Spoiled

by Elizabeth Cash

  I stare at it for a moment, throwing the email into drafts. I hop from one form of social media to the other typing her name in quick strokes and determined to learn everything I possibly can about one Laura Vincent, Finance Intern. And for once, the first time ever really, I don’t feel guilty about it.

  “Will you take me home?”

  I’m three pages deep into public pictures of Laura and her two-year-old daughter, Gemma, when Jess Glynne’s “Take Me Home” ring tone cuts through my research on full volume. For the life of me, I haven’t been able to figure out why Gemma, who doesn’t appear to have any trace of a father from what I can tell, isn’t listed as a dependent on Laura’s tax exemptions form.

  “Would you take the wheel if I lose control?”

  “Shut up!” I scream at the phone, as if I have any shot of it listening to me. Finally looking away from my screen, I see Bombay Mahal as the incoming caller. Fuck. The curry.

  I grab the phone.

  “Yep. Coming right down,” I spit into it, hanging up and sliding back my chair. I don’t bother to close out my computer. The only people here now are the clean-up crew and a few floor twelve brown nosers who won’t get anywhere near Cora’s cunt the way they hope to. Good luck, idiots.

  I jog to the elevator wishing I hadn’t left my sneakers at the gym or even brought the spares from home. I ride the seven floors down to the lobby where I tip the guy as much as the original meal cost, smiling at him. He’s not used to me being so gruff. Normally, when I work late, I’m not so fucking distracted. I don’t mind small talk with him. The dude’s a hard worker. Now, I feel bad for him.

  He holds the bag out to me today without his usual eye contact and predictable babbling about the weather. I mumble an apology and tell him it’s just been a shit day. He nods and holds up the two twenties in his hand fresh from my wallet, smiles and assures me it’s okay. Money talks, I guess. No real surprise there. I mean, fuck. It’s how I’ve built my own career.

  Chapter Seven

  I don’t even bother unbuttoning my whole shirt. Instead, I yank the first five or so buttons open and pull it over my head. It had to be midnight by the time I finally stumbled into the house. I left what was left of the curry in the car and don’t really care. I never even made it to the gym, and I need a shower. This day just needs to be over.

  Ouch. What the fuck?

  I wince as the work dress shirt catches on the ten-inch scab across my back. It’s funny how you never remember a thing until it really hurts. Then, once you do, you can’t forget. I’d totally forgotten about the still-healing back piece my buddy Danny has been trying to finish up. Danny owns a tattoo shop called Dark Ink and specializes in portrait work. Three more sessions and it’ll be complete.

  I refuse to look at it—or her—until it is. I’m just not there, yet. It still hurts too much. But it’s something else, too. Like the briefcase sitting in my living room still unopened, there are some things worth waiting for. It’s not that patience comes easy to me. It doesn’t. I’ve just learned that it’s better to take things in when you have the full picture.

  Tonight’s exercise in defying that rule, only reinforced my view that a person shouldn’t pry. Stuck with more questions I won’t get answers to any time soon, I should never have allowed myself to be sucked into the rabbit hole with “‘Operation Who is Laura?” From what I can tell, she has a kid she’s super close to, lives with her parents, has her undergrad degree in finance from the state university and is currently working on her MBA. The resume shit, I mostly knew. I could have looked it up on her application. The rest of the information is new, and I’m not sure I like knowing it. There’s something about her eyes.

  A little black-eyed girl is something Cora can never know of. For her, it’d just be more ammo. She once told Bob never to hire a mother. She said women really can’t do it all and that any woman who’d throw her body away to a child didn’t take herself or future very seriously. According to Bob, who isn’t the type to make shit up, she said women with kids aren’t productive. In truth? I think she just likes being surrounded by men. For Cora, it’s about having the harem of idiots who’d stand in a line hoping for the shot at a hand job or lucky view up her skirt. Not. Gonna. Happen.

  I turn the water on its hottest setting, stepping into the tub and moving the nozzle to the “thump” setting. Facing the hard stream of water so as not to let it hit my raw back, I close my eyes and step into it. I stand there, not even attempting to reach for the body wash and letting the water wash the day away. I refuse to waste another minute thinking about either of them. I should know better than to waste my time with shit like this.

  Tomorrow, I’ll march right up to Laura and hand her the fucking briefcase. It just isn’t worth the torture. As for Cora? Well, I’m stuck with her for now. It’s time to talk to a head hunter. It’s time to refocus on my goals and this worrying about protecting every Tom, Dick and Harry at the firm isn’t cutting it. Graham isn’t the place for me long term. It’s probably the only thing I know for sure. Well, that, and that I need to fix the choke on the carburetor. Getting the bike back up and running is probably what I need the most. It’s time to get back on the road. “No risk, no reward, Mikey.” That’s what my grandfather always says. He’s right.

  ***

  “Why are you even up? It’s too early for you. You’re never up before nine.”

  “It’s your father. He’s lost his job. Again. I mean, it’s ridiculous. He can’t ever seem to stay anywhere for more than two years. Two years, Michael. That’s all I get. Then he either gets fired or quits. I’m sick of it. It’s going to be the same thing all over. He’ll tell me I can’t have my allowance then he’ll complain about having the heater on. Before you know it, I’ll freeze to death. I hate him. I really do. He’s such a control freak. You’d think he could at least keep a job. But no. That’s too much. Too much for him.”

  “Ma, slow down. Did he get fired or did he quit?”

  “Do you think I know? I’m not speaking to him. And he can sleep on the couch for the rest of his life for all I care. You need to help him.”

  “Help him how?”

  “Get him a job or something.”

  “Ma, I can’t do that. You know this. We went through this two years ago and two years before that.” The concept of trying to babysit my father at Graham is not even a thing. Not. Ever. No. Way. I’d probably help them pick out the box for the street before I’d allow that. I’ve worked too hard.”

  “See? My point is made.”

  “Yep, Ma. Point proven. Listen, I’m going to be late for work. Can I call you back from the car?”

  “Just take me to the car with you. Geesh. Always in a rush. Can’t even make time for your mother.”

  “I just saw you guys last week at the anniversary party. It’s hardly been years, Ma.”

  “Oh. And the trash needs taking to the dump. You need to come over here. We’re stacking it in the garage and your father’s too lazy to bring it himself.”

  I listen to her tear apart my old man for a half hour before I finally grab my car keys from the kitchen table. The woman could go on forever and will if I let her. I guess she’ll make the commute go by a little faster. Exhausted and in dire need of caffeine, I down the rest of a protein shake and wonder if I’ll have time for coffee. Probably not. It’s nearly 6:30 and I have an 8 a.m. with Bob. Fabulous.

  “Listen. I’ll come by next week. Dad’s got time now. Make him go to the dump.”

  “Your father doesn’t listen to me! Never has. Never will. Now we’re gonna go bankrupt.”

  I laugh—out loud and too loud. “Won’t be the first time.” Merely the third. Third time’s a charm? Or three strikes, you’re out?

  “Hilarious, Mikey. Way to give a shit.”

  “Look, Ma. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m trying here. Give me a break. You’re making me late for work. Aren’t you supposed to be the adult? I need you to stop calling me every time things happen with Dad and
just work it out yourselves. I mean, fuck, thirty years. Shouldn’t you know how to deal with him by now?”

  I want to add that if she paid more attention to him she might have a clue of how to get him to take the garbage out herself. Instead, I press my lips together, yank the car door open and throw the keys in the ignition.

  “Marriage is hard. You’ll see. Someday. Well, I mean if you ever get a girl.”

  Okay. Epic. Here we go.

  “I’m sure it is. Maybe that’s why I’m not interested,” I say.

  I can’t help it. I love baiting her. For some reason, the idea of not having grandchildren is literally her worst fear. The concept of not having pictures to post or show off to her friends at the bar is too much for Jennifer Duclos, future Granny Extrodinaire, to take.

  “Don’t you start. And, like I said a million times before, if there’s something you need to tell us…”

  “For Christ’s sake, Ma! I’m not gay! Drop it.”

  “Well, if you say so. I just don’t understand you anymore. Why haven’t you brought anyone home? It’s weird. You’re twenty-seven years old and still a virgin.”

  Jesus Christ. Way to pay attention, Ma. And why not bring them home? Oh, I don’t know. This? The photo albums. The boyfriend of the week I’d have to pretend was an uncle? You tell me.

  “You’re right. That’s it. I’m gay, Ma. Gotta go.”

  I hang up and immediately turn off my phone. I don’t even bother to respond to answer the two hook-ups who drunk texted last night or even Alana from the bar. What my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and she can spend the afternoon coordinating a rainbow parade for all I care. I’m not in the mood to listen to what a failure my father is. Of that, I’m well aware. But for fuck’s sake, at least he’s a good person. At least he’s honest and never sets out to hurt anyone. He isn’t hiding anything—like the rest of us are.

  ***

  I make it to the office with no time to spare thanks to more road construction and my bipolar mother throwing me off with her early-morning drama cry for help. Hell, I even forgot Laura’s briefcase. It’s not that it matters much, I didn’t have a chance of running into her so late anyway. It’s not like she’ll come looking for it. It’s just as well. Today better be a better day. I can’t deal with another like yesterday…

  Knock. Knock.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  I’m halfway through my meeting with Bob and trying to figure out a way to keep Ryan’s sick days off Cora’s radar when it happens.

  “Yeah. Come in,” I say, looking up from the stack of spreadsheets littered across my desk. I slide my chair back, expecting to see Tiffany with a pile of fresh copies for the Germaphobe on High.

  The door creeps open but not enough to see anything but Tiffany’s pale arm and chipped nail polish.

  For fuck’s sake.

  “Come in!” I say again. I don’t have time for Tiffany’s bullshit. If Derek wanted to put his money on the first to quit, he should have thrown it there. With a constant case of bronchitus and seasonal allergies that seem to weave through every season, the girl is always sick and never at the top of her game. If Her Highness needs a sacrificial lamb, I pick her.

  The door flings fully open. Standing there, staring at her only-pair scuffed shoes, is the ever red-faced and stammering Laura.

  Fuck.

  She bites her bottom lip, brushing the hair from her face.

  “Um, yes. Hi. I was wondering if you had my briefcase?”

  Chapter Eight

  Cora

  Just as I predicted, the hangover from hell has hit me harder than a category five hurricane hits a small city. All those home remedies are bullshit. None of them work and at this point, I know they were just made up to con people into endorsing whatever babble bullshit people spew out.

  “Try my product, it works,” “Try this brand, all natural and does wonders.” All. Complete. Bullshit!

  I do have to admit, though, that I do deserve this hangover because my drinking didn’t stop after dinner with Derek and our father. I polished off a full bottle of Merlot when I got home to help cure this burning ache inside of me that I can’t seem to curb. I know what I need and although it’s right within my reach, my fingers skimming it, it’s just out of my grasp. He is still out of my grasp.

  I need to step up my game. Micah is a self-made man and wants a woman who can handle herself. That would be me. I just need to show him that I can be what he needs. What he wants. I can be the cure to his blues as he can be for mine. I just have to prove it to him.

  Picking my head up off my desk, I dig into my bag and grab the bottle of Tylenol and pop three into my mouth, swallowing them dry. Before the door even opens, I can hear his dress shoes squeaking on the floor outside of my door. And just as I thought, Derek walks in, papers in hand and a smile on his face. He is always so damn bright and shiny, and it makes me sick most of the time. Derek sits down in front of my desk and drops the small file on it.

  “You needed these?” He says, unbuttoning his blazer.

  Picking the file up, I see Vincent, L on the tab and smile, “I did. According to Tiffany, Miss Vincent has been getting unwarranted overtime. And that’s not gonna work for me.”

  “Why is that?” Derek says, sighing.

  “Because what’s the fucking point in paying overtime, Derek? It wasn’t granted overtime, which never happens, by the way. And it’s an intern. A fucking intern, for Christ sakes. I don’t even let the vets get overtime. Too much hassle and that bit of money can be invested in something a lot more profitable.” I rub my temples, “Please, just go away. I have a major headache, and I can deal with this a lot better when not under your scrutiny.”

  Derek gets to his feet, “Call me after you get this figured out. Mother dearest wants us over for dinner.”

  I close my eyes and hold my breath, giving my head a reason to pound as hard as it is. I can deal with my mother. She is a lot easier to talk to and could give two shits about our business, unlike our father. She would much rather mooch off of our dad than intrude on our savings and hard earned money. And it’s quite funny, actually. She was just as ruthless on us as our father was when it came to earning every penny we worked for. Yet, she hasn’t worked a day in her life. Always skimming chunks of change off their joint bank account to get whatever it is she wants. A walking contradiction, that one is.

  Opening Laura’s file, I ignore the employee background information and scan the printed Excel sheet. In fact, I scan it twice and notice that there is no overtime. It looks like she has been clocking in and out around the same time every day. That can’t be right, as much as I would love for it to be because it would make my job so much easier. And as much as Sickly Tiffany grosses me out, she has never steered me wrong with employee hours. Getting to my feet, I gather the file and walk out of my office.

  Thankfully, I didn’t put a lot of effort into today’s wardrobe, for obvious reason. My feet are in flats with the Micheal Kors symbol glaring at me and whoever looks down, and I’m wrapped in a chiffon dress that stops right above the knee. It’s simple, but I make it looks stunning. Hell, I can make a brown paper bag look sexy. Taking long strides down the hall, I slow down when I near Micah’s office. The file in my hand is taking the brunt of my anger as my ears are pierced with a deep, throaty laughter and a female giggle. He has a woman in there. He never has people in his office. What the actual fuck!

  I compose myself and turn into his doorway. Micah’s smile falters when he sees me, and a very skinny, very scared girl cowers back a few feet when she turns around and sees me. I give them a bright smile and cock my head to the side.

  “You must be Laura. I’m Cora.” I hold my hand out for her to take, but instead of taking my hand in hers, she puts her fingers in her mouth and starts gnawing on her nails. I stop myself from gagging and simply put my hand down. This makes sense as to why her hours have been changed. “Micah, I would appreciate for you to go over this and explain to me later why
some hours seem to have disappeared.”

  He looks down at the file I placed on his desk and very subtly cringes. I almost didn’t see it, but I’m staring hard enough I can see his hair growing. He opens the file and opens his mouth to speak, but I hold my hand up. “Laura, do you mind? This is a private matter.”

  She nods and practically runs out of Micah’s office. She has a strong scent of melon and coconut. It smells cheap and really tacky, but so do her botched purple highlights. I have to refrain myself from rolling my eyes at the thought of her appearance. How can someone like him be into a simpleton like her? Micah is giving me the death glare, but has yet to say anything. He knows that he has been caught, but I think I’m going to switch my game up here. I think it’s time to start playing the cards the right way. Stepping up to his desk, I place my hands on either side of Laura’s file and smile seductively at him.

  “I’ll let this slide, Micah.” Bringing my hand up, I caress his cheek. His beard tickling my palm. “Only because I like you.”

  I pull away from him and bite my bottom lip. Micah’s hungry eyes watch me. I know he doesn’t like me, which is understandable to some extent, but I will show him that I’m more than a heartless bitch, even if I have to lie and make a few small changes to myself.

  “Make sure her hours are corrected, I will give her the overtime she worked, but never again.” His eyes widen, shock dancing within the depths of them. “I’ll see you later, Micah.”

  With that, I turn and walk out, feeling satisfied. If I keep this little façade up, I will have him eating out the palm of my hand. My thighs squeeze at the thought and I stumble a bit. I have to get myself together. Stepping into my office, I sit down at my desk and unlock my phone. Looking for the person I want, I hit the call button next to his name. It rings three times before he answers.

  “This is Rogers.”