The Boss's Daughter

by Aubrey Parker

  “It was a mistake,” I blurt.

  Riley sighs. She sits in the chair that foremen usually sit in. She crosses her legs, probably trying to seem in charge, but I can see her age through her ruse. She’s a girl in woman’s clothing. A kid playing dress-up. Something about the thought breaks my heart because I can almost see her as she once was. I can see below her skin. I know how part of her must feel all the time because as much as she had growing up, she and I share something. A pain that most can’t know.

  “Is that all it was?”

  I sigh. I don’t know what answer she wants me to give.

  “My father said you stuck up for me.”

  My eyes narrow. That’s absolutely not what I expected her to say.

  “I did?”

  “He said you told him I knew the company better than anyone. That if you didn’t get the vice presidency, he should give it to me.”

  “Take it,” I say.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “It’s your father’s company.”

  “And I don’t want pity. I don’t want to get what’s not coming to me.” She gives me a demure little blink, and I wonder if there’s more to that statement than I’m seeing.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “For what?”

  “For telling him that. I’m trying to be that person.”

  “Be what person?”

  “The person I need to be.”

  Riley sounds like she’s attended a self-help seminar. I’m not sure where to take this, but I can see she’s not angry. At least not on the surface. Maybe I did read her right. My heart, which continues to thud in my ears and make me dizzy, isn’t positive.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “You’re welcome.”

  A tiny smile. I can tell how much it’s costing her to break through the harsh facade. “How am I doing?”

  “You look very professional.”

  Something in the way I say it seems to bother her. She sits up straighter.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. I mean that you look professional.”

  “Is professional good?”

  “Yes. Sure.” I don’t know what to say beyond that. I feel like I’m being tested.

  “What happened,” she says. “That can’t happen again.”

  “Okay.”

  “This company is … ” She sighs. “It’s my legacy, I guess.”

  “Of course.”

  “But my dad doesn’t believe I can run it. Not really. I think he wants to believe me, but to him, I’m still just his little girl.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m serious, Brandon.”

  “I know you are.” But already my mood is changing. I read her right, all right … but now she’s talking herself into changing her mind. And she’s doing it without my permission. And at my expense. I was right that she didn’t want to deny what happened between us across the board, but wrong in believing she wanted to fully face it. What she wants is to change it. She wants to talk it out so she can convince herself that I’m the bad guy. Or at least the guy. She did nothing to initiate our encounter; that’s what she’s trying to say here. It was all me. Now she’s dressing me down, making sure I understand that I can’t come at her again with a raging erection because she’ll turn it down in a straight faced, disapproving way. Because she’s a businesswoman. Which my testimonial helped her father to believe, after I plowed her in the back of a pickup.

  I force my anger down. I’m overreacting. She doesn’t mean that at all.

  “I should apologize,” she says.

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “That first day. By the creek. It wasn’t fair for me to put that on you.”

  “You didn’t put anything on me.”

  “I might have given you the wrong idea.”

  “You didn’t give me any ideas,” I say, now glancing around the office, wanting this to be over. I don’t know why I asked her to stay. I feel stupid. Was I really that dumb and naive? She’s Mason’s daughter. She’s a shark, from blood to cartilage.

  “I’d just come home,” she says. “I was missing my friends. That’s all. You know how it is.”

  “I don’t know how it is,” I tell her, “seeing as I didn’t go to college.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh. Of course not.”

  She looks at me for a few seconds. Then she goes on.

  “It wasn’t a good idea, and we both know it, Brandon.”

  “Having sex in the back of my truck?”

  She seems to blush. “The whole night.”

  “I thought it was perfectly professional.”

  “This isn’t good for you either.”

  I laugh. “It was plenty good for me. And for you, too, judging by the way you — ”

  “How would my father react if he knew?”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Who did you tell?”

  “Nobody!”

  “Not even Phoebe?”

  She looks away.

  “I see. So you didn’t tell anyone at all.”

  “You told your sister!”

  “I needed her to give us a jump! And to give you a ride home so I could make a meeting with your father! One I missed, thanks to you!”

  “Thanks to me?”

  “My dick wasn’t in anyone else that night, Riley!”

  Her face is more hurt than angry. But then the anger percolates back, and she says, “Yes. You missed the meeting. My father came home plenty pissed. I’ll bet he really gave it to you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Enough that it probably seemed like he was going to fire you. Certainly not consider you for the vice presidency. Or did you leave that little chat feeling confident? Shack up with the boss’s daughter, miss a meeting, and still stand on top of the world? That’s how it seemed, right?”

  I kind of grunt, unsure where she’s going, the hair on the back of my neck standing tall. “So what?”

  “He said you were a drunk. Did you know that’s how he thinks of you?”

  Now she’s trying to jab me. I’m definitely not a drunk. I go on binges here and there, but they’re isolated. I’ve always been to work on time, always. I’ve never shown up drunk. I’ve never carried a bender past a weekend. Bar girls have been my only casualties, and they all went home happy.

  “Marcus came here because of me! I told him to give you another chance!”

  My head cocks. Only for a second; I don’t want to give her a point. But I can’t stop my curiosity. I expected her to keep our secret, if she could, but this is strange. She seemed cowed and angry when I left her, and she’s seemed latently angry since, if not overtly angry like now. In my rush and desperation, I’ll admit I came off as an asshole. I can’t really blame her for resenting me. So why go above and beyond?

  “Why?”

  “Because you deserve it!”

  I’ve failed to keep the surprise from my face. Now her eyes look wet. This is how Bridget gets when she’s frustrated. Saying the wrong thing to a crying woman is like making the wrong move around a nervous dog. I’m suddenly sure I’m about to be bitten.

  “Why?”

  “Oh, fuck off, Brandon,” she says, turning, standing, wiping at her eyes in a way she probably thinks I can’t see.

  “Why?” I repeat.

  “Why did you tell him what you said, about me?”

  “I guess because you deserve it.”

  We stare at each other like two fighters squaring off. The distance between us feels a thousand miles away, but still I want to go to her. I’m sure she’d hit me if I approached, but I still want to do it. I can’t not do it.

  “It didn’t happen,” she says. “And it won’t happen again.”

  “Of course.” I mean it, but now I feel humbled, punched, weak. I’m genuinely agreeing, but mostly saying what she needs to hear. What will make her stop being hurt, stop being angry. />
  I don’t want her to hate me. A while ago, I didn’t care. But now I do. A lot.

  “I have to go,” she says.

  “I’ll drive you.”

  But she’s already out the door, pulling a phone from her purse to make a call.

  CHAPTER 32

  Riley

  Phoebe is sitting across from me, trying to figure out why the hell her malt is all weird. I’m considering telling her that the “weird crap” in her malt is malt, the stuff makes the old-timey drink and Nosh Pit specialty unique, when she shoves it at the waitress and demands “a clean one without the shit in it.”

  The waitress takes Phoebe’s glass. It’s the red-haired girl, Abigail. She seems for a moment not to know what the glass is even though she was the one who brought it over. Her confusion is broken when the tall, beautiful brunette waitress who seems to be in charge shouts at her.

  “She has to learn. She has to know to quality-check stuff before bringing it out to customers,” says Phoebe, watching the waitress rush off behind her bitchy gaze. “There was powdery shit all through that drink.”

  “It’s malt, Phoebe.”

  “Right. I wanted a malt, and she brought me whatever the hell that was,” she says, still watching the waitress. Then she turns to me, and her usually caustic manner softens. Her big eyes seem to smile beneath her jet-black hair. “You sure you don’t want one?”

  “I’m not depressed, Phoebe.”

  “Sure you are. I’ve known you forever.” Her eyes flick around. “It’s Brandon, isn’t it?”

  “What? No!”

  “Yes it is.”

  I look around the diner, sure that everyone is staring right at us. Certain that my father is at the next table with surveillance equipment, listening for signs of wrongdoing.

  “Don’t worry, Ri. I just know these things. You’re not obvious.”

  Plenty obvious to Phoebe, apparently. But then again, she and I did already kind of have this discussion. She’s seen me through a few relationships, and I guess she’d already decided I was into Brandon Grant. Which I’m not. Except I’m becoming increasingly afraid that I am.

  When he touched me at the Stonegate job site, I decided he wanted me after all. I went back and forth no fewer than ten times during that brief tour, trying to read his intentions. It felt like a real catch-22: If he wanted me, I was, however stupidly, interested in finding out more. But if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be the first to do something idiotic as my father expected. Again.

  But then I turned cold and denied it all — not that it happened, but that it meant anything. Just a dumb mistake … from my end, anyway. And somehow, I think I expected him to blurt out something gallant about how it wasn’t a mistake for him at all, and then we could move on. But that was like trying to reach second base with a foot on first, hedging my bets so fiercely that they could never pay off. Of course he hadn’t done what I wanted. We kept calling each other’s bluffs, and now here I am. Sad. Hurt. And wanting a malt, even though I don’t want to admit it.

  “You hooked up with him, didn’t you?”

  “No!” Then I sigh. “Yes.”

  “I knew it! Was he good? Did you come?”

  “Phoebe!”

  “Come on. Let me live vicariously.” Abigail brings another malt. Phoebe looks at it, stirs it with a straw, and turns on her. “This one has shit in it too!”

  “I’ll take it,” I say, pulling the malt toward me. I give Abigail an apologizing look, but then the dark-haired waitress shouts again, and she scuttles off.

  “So? Was it good?”

  I consider lying. But then I say, “Yes.”

  “One-night stand kind of thing?” She eyes me. “No. No, he hooked you.”

  “He did not hook me.”

  “He did. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Hey!” She throws up her hands. “Who knew you’d fucked him?”

  “Keep your voice down!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just excited.” She pats my hand. “It’s okay. You can like him. He seems really great.”

  “You just like his six-pack.”

  “I want to scrub my laundry on it,” she says. “But no. I mean, he seems like a great guy.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to stay away to prove something to your dad.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Sure it is.”

  I narrow my eyes. “When are you going to stop telling me what is and is not going on in my own life?”

  “As soon as I stop being right. Am I still getting it right?”

  Another sigh. “I guess.”

  “So, there you have it. You’re a big girl. You’re already proving yourself. Based on what you’ve told me, it sounds like you’re on your way. Like Laverne and Shirley.”

  “Were they on their way?”

  “I don’t know. My grandma used to watch it.”

  I sip the malt. It’s delicious. I have a rather existential thought about how everything goes in circles: the Nosh Pit specializing in malts and hence establishing itself as a malt shop instead of just a diner. Phoebe mentioning Laverne and Shirley, which I only know by name. It’s like there’s nothing new, and everything plays on a loop.

  “He’s just so different from me,” I say.

  “I don’t know about that. When I used to ogle him, he was just a digger. Now you say he’s going to be vice president.”

  “Yeah. Dad’s back onboard the Brandon train. Just about the only thing that could screw it up for him now would be if he started nailing the boss’s daughter.”

  “You’re both adults.” Phoebe sips her malt then says, “Someone’s got to nail you.”

  “Not as far as my dad thinks. I’m still fifteen years old to him.”

  “Except that you’re now running a division of his company.”

  “I’m an intern.”

  Another sip from Phoebe. “Same difference.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s ambitious. How many people you know have a man like that, who won’t just lie around and accept what comes to him? So there’s that. But he’s also totally hot.”

  “Except that beard.”

  “You don’t like the beard? I think it’s manly. Like that’s brown testosterone coming out of his follicles.”

  “Gross.”

  “Do you know why he has it? The beard, I mean?”

  I smirk then take my malt back. Phoebe has drained it by a quarter. So much for her not liking the powdery stuff. “I suppose this is part of you being a town gossip.”

  “Life coach. Who knows a lot about everyone. Because I network.”

  “Whatever.”

  “No, Ri. This is just me knowing because a lot of people know. It happened while you were gone.”

  “Bridget told me,” I say, sipping. I say it dismissively because I really don’t care. He’s wrong for me. He’ll ruin what I have going with my father and his new faith in me. I’ll ruin what he has going with his vice presidency. And just now, we didn’t exactly part on good terms. I was supposed to go back to the office, but Phoebe called me during my ride, and I asked the car to take me here instead. I guess this doesn’t make me the picture of responsibility, but it felt right. I left the Stonegate site feeling annoyed at Brandon’s self-centered arrogance and bitchy attitude, but for some reason I feel closer to heartbroken.

  Phoebe nods. “And that doesn’t tell you all you need to know?”

  What? That he got cut in a bar fight? That he has a scar on his cheek that he wants to hide? So what? It doesn’t change anything.

  Phoebe’s head bobs. “Oh. I see what’s going on here.”

  “What’s ‘going on here?’”

  “You’re afraid of leveling up.”

  I don’t even know how to respond to that.

  “You’re trying to have it both ways,” she says, nodding harder, as if gaining conviction from her words. “How did you feel when you came
home from college?”

  “Stop life coaching me, Phoebe.”

  “Just tell me, bitch.”

  “I don’t know. Eager to start putting my degree to work at Life of Riley?”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And sad, right? Like you missed school? Missed your college friends? Your old life?”

  “Well, sure. Of course. But … ”

  “You’ve always been taken care of by Daddy. Now you’re on your own, but not really. You’re somewhere in the middle. You say you want to be taken seriously, but you still live at home.”

  “Only until I find my own place.”

  “And you want your dad to treat you like a serious businesswoman, but you’re still worried about disappointing him. By being with his veep.”

  “I’ve been with lots of guys my dad didn’t want me with.”

  “Not like Brandon. He’d be ‘leveling up.’ He’d be a serious boyfriend. The kind you marry because he’s a real man, not a kid. But doing it doesn’t just challenge your relationship with your dad; it also represents — ”

  “Please don’t tell me what my actions ‘represent.’”

  “It also represents your first step to settle down.”

  “Settle down!” I bark laughter and nod sarcastically. “I see. And you’re getting this because I had sex with him once.”

  “Your womanly instincts are kicking in. You know he’s a good catch, and you want him. You want to marry him.” She says “marry” the way we used to say it in grade school, when mocking someone for being into someone we deemed ridiculous. Except that this time, she’s using the same tone to make the opposite point. I consider “life coaching” Phoebe by pointing this out, but she darts for my malt and I lose momentum defending it.

  “You’re retarded,” I say. Not the kind of thing I’d say as a woman. It’s the kind of thing I’d say as a girl.

  “Not retarded,” Phoebe retorts. “You know he’s good material. Which is why you’re so smitten.”

  “I’m not smitten!”

  “And the smittenness,” she says, drawing a line on the table with her finger that is probably supposed to represent a profound truth, “is why you’re sad right now.”

  “I’m not sad.”

  “You said you were sad.”

  “I did not!”