Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  “Oh, my God, is that pistachio mint?” I groan.

  “With a touch of amaretto.”

  “I think I just orgasmed.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first one in this limo,” she sighs.

  My mouth goes dry. “Um, thanks? Didn’t need that visual.”

  “Speaking of orgasms,” she says, ignoring my comment, “what is going on with you and Andrew?”

  My mouth turns into the Sahara.

  “Did you have to ruin a perfectly good moment of stress eating by bringing up Andrew?” I whimper.

  “Sorry. But yes, I do. What are you hiding about him?”

  She’s so good.

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  Rage. An unexpected wave of red fury fills me, wiping away the taste of the divine in my mouth and replacing it with a stark bitterness that fills me with despair.

  And anger.

  I don’t get angry. It’s not what I do. Not, at least, with my friends and family. All my life I’ve been the person who rationalizes and organizes and thinks and plans and plots her way out of emotional messes. I sob quietly in the shower or slink off to let my angry tears come out in vents, but this?

  This kind of rage comes after the pressure cooker can’t contain it. My inner world is about to become spaghetti stains on the ceiling.

  I’ve never, ever directed it at Shannon. We’ve known each other since forever and I can count on one hand the number of fights we’ve had. And by “fight” I mean terse words that end with tearful crying and two spoons and a pint of ice cream.

  Okay...two pints.

  “Isn’t your perfect life enough for you?” I hiss, regretting the words instantly even as they come out of me. I sit back and straighten my spine, knowing the inevitability of the moment makes whatever I say all the more odious. I can’t stop this. It’s an avalanche that has been triggered by her gunshot—the word liar—and now here it comes.

  Watch out below.

  “What—what do you mean?” she stammers. “I was just—”

  “You have everything,” I whisper through my clenched teeth. “You have it all. And I’m happy for you.” My mouth is set in a way that makes the muscles in my face that run along my temple feel like flat pieces of tense wood that can move.

  “I really am. This isn’t about that. It’s about...me.” I realize how true that last word is as Shannon looks at me with open, caring eyes and a wary expression. Making eye contact goes against everything in me. I’m a live wire. There is no one in the world I can say this to.

  Except my bestie.

  “Is it about dumping the Turdmobile off on you? Because I’m so sorry.”

  I give her a hard look. “Ha ha. No.”

  “This is really about Andrew and your mom,” she says with a sigh.

  “Now that’s a sentence I never expected to have directed at me,” I reply, completely stumped. The wind’s out of my sails. Only Shannon can do that. “What do Andrew and my mother have to do with each other?”

  “You always call yourself a fixer,” she says, reaching out to touch my shoulder. Her eyes are so warm, so calm. The Shannon I’ve known for years has her edges smoothed off. She’s coiffed and possessed, and I love her for not yelling at me or rejecting me. Being able to tell her how I really feel means so much more than I think I even understand.

  “I am a fixer.”

  “But who fixes problems for you?”

  “Me.”

  “Exactly.”

  I frown. “What’s your point?”

  “That is my point.”

  “And...”

  “You fix your mom’s problems. You fix client problems. You came to the rescue and fixed my problem with Declan nearly two years ago. Andrew isn’t a problem you can fix.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “He’s maddening.”

  “Okay, that I can follow.”

  “He’s unpredictable. He keeps kissing you but never calling. Declan says you confuse his brother.”

  “I confuse him? Talk about projecting.” A thrill runs up my back, spreading warmth and some salacious throbbing to places that really need more of a pulse. “Wait. Andrew talked to Declan about me?”

  “Yes.”

  I feel like a breathless eighth grader. Ah, hell. I am a breathless eighth grader.

  “And?”

  “You’re not Andrew’s type.”

  “You mean because I don’t charge by the hour?”

  She lets go of my shoulder and gives me a glare. “He’s my future brother-in-law. Don’t talk about him like that.”

  “You were the one who told me his assistant hires prostitutes for him!”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  “You told me Declan told you that he schedules ‘business meetings’ with various women and after he’s bedded them, they go away. What do you call that?”

  “Modern dating?” She smiles.

  “Minus the anal glands,” I whisper under my breath.

  “You’re starting to worry me,” Shannon says as she squeezes my hand. The limo pulls up to Anterdec’s office garage and begins the slow, winding way down to the executive level. Shannon knows how to live now.

  “I am the one who is being kissed out of the blue by your future brother-in-law while creating the mystery shopper survey for a dog owners’ dating site. I should worry you.”

  Her laughter fills the car. “He has never hired a prostitute. Put that one out of your mind. Plus, Andrew doesn’t have a dog.”

  A pang of guilt hits me. “About that...”

  “About doggy dates? You want to dig through the dating database and see if he’s in there? Because he’s not.”

  I shudder. “You don’t want to know what that database looks like. Trust me.”

  “Can’t be worse than that dating site for married people who want to have affairs.”

  “There are people in the DoggieDate database who have a sexual fetish for dressing up in dog costumes that match their actual dog’s breed and pretending to be a dog.”

  “Oh. Weird.”

  “Or the human-dog relationships.”

  “Oh, gross.”

  “No, no,” I say, hands up in protest. “Not actual human-dog sex. But one person is the human and the other one pretends to be the dog. Wears the costume, eats out of the dog bowl—”

  “STOP! I cannot unhear what has been heard.”

  “The weird part is that there are all these accessories for relationships like that. The merchandising opportunities are amazing.”

  Shannon sticks her fingers in her ears as we climb out of the limo. The driver holds the door open, his face neutral and stoic as I say, “And the human can buy special leashes, and the fetish involves—”

  His face is not so stoic now.

  “Work. We’re talking about a client, José,” Shannon hastily explains.

  “I’m sure you are, ma’am,” he says tightly.

  “Bet you’ve heard worse in your line of work,” I joke.

  He makes eye contact. “No ma’am. That one’s in the top three.”

  Oh, great.

  “Let me explain,” I say, suddenly deeply humiliated. “I’m a mystery shopping manager and I have to go out on twenty dates with dogs for this new dating service I’m evaluating.”

  That didn’t come out right.

  “Not with the dogs,” I say, giggling. “With their owners.”

  “And some of the owners want to pretend to be dogs,” Shannon adds, trying to help. “It’s a fetish.”

  Not helpful.

  “What you do in your line of....work, ma’am, is your business.”

  “I’m not a pervert!” I call back as Shannon pulls me away to the elevator, which opens at that exact moment to reveal—you guessed it.

  Andrew McCormick.

  His eyes light up.

  “Shame,” is all he says.

  “Shame what?” I retort.

  “Shame you’re not a pervert. See you at
eleven.” And with that, he moves so smoothly it’s like he’s on wheels, disappearing into the same limo we just got out of, José avoiding eye contact with us.

  As he pulls away I look at my watch. 10:33 a.m.

  “Where is he going?” I ask Shannon, who enters the open elevator and pulls me in. She presses the floor for the main Anterdec offices with a practiced hand. “We have an appointment!”

  “Who knows? To grab a cup of coffee?”

  Living with a billionaire hasn’t rubbed off on her, has it? “He has people who fetch him coffee,” I say, as if explaining religion to an alien. “Hell, he has people who test whether it’s too hot for him. He probably owns a sugar cane plantation where they hand-harvest his personal sweetener. How can you live with the richie riches and not know that?”

  “I—”

  “And I am not a pervert!” I hiss again.

  She starts to laugh. It’s a sound of absurdity. There is no mocking in her tone, and I join in, realizing my own over-the-topness.

  “You’re really not,” she gasps. “You’re about as vanilla as they come.”

  “How can I be vanilla when I’m not having sex with anyone?”

  The words come out of my mouth just as the elevator slows and the doors open, revealing James McCormick.

  Who just heard every word I said.

  7

  “That’s the difference between men and women,” he declares in a voice that’s just a notch louder than it needs to be. He’s cultivating an audience. James McCormick is a man who is accustomed to instant attention.

  Just like Andrew.

  “Men pretend to be sleeping with more women than they really are. Women complain endlessly about all the men they’re not sleeping with. Both are always lying,” James declares with a smug little smile.

  “But I’m really not sleeping with anyone!”

  I can’t believe I just said that in public.

  James startles slightly. “You and Andrew aren’t....” He makes a series of suggestive sounds from the back of his throat like he’s trying out for a sound effects specialist on a porn set.

  “What? No! Whatever gave you that idea?”

  All he does is wink and walk onto the elevator as Shannon drags me off it, the door closing on the grey fox as he whistles to himself.

  Panic blooms in my chest like a field of sunflowers all turning toward the light in synchronicity too perfect to be coincidence.

  “What did he mean? Is Andrew talking about me? Does he talk about me with his father? Did Declan say something to James about the kiss last night? Is there more going on than I thought?”

  “Amanda—”

  “Does Andrew like perverts? Because I can be a pervert if that’s more his speed. Vanilla is boring. I don’t have to be boring. I can be kinky like the best of them.”

  “AMANDA!”

  A firm yank on my wrist and Shannon has me down the hall, inside her office, sitting on a small loveseat, head between my knees, a lavender-filled eye pillow shoved under my nose. She’s holding a spritz bottle of water and I’m a little scared.

  “What is wrong with you?” she demands. “Who stole my level-headed best friend and replaced her with, with...this?” Shannon’s wrists flick my way like twin whips.

  See? I’m not so vanilla.

  “I don’t know!” I wail, looking up. “Andrew McCormick has taken every rational brain cell in my head and shaken me like I’m a snow globe.”

  “With his mouth?” Shannon asks skeptically. “Because so far, all he’s done is kiss you and not ask you out.”

  “Three times! He kissed me in his office the day I tried to fix the mess between you and Declan. He kissed me in the on-call room at the hospital when you swallowed the engagement ring. And then last night, after my anal date, he—”

  Tap tap tap.

  I look up to find Declan’s assistant, Grace, standing in the open doorway.

  “Your what?” she asks. If my grandmother were alive she’d be Grace’s age. Grandma would probably have the same look of untempered disgust and extraordinary curiosity on her face as well.

  “Anal gland date,” Shannon adds. “She forgot a word.”

  “That really does not clarify,” Grace replies. If she frowns any harder she’ll be a Shar-Pei.

  Why does everything remind me of dogs?

  “I went out with a guy last night who likes to express—oh, never mind.” I give up. My phone buzzes. I check it.

  Reminder: DoggieDate #2 noon

  “Oh, shoot!” I snap, standing. “I completely forgot that I have another date today. A lunch date. We’re meeting at the Esplanade.”

  “What’s up, Grace?” Shannon asks, trying to change topics.

  Grace gives me a look as I check my calendar to see what else I’m forgetting. “Declan wanted me to invite Amanda to your lunch date today at The Fort, but I see she has anal lunch date...er, I mean, another lunch date.” Grace rushes off like she’s retching.

  It’s hard to rattle that woman.

  I’m that big a mess, aren’t I?

  “Look,” I say with a long sigh. “This isn’t me. This really isn’t me. Look at me!”

  “You look like Amanda. Brown hair, big eyes, overpainted red lips, and ex-cheerleader body.”

  “I know, right? I—wait. Overpainted? I’m not overpainted!”

  Shannon’s mouth tightens like she’s been caught making an error. “Er, no. Of course not.”

  Tap tap tap.

  We look toward the door. Declan walks in, his cologne following him by microseconds, a blend of cloves and cotton. He reaches for Shannon and gives her a gentle kiss right under her ear.

  What is it like to be known so well by a man? I’ve had short-term boyfriends. Friends with benefits. A one-night stand here or there. I’m no prude, but I’m not the town barfly. Nothing wrong with being somewhere in between, but what Shannon and Declan share feels so out of my league. I can’t imagine living in concert with someone where the invisible boundary that makes me me and him him dissolves at will.

  At the power of something greater than simple consent.

  Green eyes the color of money look at me. Declan’s wearing a suit that costs more than my first year of college. He’s holding Shannon against him, arm wrapped across her back, hand cupping one hip like it’s a mug handle.

  “Amanda,” he says pleasantly. “What a surprise to see you here.”

  “How can it be a surprise when Grace just asked if I’m having lunch with you and Shannon after my meetings?”

  Confusion fills his face. “Grace asked that?”

  Shannon laughs and turns to me. “Grace runs his entire life. Declan’s just a passenger.”

  “See?” I taunt. “Just like the sugar cane farm for Andrew’s sweetener.”

  Declan’s bemusement deepens. “His what?”

  Before I can answer, Andrew’s executive assistant appears. “Ms. Warrick? Mr. McCormick will see you now.”

  8

  The last time I was in Andrew’s office he was wearing bike shorts. Tight ones. Nice, snug Lycra shorts so fine I really should have shoved a dollar bill in his waistband as a tip for the show. Not that he needed the money.

  As his admin guides me to his office, I try to center myself. In an hour I’m meeting Mr. Teacup Chihuahua, a guy matched to me mostly based on my description of Spritzy in the DoggieDate database. We’re going to the Esplanade so I can meet Muffin, his little teacup sweetie. In our brief email exchanges, my date insisted he needs to make sure Muffin likes me before taking the next step and having her meet Spritzy, lest his dog become too attached to him.

  Him.

  Not to me.

  My mind is racing to think about anything but the image of Andrew McCormick, who is turned away from me, his broad, muscled back on display. His charcoal suit jacket is draped casually over the leather club chair across from his desk. He’s looking out the glass wall and over the city. A few floors below I see the Pac-Man-based topiary for the ga
me design company in the building next door.

  As I peer closer, I realize they have added a dog run.

  And is that a pool...filled with dogs?

  Huh. Note to self: run a database query on DoggieDate to see how many employees from that company are on DoggieDate, and suggest marketing to them as part of overall strategy for strengthening new accounts.

  See? I’m good. As good as Shannon.

  Anterdec should hire me.

  Andrew spins around in his Herman Miller chair and holds one finger up to me. His face is intense, eyes dark in concentration, and he’s coiled with the kind of frustration that comes from negotiations that are stalled. The telephone conversation he’s having is one that probably requires more privacy, but I instinctively do as told and wait in place.

  As I lift his suit jacket from the chair, his cologne fills the air.

  It takes every bit of self control I possess not to huff it like a little kid with fruit-scented markers and no adult supervision.

  My fingertips can’t help it. They’ve seceded from my rational mind, stroking the fine cloth that has just been resting against those cultured pecs minutes before. The cloth is warm, still, as if he shed the jacket seconds before I walked in. It’s almost like being in his arms last night.

  Almost.

  The pale imitation is worse than nothing. I would rather never, ever see him again than sit here trying not to lick the wool weave, using every ounce of restraint I possess to maintain a professional exterior that shows my true nature.

  I am a fixer.

  I can fix this.

  I can fix me.

  Andrew ends the call and gives me his full attention. It’s like drinking from a trickle at a water fountain and suddenly having a fire hose aimed at your face.

  A sensual, sultry, hot-as-Hades fire hose.

  “I assume you’ve kept your mouth shut?” he starts.

  Nothing like cutting to the chase. I see what this meeting is about. We’re here to talk business. The business of keeping his secret about becoming the new CEO of Anterdec Industries. Nothing more. I can play this game.

  “Except when you’re kissing me.”

  Or I can play my own game. My rules. My board. My pieces.

  My tongue.

  The way he tilts his head just so as his mouth tightens, then spreads into a smile is like watching a rainbow form in the sky.