do they look like you?"

  “I look like them. We all look like our mother. The hair, the eyes, the nose, the skin—"

  "Mmmph!" He grunted, furrowing his brows and sipping more beer. "That's where you get that luminous mocha landscape from."

  "You can tell that we are sisters. But I'm young and single. They're old and married."

  Trey's head tilted. It made him look like a puppy. "And why—"

  "Nuh-uh. If you ask me why I am single, I will throw you off of this roof. Don't."

  "Esme, you're scared to get out of that chair, and I've got height and pounds on you. You're not throwing me anywhere."

  "Stop knowing me! It's creepy!"

  Trey laughed, then took a long, slow swallow. I tried not to watch his Adam's apple bob as he drank, but… well, he was right in front of me. I couldn't help it. I joined him, bringing my bourbon to my lips.

  "No brothers?"

  I shook my head. "I wasn't a planned baby. After I came, they tried again for a boy, but…" I shrugged.

  "You're their little miracle, then."

  "If you want to put it that way."

  "I do."

  "You strike me as an only child."

  Trey laughed. "That's...that's funny. What about me says I'm an only child?"

  "Petulant. Demanding to get your way, throwing a fit if you don't. Comfortable with silence. I could go on—"

  "I get the picture," he said, nervously weaving his fingers through his beard. "I'm not an only child. I have an older sister, but we didn't grow up together. Long story." He waved a long fingered hand in the air, brushing the subject aside. "Missy would probably agree that I act like an only child, though."

  "So, what do you want me to know about you, Trey?"

  He shook his head. "I'm a guy with a job."

  "Do you like your job?"

  A shadow crossed his face; it was brief, but I saw it. His lips twisted to the side, and he averted his gaze.

  "Don't answer that," I said, my words rushing out, so they were jumbled together. "Sorry. I… you looked like you didn't want to—"

  "It's fine, Esme," he interrupted. "The job that I have is not the job that I want, but it is the job that I need to do to get the job that I want. Make sense?"

  I bobbed my head. It did.

  "You get one free answer. You have to work for the rest."

  "Work?"

  "Yeah, work. I'm not offering up my personality to you for free. You gotta win the rest. What are you ordering for dinner?"

  "Aight, so."

  Trey clapped his palms together, then rubbed them, giving me a grin that told me I was in for some fun.

  "The point of this game is simple. Roll the ball up the hill, over the hump, into the numbered rings. The bigger the number, the bigger the point value. You win by accumulating the highest points. Do you want my tips for best play, or do you want to wing it?"

  "Oh, I want tips. We need an even playing field. What do I get if I win?"

  "You will not win, Esme."

  "So says you, but let's say that I do."

  "I don't know. I guess I have to share something about myself."

  "What are you going to share when I win?"

  "You aren't going to win. But uh… I'll tell you my actual name."

  "What?" I whipped around to face Trey, who was pressing the buttons to make the balls fall. "Trey isn't your name?"

  "Don't you wish you had done some background research on me?" He shot me a smarmy grin. "Don't you wish they taught you that, at that fancy school you went to?"

  "Alright. Ok. It's on. I win, I get information. What if you win?"

  "Then I win."

  "No prize if you win?"

  "I'm spending time with a beautiful woman on a perfect Atlanta evening. I'm full of smoked ribs, cornbread, and greens, and I'm about to play a game that I haven't played since college. I've already won."

  It took a few beats, but eventually, I processed what he'd said.

  And blushed. Fuck that bourbon.

  “Trey… you don't have to flirt with me. I know this isn't—"

  "I'm not flirting with you," he interrupted. "Flirting intimates that I aim to manipulate your emotions and increase your attraction to me for romantic purposes. I'm just stating facts. I am here, at this place that I enjoy with you, a woman who is beautiful on a clear, warm evening, full of food and drink. I don't need a prize for this game that you're not going to win if I don't give you my tips for best play. You want them or not?"

  My eyes narrowed, and I did my best to scowl through the smile that spread across my lips. "These better be some winning tips, the way you're talking them up."

  Trey taught me how to stand, the best way to throw, how to angle the ball so that it hits the ring I want to hit. Once the game started, however, the pressure was on, and I was a sorry Skee-ball player. My balls kept bouncing off of the side of the lane and rolling back down the slope until I picked them up and tossed them instead of rolling them.

  "Hey! That's not how you play the game!" Trey called, easily rolling the balls up and dropping them, consistently, in the 75 and 100 score rings.

  "Your tips suck! This is the only way this ball is making it into that ring!" I hucked the ball toward the 100 point ring. It landed, circling the ring. The machine exploded in lights and sounds. "I got one!"

  "One," Trey repeated, smirking. I looked over at his score and shook my head. There was no catching up to his near 1,000 point score.

  "Whatever. You picked a game that you're an expert in, so you'd have an advantage."

  "Sometimes it be like that. Sometimes you walk into a situation that you thought you knew, and you get thrown for a loop because someone else had an advantage. Sucks to be on the other side of that, doesn't it?"

  I paused play, slowly turning to Trey, who was still rolling balls next to me. "Is that supposed to be a dig at me?"

  "No. But take it however you want to take it."

  "Miller brought me in because you were impossible to work with, and he has a company to run."

  "Like I don't?"

  "Doesn't seem like it, since you spend most of your time at Miller getting on my nerves and arguing ridiculous contract terms."

  "They're not ridiculous when it's my bank account that he's playing in. I owe it to Pettigrew to fight for every penny that I don't have to spend to acquire this company. If you were on this side of the table, you would agree. Don't pretend that you wouldn't."

  A buzzer sounded overhead, and the machines went dark, ending play until we inserted more coins.

  "I win."

  "You didn't pick a prize, so did you win?"

  "I got under your skin." He grinned. "Close enough. You feel like revenge?"

  "Load 'em up. It's on."

  Four games later, I won, though it was obvious that Trey was playing at less than half power so I could win. I didn't care. The way the machine lit up and spit out extra tickets to redeem for prizes, you'd have thought I won the lottery.

  I clutched an oversized pencil and a bear with a t-shirt that read I won this at Skyline Park Atlanta under one arm and sipped a toasted coconut liqueur. Trey wanted dessert, so we went back to the rooftop, where he ordered skillet s’mores and two forks. We shared the dish and drank our sweet dessert drinks.

  "You cheated, but I'll let you have your win."

  "I didn't cheat. I was innovative."

  "I don't think you'll ever be a professional Skee-ball player."

  "Damn. Good thing I have a career to fall back on."

  Trey's chuckle sat deep in his throat, barely audible over the noise from the tables near us. "You want your prize?"

  "Hell yeah, I want my
prize!" I shoveled a layered chunk of graham cracker, chocolate, and marshmallow into my mouth, trying not to hum my note of pleasure too loud. "What's your real first name?"

  "My first name…" He paused, mostly for drama, but also, I suspected, to get on my nerves. "It's Saul. Not earth-shattering."

  I paused. "Saul? Like your father?"

  "Yep," he said, nodding, then going in for a bite of hot, gooey chocolate and marshmallow. "Pops is Saul Pettigrew II. I'm the third. They wanted me to carry on the name but also have an identity. They've called me Trey my entire life."

  "Hmmm. How uh… I mean, do you harbor any feelings of resentment about sharing a name with your father and your grandfather?"

  "Resentment? Nah. I do feel, though…"

  Trey's voice trailed off, then he lifted his glass of liquor to his lips. I wasn't sure he'd pick up where he left off, but he went on. "My dad has these goals and visions for me, you know? He and my grandfather dreamed up Pettigrew. He built it from the ground up. It's a good, strong business with a great future. I'm proud to be a part of the legacy. And it's not that I hate the business. I just…"

  Trey shrugged. And frowned, his brows knit together.

  "It's the job you need to do to get the job that you want. It's why you can't walk away from this deal with Miller."

  "Exactly," he agreed quietly. "I'm going to get it done. I have to. I don't have to like it, though. And I don't. Except for working with you." His eyes found mine and held my gaze for a long moment. "And being with you right now."

  I didn't know how to respond to that. So I didn't. But I also didn't break the intense contact.

  "Esme, do you trust me?"

  "No. Why do you ask?"

  "Liar."

  I pushed out a breath, wondering what this would lead to. "Alright. Five minutes of trust. What do you need?"

  "Do you hear the music?"

  I turned my head, as though it would make me hear the strains of music more clearly. Now that I was paying attention, I recognized Smooth by Santana featuring Rob Thomas. The sultry Latin hit screamed up the charts while I was in college.

  "Yeah, I hear it."

  He stood, grabbing my hand to pull me up. "Come dance with me."

 

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