by Aspen Drake
“Thanks, Rena.” I turn to the delivery woman, immediately focusing on those cheeks that currently display her embarrassment. “And thank you.” I wink then head to my office, curious about her story and how she ended up in such a tight position.
Chapter 3
Emma
Are you kidding me? The hot guy in the elevator with the tattoos peeking out from under his dress shirt is my customer? Awesome. I’m sure that’s gonna be a nice one-star rating with a complaint about my unprofessional demeanor and financial irresponsibility.
FML.
I carry the coffee order down two more floors and deliver it to a harried woman who appears to be in her eighties. Then I head back to the street, checking my app on the way to see what my next delivery is.
The sushi bar three blocks up. Perfect.
That gives me just enough time to call Yoshi and ask him to have an order of California rolls waiting for me when I get there. Since I have to eat while I make my deliveries, sushi is ideal. It’s an easy finger food while I am walking, and Yoshi never charges me for my food when I’m making deliveries for him. He calls it my delivery tip. Considering that most of my tips are only about 30% of what it would cost me to pay for my lunch, I’m grateful for his generosity.
I’m on my ninth delivery of the day at two p.m., and if I hit twenty for the day, I’ll get a $50 bonus. And I really need a $50 bonus. So, I ignore the shin splints and blister forming on my heel and don’t even consider signing off until that “bonus attained” button flashes on my phone.
~**~
It takes four more hours for me to finally get to the point that I can’t even consider another delivery. And with my bonus attained over an hour ago, I don’t feel at all guilty as I slowly walk back to where I left my car parked and think about the hot bath and book waiting for me at home.
Dropping into said tub is the first thing I do when I get home, but I only let myself soak peacefully for about five minutes before I start to get antsy, thinking about all the things I need to get done. I grab my phone and pull up the Meals2Me app.
In my driver earnings menu, I click the transfer icon to move the money I earned today into my checking account. I should’ve done this on my way home so I could’ve stopped to pick up groceries, but I was too fucking tired. Toilet paper and ramen can wait until tomorrow.
I almost drop my phone into the tub when I see the number displayed as my balance.
$5270.48.
That can’t be right. There’s no way in hell I earned that much today. There has to be an error somewhere. I scroll through each transaction, looking for the problem. It doesn’t take me long to find it. My delivery at lunchtime to the hot guy with the secretary shows a $5,000 tip.
Obviously, that’s a mistake.
I doubt he would’ve given me a five-dollar tip based on what he overheard, much less a five-thousand-dollar tip.
The bitch of it is I can’t transfer just the $270.48 that I actually earned. I can only transfer the entire balance at once. All or nothing. And I don’t want to owe this guy five thousand dollars when he realizes his mistake and comes asking for a refund.
Which means I can’t transfer any of it. I must have murdered kittens in my previous life for Karma to hate me so badly. The thought of yet another day being spent begging other people to fix their mistakes so I can pay my bills and access my own damn money is just too much. I’m suddenly exhausted and want nothing more than to fall asleep and pretend the past two years of my life never happened.
~**~
“Excuse me,” I say to the woman behind the desk.
She’s on the phone and holds her finger up to ask me to wait. I don’t really have time to wait, but I also can’t leave without getting this resolved. So, I force a smile and tap my foot, trying to be patient while she finishes the dinner reservation for fifteen that she’s making.
“I’m so sorry to make you wait, dear. How can I help you?”
She appears to be younger than my mom, but she gives off that same maternal vibe that all moms seem to have. Despite my frustration, she does put me at ease.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I made a delivery here from Meals2Me yesterday. Do you remember me?” I hope to come across as genuinely nice and not the fake nice I feel.
“Of course I do. You brought Mr. James’s lunch.” She nods and her smile grows. “Is there a problem?”
“There is, unfortunately. I think you made a mistake when you were leaving the gratuity. I don’t know if you meant to leave five dollars, but it actually came out as $5000.” I make a face to convey my shock at the amount. “Obviously, that will be refunded, but I just wanted to bring it to your attention so we can take care of it immediately.”
She chuckles and reaches for her own cup of coffee. “Well, this might be your lucky day, because that wasn’t a mistake. Mr. James asked me to give you that gratuity.”
My jaw drops, and I have no words. How can that be? Eventually, I take a breath and look at her in confusion. “But why? I don’t understand.”
She shrugs and looks lovingly at the office I saw Mr. James walk into yesterday. “He just does that sometimes. Around the holidays, he gets really generous. I think he just likes to spend his family’s money,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper.
I shake my head, still not completely understanding what she means. “I can’t accept that much. All I did was deliver a sandwich. Even $50 would be too much, but $5000 is ludicrous.”
The woman just smiles and leans forward. “Honey, just take the money. He has plenty to share, so if it doesn’t go to you, it’ll go to the next person. You might as well be the one to get it.”
I bite my lip, considering my options. I really do need that money. Like really, really need the money. Not only would I be able to get caught up on rent, but I could pay off all my late utilities and not have to worry about where my next meal is coming from. “Are you really sure? He does this for lots of people? It wasn’t just some pity thing for me?”
She pats my hand with a twinkle in her eye. “I promise it’s okay. Just consider this a good deed someone did for you, and maybe someday you’ll be able to return the favor.”
Chapter 4
Sebastian
“Thanks, Rena.” I take the file she hands to me and give it a quick review. “And, did you hear back from Clark about the bicycle drive?”
“I did.” She flips through her notepad and slides her glasses onto her nose. “We’re scheduled for the build on Wednesday from ten to four. And they would like you to speak on behalf of James Lighting at the presentation next Saturday. Are you able to do that?”
“Is my calendar open on that day?”
She nods enthusiastically. “It is. I already put a tentative placeholder in, just in case.”
I’m not surprised. She’s more efficient than any employee in the company. “Yeah, I’ll be there. And make sure the staff gets a reminder about Wednesday so we have as many people there as possible.” I turn to leave before remembering the reason I stopped by in the first place. “Are we providing lunch?”
Rena scrunches up her nose, making a worried face. “I think it would be nice if we offer. They said they can do a sandwich bar, but everyone has been raving about the burrito truck that we had at the last all-hands meeting. Maybe we can get them out there for an hour or two. What do you think?”
“I love it. Let’s do that. And make sure the staff at Philanthrateer knows lunch will be provided for everyone that day.”
“Got it.” She jots some notes down on her pad. “They’ll appreciate that. Thanks, Sebastian.”
“Yeah, and, what about our nightlight project? Have we gotten the operations team to commit to a date yet?”
“Not yet.” Rena hits a few keys on her keyboard then pulls up an email. “Martin still thinks we should hold off another year and send them to retail outlets first. Recoup some of our R&D costs.”
I shake my head and hold up my hand to stop her. “No. We’ve been
through this, and he knows that’s too late. I want these in place for a summer rollout.”
She gives me a slight grin. “He’s not going to be happy about delivering in four months.”
I shrug. “Don’t care. Maybe my dad let him get away with making his own rules, but I won’t. There’s only a six-week lead time, so sixteen weeks should be no problem. If he still pushing back, I’ll go directly to Charles.”
“I’ll let him know.” Rena’s grin is even wider now. “Oh, are you going out for lunch?”
I glance at my watch, surprised it’s already 1:15. “No, can you have something brought in? Something light. Maybe sushi.”
“I’m on it.” She turns to her computer to bring up the delivery site. “It’ll be about thirty minutes.”
“Thanks, Rena.” As soon as I get back to my desk, I pull up all of Martin’s recent emails. He’s old-school and worked for my dad for a very long time. Although I’m not trying to take my father’s place, and I know I don’t have any kind of real experience running a business like this, it pisses me the fuck off when these old-timers disregard my projects.
But it’s not entirely their fault. They’re not used to doing any philanthropic work with the company. Mom and Dad made a point of donating only what was necessary to save face and play the parts of concerned citizens in front of their peers, but they hated to give anything away. And the few times when Dad did set up corporate donation programs, it was only for tax benefits.
That’s why I’ve started up several charitable programs in the six months I’ve been working here. I’m not going to pretend to know how to grow revenue or expand market share in a lighting company, but I do know how to make very small differences in the lives of others.
I learned a long time ago that even the smallest acts of kindness can go a long way. And though no one in the public knows it, I’m one of the co-founders of Philanthrateer, a charity set up to raise money for various causes in the state of Tennessee, but it also launders money brought in by some of our less-than-legal enterprises.
Growing up, my parents were assholes.
They provided financial support in the form of hired staff to take care of me. But beyond the basics of food, shelter, and education, I was on my own a lot as a kid. And when the staff wasn’t around to witness, my parents beat the shit out of me and locked me in a dark closet. Once when I was twelve, I got suspended from school for getting in a fight. My parents gave the staff the weekend off and left me in that closet from three o’clock on Friday afternoon until six o’clock on Monday morning. I had a couple bottles of water, a box of granola bars, and a bucket. It was the scariest sixty-three hours of my life.
That’s why I set up a nightlight program with the county foster care agency. Even though I wasn’t part of the system, I often wished to be put into a home with lots of other kids and parents who actually wanted to take care of children. I knew there were bad foster families, but they still sounded so much better than the blood family I had.
I can’t take in kids who need families, but I can provide free solar nightlights to every child in the system. The lights aren’t fancy, but they are cheap and reusable, and they work. Each light is just an inflatable plastic square that kids can leave in the window during the day or keep on their backpack to get sun exposure, and then as soon as it gets dark, they can inflate the plastic square and turn it into a lantern so they never have to be in the dark.
We aren’t the first company to make these solar lamps, but it’s a project I want to expand nationally, and so we’re using this as a small test market to see how people like it.
That’s why Martin, our head of operations, is pissed at me. His team has been working on this technology for two years now, and he wants the glory of taking it to market. As far as I’m concerned, he’ll still get the glory and a ridiculous bonus as a result of his work in getting us there. But that’s not good enough for that old twit. If we aren’t using it as a revenue stream, he won’t have the bragging rights to make the rest of his cronies jealous.
But that’s not my problem, and at the moment, all I care about is getting those lanterns into production and helping out kids who are afraid to go to sleep at night.
If he keeps this shit up, I’ll escalate to his management and call out the fact that he’s a selfish bastard. I don’t want to run the company that way, but I will if I’m pushed. The management team and I have an unspoken agreement that I’ll sit quietly and not draw any unnecessary attention to myself while at the helm, but I refuse to stay idle. I need some kind of project at all times, and this is what I’ve chosen for now.
If anyone doesn’t like it, they can retire early. I would happily sign that paperwork to get rid of all the assholes who care more about upgrading their yachts than about the community we’re serving.
Chapter 5
Emma
I run through Mercy’s front door and drop my bag in the entryway as I kick off my shoes. “I’m here. You can go.”
Mercy emerges from her bedroom in skinny jeans and the cutest ankle boots I’ve ever seen. “You like?”
“Holy hotness. Where did you get those boots?”
She lifts her foot and does a little kick. “TJ Maxx. $14.99, baby.”
I’ve never been more grateful that we’re the same shoe size. “You know I’m borrowing those, right?”
She shrugs. “Since my date isn’t here yet, and you’re not officially late, I suppose that’s a possibility.”
“I know, I’m sorry for cutting it so close. My last delivery took forever because the lady couldn’t figure out how to unlock the office door to let me in.”
Mercy quirks an eyebrow like she thinks I’m lying. “The woman didn’t know how to open the door to her own office? How does she go home at night?”
“I asked her the same thing, believe me.” I grab a beer from Mercy’s fridge then walk to her couch. “I was annoyed as hell by the time she finally got somebody to open the door. But I guess there’s a back entrance that goes down a service hallway and opens up to the employees-only parking lot. So she’s never had to open the front door after hours. It was a cluster.”
“Well, I’m glad you made it.” Mercy reaches for my beer and takes a swig.
“Yeah, thank god your date’s late too.” I look at my watch and then back at Mercy. “Is that okay? I know how you value punctuality in a partner.”
She rolls her eyes at me and waves off my remark. “Right now, all I value in any partner is a nice body and decent breath. Beyond that, I’m can’t be too picky.”
“Probably for the better.” I look around the room in search of my little buddy. “Where’s Owen?”
She holds her finger up to her lips to shush me and then waves for me to follow behind her into his bedroom.
Owen, Mercy’s nephew, has a box full of family photos scattered on the floor and is busy arranging them on decorative paper.
I give my best friend an incredulous look and then step back into the living room with my hand on my hip. “You have him scrapbooking for you?”
“He loves it. Kids love craft projects, and I have about five hundred printed pictures that I’m never going to do anything with.” She gives me a victorious smile. “Win-win.”
Owen is one of my favorite people. He’s only been living with Mercy for a few months now, but during that time, we’ve gotten pretty tight. Mercy’s sister has been fighting addiction and depression for years and lost her parental rights after Owen didn’t show up to school for a week. Child Protective Services found him locked in an apartment with hardly any food and his mother unconscious in her own vomit. She’s in rehab now, and we all hope she pulls through this for her sake and for Owen’s. But for the foreseeable future, Mercy is his parent. And as her best friend, I feel a responsibility to help her out as much as possible.
After Mercy’s date arrives and they take off, I make my way to the kitchen and fix some dinner. Mercy keeps the cabinets stocked with easy food that Owen likes. It’s not
gourmet, but I’m more of a takeout girl myself. If I’m cooking, fast, kid-friendly food is fine by me. Once dinner is ready, I call him to the table.
Owen comes running from his bedroom and plops down in a chair at the table in the small dining area. “That smells good.”
“It is.” I slide a plate of broccoli and mac & cheese in front of Owen then sit down across from him with my own plate. “So, what’s on the agenda for tonight, kiddo?”
He shovels a few bites into his mouth before stopping long enough to respond. “I need to study for a spelling test, but we can watch TV instead if you want?”
“Nice try, kid.” I pick up my fork and dig into the culinary masterpiece I’ve created. “How about we study first, and after that, if it’s not too late, we can watch TV. Sound good?”
“I guess.” He begins shoveling food into his mouth like it’s a timed race. He hasn’t even chewed or swallowed before he’s pushing another mouthful inside.
“Whoa, whoa there.” I reach out and still his hand before the fork makes it to his face. “Slow down or you’ll give yourself a tummy ache.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You don’t get a stomachache from eating too much, you know. You get a stomachache from not eating enough.”
Right.
He’s still getting used to the idea of always having food in the kitchen and a safe place to sleep. I let go of his hand so he can take the bite. “You’re not going to leave the table hungry, I promise. Just slow down so you don’t make yourself sick.”
He rolls his eyes and makes a point of chewing each bite before swallowing and taking another one.
“Much better.” I take a bite and chew slowly, even going so far as to rest my fork on the plate between bites. “You know, when you grow up, you’re going to need good table manners. Chicks don’t like guys who eat quickly because it makes them feel like they’re eating too much.”