by Sonia Hartl
“If we’re all done here, I’ll walk you out.” Margo stood, brushing a hand down her slacks, the ironed crease so sharp I was surprised she didn’t slice open her hand.
Selena followed, but turned back to me before exiting the office. “It was so nice to meet you, Brinkley. I was pleasantly surprised you managed to pull this off.”
I plastered on my see you in hell, but I’ll bring a muffin basket expression, and she turned around and left. What an odd little duck.
I leaned my head back and stared up at the faux-tin tiles on the ceiling. Margo had outfitted her office to be what she considered an inviting space for women. It was a cross between shabby chic and Palace of Versailles. Lots of pink. Lots of gold. Lots of doilies. The light-teal wallpaper had a shiny French design, and every chair was covered in the same cabbage-rose fabric. It had the mothy scent of a grandmother’s attic.
Margo’s clipped gait echoed off the marble tiles of the hall as she made her way back to the office. She shut the door with a firm click. “What the hell was that?”
“I could ask you the same question.” I rubbed my eyes. In any other job, I couldn’t talk to my boss that way, but Margo and I had never really had a normal working relationship.
“I was saving your ass from having to pay out a refund. Now you.”
I knew I had no business questioning the client. We weren’t supposed to care about their reasons for hiring us. “Selena bugs me. She was a pain in the ass during the interview process, and I don’t think that guy she hired me to take down was anything like she described.”
“Why do you think I didn’t want you to give her the refund?” Margo passed me a tin of thin little cookies that reminded me of Listerine strips. “Not only did she pay the thousand, which is seventy-five percent yours, she’s also going to refer her coworkers and friends.”
“How did you know she wasn’t going to want proof?” I asked.
“Because she came to my office first to let me know how well my staff is performing.” Margo gave my hand a quick squeeze. “I didn’t butt into your assignment. Though I do wonder why your target looked so terrible the next day if he hadn’t taken the bait.”
“Indigestion?” I sipped my tea.
No way would I tell Margo what had really gone down. I didn’t need to put my job at risk. At worst, she’d fire me for breaking the rules. At best, she’d mother-hen me or start inserting herself into my assignments again. Neither option appealed to me. For the first time, I felt like I had true control over the direction of my life, and I intended to hang on to it.
“Mmm-hmm.” Margo pursed her lips. “Aside from work, how is your social life?”
“What social life?” Last night’s attempt had been a bust, and I had no desire to repeat the experience anytime soon. “Unless you count girls’ night out with the other Heartbreakers.”
“I know you’re still in a delicate state. Even though the work you do for H4H is helping, what Aiden did to you will continue to linger.” Margo put one of the thin cookies on her tongue, where it dissolved almost instantly. “However, I can respect that you might be overworked.”
I didn’t like the way she said “overworked.” Like it was a rotted tooth or an infected hangnail. Margo considered work and life to be synonyms. I hadn’t had a single vacation in the two years I’d been working for her, and I’d never complained. The first year work had kept the grief at bay, the next it had helped fund my future, but I was tired. My evening with Mark had made me realize just how tired I was of not ever having anything close to normal relationships with people.
“I don’t mind the work. Really.”
“I know you don’t mind doing your job. That’s why I trust you the most. You’re my most dedicated Heartbreaker.” Margo set her tea aside on one of the white crackle-paint end tables and patted my arm. “I’m working on something. I hope I can count on your support?”
“Oh?” Whenever Margo was “working on something,” it usually meant adding another department to H4H. Last year she’d hired Allie when she started the Cheaters division, which required Allie to do to the Cheaters what they’d done to her clients. She would take on several clients at once, get them all hooked on her, promise them exclusivity, and have them all “accidentally” show up to the same restaurant. Then she stood back while all hell broke out. She was the only Heartbreaker whose clients got to watch the live show. “Please don’t tell me you’re adding an Abusers division. I can’t support that.”
“Goodness, no.” The shocked look on Margo’s face reassured me that she wouldn’t go there. “We’ve already dismissed the idea for Abusers. I won’t put my girls at risk in that way. This is more about…” She twirled her wrist. “… sharing the workload.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.” I didn’t want a full vacation. The hours helped me put more money away for the gallery. But having a little more time during the week to paint would be nice. Maybe we were getting an assistant. We’d all been begging for an assistant to help us with the research end of things. It was incredibly time-consuming to dig up enough information on a guy to craft a persona around. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be brilliant.”
“I hope you’ll all be pleased.” She tapped a few keys on her computer. “This is a recent idea though, so it will take me a few weeks to put it all together. Just hang tight until then.”
“I always do.” I crossed my legs and picked up my next file off her desk. “If we’re done debriefing Selena’s case, I’d like to get going on my next assignment.”
“Yes. Have a look-see.” Margo waved her hand at the folder. “Your next target is a used car salesman. A real sleazeball, according to the word of the three coworkers who pooled their money for this one.”
I looked over the sparse file. It didn’t come with any pictures or stats. I got his name, where he worked, who’d hired us, and why they needed our services. The rest was legwork I had to accomplish on my own, which was why an assistant would’ve been nice.
This one was a jackass salesman who took commissions from his female coworkers because he made most shoppers feel like presence of penis and car knowledge went hand in hand. He constantly bragged about his sales numbers, cut other people’s throats to get to the top, then spent his weekends sucking up to the big bosses by treating them to their favorite strip club.
I’d have my own interview with the clients later to gather intel, but I liked going in with some ideas for the setup beforehand. “By chance, did these women mention what might get the salesman’s attention?”
Margo gave me a catlike grin. “Ever seen Jersey Shore?”
Maybe I needed a vacation after all.
CHAPTER 7
Lunch with my mom usually resulted in a battle, and this time I wouldn’t go in unarmed. She’d look for weaknesses and pick at them until I cracked. Most of our meetings consisted of screaming matches and storming away. That’s why I had to look like I had my shit together, so she couldn’t nag me about my never-ending flaws. I was a wall. A fortress. A strong, independent career woman who didn’t need a man or a master’s degree.
I wore a pressed gray suit and bright-red lipstick. I’d swept my hair into the tight librarian bun I’d worn the night of my meet-cute with Mark. Curly tendrils framed my face, the ones that always managed to escape my bobby pins.
I hooked the strap of my most professional purse over my shoulder and pushed open the door to the psychology wing at Northwestern. My mom loved to have me meet at her office, her little way of reminding me how I’d failed and why she took it personally. The Great and Powerful Dr. Saunders didn’t do well with failure. Not for herself and especially not with her offspring. Lately she’d been pushing hard for me to go back to school, even though I’d told her time and time again my interests lay elsewhere. She acted like having a bachelor’s degree was akin to having a GED, and she feared that my lack of impressive credentials meant I’d probably spend my golden years greeting people at Walmart.
I knocked and opened
her office door, my posture already going ramrod straight, as if my entire body knew it had to go into tense mode starting now. “Are you ready?”
“Darling!” Mom stood and clasped my hands like I was one of her colleagues. I’d gotten more affection from Winnie the day I forgot to feed her. “I was just talking to Dr. Faber, and did you know he’s retiring at the end of the semester? Time sure does fly.”
Here we go. “Good for him.”
Dr. Faber was a kind old professor with candy-floss hair who had worked in the anthropology department for over forty years. I’d known him my entire life. Mom didn’t really have friends, she had colleagues and associates, but I’d say Dr. Faber came as close as she got to a friend. Mainly because it didn’t benefit her in some way to be nice to him.
A few of my former friends had taken classes with him, since anthropology and psychology had a lot of crossover. We used to think his spirit would haunt the halls forever. He used to come to Sunday dinners back when Mom and I had Sunday dinners, a connection the people in my life had tried to exploit on more than one occasion. The world of academics was full of users. At the time, I’d been too naïve to see it, but those days were long gone.
“His office will have an opening.” She had absolutely no subtlety. “You could finish your master’s. A couple of your old professors would still give you a recommendation if you wanted to consider teaching while you finished your doctorate.”
I let out a long sigh. “We’ve talked about this. Several times. I’m not going to finish school and I have no desire to work in academia.”
“You’re only twenty-seven. I had no idea what I wanted at twenty-seven.”
I once again sidestepped the fact that she’d had me at twenty-seven. I fell under the category of those things she didn’t know she wanted. Which was a joke, considering where she’d procured the sperm that made up half my DNA. That had been all her choice.
As a child, I used to dream that I hadn’t come from a sperm bank, that instead my father was a prince who had to keep me secret for royal reasons until he could whisk me away to his castle made of gingerbread and blank canvases. A land where I’d never have to pretend to take an interest in behavioral science. In my adult life, I still wondered what that other half of me was like. If it wasn’t for our last name, no one would even know I was related to my mom. Where I was tall and skinny, she was short and stocky. I had curly blond hair; hers was straight and brown. My eyes were a light blue, while hers were the shade of dark chocolate. The only things I seemed to have inherited from her were her high cheekbones and full lips, the latter of which were usually turned down in disapproval. At my expense.
“Can we not do this today, Mom?” I pinched the bridge of my nose, already feeling the headache forming there. “I like my job. I’m painting again. Let it go.”
She huffed. “An administrative assistant at an insurance company is beneath you.”
Yeah, she had no idea what I did for a living. I’d never be able to live it down. She probably wouldn’t even have an issue with me using men to exact revenge for the clients who paid me. Her problem would be the possibility of other people finding out. She wanted me to be a mini version of her, a plastic little academic bobblehead who nodded yes and didn’t cause a fuss or a scandal. Appearances were everything.
“I like being an administrative assistant,” I said. “It’s not as glamorous as what you do, but it pays my bills. It gives me time to paint until I can open a gallery.”
She waved that off. My artistic aspirations were a sore spot. She thought art was one of those fanciful careers kids dreamed of while playing dress-up, but never actually pursued. Like being an NFL quarterback or a fairy princess. When I’d changed my major from psychology to art theory and practice my senior year, she’d screamed and ranted for a week solid, threatened to stop paying for school and have me tossed out of Northwestern so I couldn’t take advantage of the 50 percent reduced tuition, and attempted to have my spot in the master’s program denied.
Our relationship had never been great, but the moment I defied her and tried to be my own person, it imploded. She went from treating me with distant fondness to outright hostility. We’d basically been having one long fight for four years.
It had all been for nothing anyway.
A year into my master’s in art theory and practice—a highly competitive program that only admitted ten students per year—everything with Aiden fell apart, and I dropped out of school. After all she’d done to block my way into graduate school, I managed to do the one thing she hated more: drop out with a bachelor’s degree in a useless field that barely qualified me to flip burgers at McDonald’s. When I told her I’d gotten a job at an insurance company to cover for what I actually did for Margo, it still wasn’t good enough. She couldn’t resist flinging every one of my mistakes in my face whenever she got the chance.
My breakup with Aiden wasn’t the only reason I’d had years of therapy.
“Pipe dreams aside, many students face burnout.” That’s all my gallery would ever be to her. A pipe dream. The by-product of academic burnout. I didn’t even want to invite her to the eventual opening. It would put a damper on everything I’d worked to accomplish. “Your grades were good enough before the end that you would be welcomed back, even if you wanted to continue on with that completely useless degree. At least it would be something.”
“I have something now.” I turned out of her office and started down the hall, not caring whether she followed me or not. “Why can’t you just believe me when I say I’m happy?”
“Because you’re my daughter.” My mom’s voice trailed behind me, though there was still a good distance between us, and my shoulders scrunched under the judgmental glare that scraped against my back. “I know you’re not happy.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten while I waited for her to catch up. If I was going to survive this lunch, I needed to let whatever she said roll right off me. I’d worn my battle armor, damn it. I wouldn’t be bowled over so easily.
“Can’t we enjoy our lunch?” I tried very hard to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “We don’t get to see each other nearly enough.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“I’m busy. You’re busy. Let’s just—”
I caught sight of a familiar profile and broad shoulders. Shoulders I’d dug my nails into while he had his head between my legs two short weeks ago. Oh God. Of all the places and times to run into Mark. What was he even doing here? He headed toward the anthropology wing across the courtyard. Acting on instinct, I grabbed my mom’s arm and pulled us behind some nearby bushes. Their color had already started to turn, and some of the leaves had fallen, but they camouflaged us well enough.
“Brinkley, for heaven’s sake. What are you doing?” My mom’s tinny voice carried across the courtyard, and Mark’s shoulders stiffened as he paused.
“Be quiet,” I hissed at her. Maybe it was the panic in my expression, but she had the good sense not to open her mouth. For once.
Slowly, with horror movie timing, Mark turned around. I hadn’t been prepared for the full effect of seeing his face again. It was a gut punch. My gaze strayed to his pouty lips, my skin flushing at the memory of what that mouth had done to me. Everything about him made my pulse race. Not just his looks, but the way he’d made me laugh, the attention he’d paid me when I talked, as if he actually found me interesting and cared about what I had to say, and the way he’d made me feel after just one evening in his company.
But we wouldn’t, couldn’t, ever be more than that.
“Please don’t tell me Aiden damaged you so badly that you’re now hiding from perfectly fine-looking men,” my mom whispered.
“Hush.” I waved a hand in front of her face to make her stop talking.
Mark looked around the courtyard, his eyes narrowing as they skimmed past the bush that concealed us, but he didn’t linger. Shaking his head, he turned around and lifted a hand to wave at a wisp of a woman with th
in hair pulled back in a simple clip. Her boxy brown suit made her shoulders stick out like pointy wire hangers. Eve. I barely recognized her. I’d gotten too accustomed to seeing her face layered under Instagram filters.
Eve had been part of my friend group with Eliza. She was the one who always pushed my connections, who always angled for an invite to Sunday dinner, who always asked if I would go with her to casually stop by Dr. Faber’s office so he knew we were friends. She was the first one who stopped talking to me after I dropped out and was no longer useful.
Of course she’d be acquainted with Mark. Academia was a tight little circle.
“There’s Eve Fillion,” my mom said, as if I wasn’t the one who’d introduced them. “I must say hello before she catches us hiding back here.”
Eve’s ears perked up, and her gaze swung toward our happy little bush. It was like she’d developed doglike hearing for her own name. “Dr. Saunders? Brinkley? What are you doing?”
“Great. Now we look utterly ridiculous.” My mom straightened the lapels of her suit jacket. “Lost an earring,” she called. “It rolled into this shrubbery, but I’ve got it now.”
With nowhere to hide, I slunk out from behind the bush and followed my mom across the courtyard. I could feel Mark’s stare boring into me as I kept my eyes on the sidewalk. I didn’t know what to say to him. Sorry I ran out while you were going down on me? Sorry I didn’t call? Sorry your coworker—whom I can’t stand, by the way—hired me to hurt your ego? None of those things would make either one of us feel better, and it couldn’t fix the damage done.
If I didn’t look at him, maybe he’d eventually disappear.
“Brinkley, hello.” Eve turned her body toward my mom—a subtle, yet clear, dismissal of my presence. I muttered something back, but it wasn’t like she would’ve acknowledged me beyond the polite greeting. I had nothing to offer her.
“It’s so good to see you.” My mom did the typical hand-clasp with Eve. “We must get lunch next week.”