by Mignon Mykel
“Great,” Maggie says, flashing a smile so like her son’s. “I appreciate the flexibility.”
I stare, dumbstruck as she turns and moves down the hall. Since when does Maggie appreciate anything I do? I can’t remember her ever giving me a single compliment on my work.
No time to dwell on it now. I run one last spell check and save the presentation before I send it to the shared printer behind the reception area.
By the time I arrive at Maggie’s door—hair combed, jacket buttoned, presentations in hand—my nerves are stretched thin. Which I guess is a testament to Maggie’s character, because when I woke up this morning, I was beyond relaxed.
“Come on in,” Maggie says, gesturing to the empty chairs across from her mahogany desk.
I take the one on the left, offering her a copy of the presentation as I sit down. She glances at it briefly before tossing it on the desk, all my hard work dismissed in an instant.
Well, then.
“Let’s forget about the presentation for now,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the desk. “I’d rather hear about Indie Week from you.”
“Of course,” I say, licking my suddenly dry lips. Why is this woman so intimidating? I swear it’s like she’s always got something to prove. Which is ridiculous because her family is one of the most respected in Beaumont while mine…isn’t.
Still, it’s not like I can refuse so I give her a quick refresher, recapping the year-to-date sales declines chamber members have experienced, Indie Week financial targets, and the percentage of members participating. I finish up with an overview of the marketing plan and channels we’ve leveraged to promote the event.
Maggie nods, but says little. Fair enough. She should know all of this anyway. It was in the original proposal.
“Now for the fun part,” I say, grinning. “Ticket sales came in forty-five percent above our projections. Not bad for the first year."
Maggie lifts a brow. “Were you sandbagging, Miss Jones?”
Heat floods my cheeks, but I lift my chin and meet her steely gaze. “No. All projections were based on historical sales data members provided. They were conservative, given the current climate, but not unreasonable. The variance is driven by better than average ROI on local print and radio ads.”
“You’re sure?”
Jesus, she’s tough. “Yes. Each guest was required to indicate how they heard about the event when purchasing a ticket. Just one of the many benefits of electronic ticket sales,” I say, remembering the fierce debate we had on this very topic three month ago. I glance pointedly at the discarded presentation on her desk. “The data’s all there.”
“I trust you. I don’t need to see the numbers,” she says, waving dismissively. Which, I’m not going to lie, throws me off. Maggie has never—by voice or action—implied she trusts my judgment. And with only six months on the job, I’ve been hard-pressed to push the issue. “What about long-term impact?”
I scoot to the edge of my seat, encouraged by this unexpected turn of events. “Long-term will be hard to gauge, but I’m working on a follow-up survey which includes a three-month check-in for business owners. One of the requirements for participation was providing post-event sales data, which we’ll be able to compare to historical data to determine the incremental sales driven by the Indie Week event.”
“I’m hearing a lot of chatter around town,” Maggie says vaguely.
I freeze at the cryptic words, my pulse quickening.
Be cool. There is no way she knows you spent the night with her son. Not yet, anyway.
She could be talking about anything. Complaints. Compliments. Suggestions for making the event even bigger next year.
Two can play at this game. “Oh? What are you hearing?”
“Nothing much,” she says casually, leaning back in her chair. “How was paint night at Spritz & Splatter?”
Shit. My stomach drops and for a second, things are touch-and-go as my breakfast threatens to make a reappearance. She totally knows. I am so screwed. I’m going to get fired.
Get a grip! She’s probably just fishing.
“It went well,” I say with a shrug, “though I’m not much of a painter, as it turns out.”
“C'est la vie.” She grins, showing all her teeth. If it’s meant to be a disarming smile, well, it’s not. She looks like a shark about to take a big-ass bite out of her prey. “Good businesspeople are rarely good artists. It has something to do with leveraging different sides of the brain.”
“I—I hadn’t heard that,” I say, wishing this conversation would end already. I don’t know what she’s getting at, but the longer I sit here, the better the odds of me revealing something I shouldn’t.
Like the fact that you screwed her son last night?
“What other events have you attended?” she asks. “I bought a ticket, but I haven’t had a chance to get out yet. What do you recommend?”
“Barefoot Yoga,” I say, even though I only made it through half the session, “and Trivia Night at Station 13. Both events were a full house, so if you’re thinking of checking them out, you might want to show up early.”
That’s it. Just keep things professional. Super-helpful Sky, at your service.
Maggie nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Is there anything else?” I ask, not caring if she can tell I’m desperate to escape.
She’s silent for a long moment, her eyes locked on mine. I force myself to hold her gaze, but it’s not easy.
“You’ve done a great job with Indie Week,” she finally says, taking me by surprise. Maggie is sparing with her praise and the fact that she’s acknowledged the event as a success—my success—is a big freaking deal. Pride surges through my veins and it’s impossible to fight the grin that splits my face.
“Thank you,” I say, with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“From the looks of things, it’ll be an annual event.”
Damn right.
I can’t wait to tell Wes.
Maggie studies me thoughtfully and dips her chin, as if she’s reached some kind of decision. “I was like you once, you know.”
Like me? What’s that supposed to mean?
The confusion must show on my face, because Maggie continues. “From the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak.” She says it completely matter of fact, without a hint of shame. It takes effort to keep my jaw from hitting the floor, because the very idea of Maggie Kaplan and I having anything in common is laughable. She’s smart, polished, respected. And I’m…not. “I grew up dirt poor and this town never let me forget it. Not when I took night classes while serving coffee at the diner. Not when I started dating Wes’s father. Not when the former president of the COC took a chance and hired me as an administrative assistant.”
What she’s saying… It seems impossible. Sure, people talk about Maggie, but it’s always positive. Focused on her work at the COC and all the good she’s done for this town. There’s a pregnant pause and I know I’m supposed to say something, but I have no idea what, so I keep my mouth shut.
“All that talk fueled me,” she says, eyes burning bright. “Fueled me to prove them wrong.” She leans forward, resting her forearms on the edge of the desk. “It wasn’t easy and it didn’t happen overnight, but eventually people forgot because I gave them other things to talk about, just like you’re doing with Indie Week.”
Clearly she hasn’t heard about me flashing my thong at Spritz & Splatter.
Maggie rises to her feet and I do the same. I know a dismissal when I see one and despite the compliment—and vote of confidence—I’m more than ready for this conversation to be over. This morning’s been a roller coaster and I need time to process, although I’d be lying if I said Maggie’s words didn’t give me hope. Hope that maybe someday this town will see more than my last name when they look at me.
Maggie walks me to the door and as I turn to go, she rests a hand on my shoulder. It’s such a motherly thing to do, I’m not sure how to react. Maggie has
never patted me on the shoulder before. Combined with the uncommon praise and revelations about her past, I’m starting to think my life has taken a turn into the Twilight Zone.
I mean, I did have sex with Wes Kaplan last night.
“And Sky? If I haven’t told you before, I’m so glad we hired you. You bring a fresh perspective the COC was lacking.” She smiles and this time it reaches all the way to her eyes, which dance with the same gold flecks as Wes’s. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with next.”
That makes two of us.
Wes
Sky and I have officially been dating for a week and even though I’m still new to this whole relationship thing, I’m pretty sure I’m nailing it. We’ve spent almost every night together, but Sky had to work late yesterday and decided to crash at home. Crazy as it sounds, I miss her. It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours, but I’m jonesing for that sweet smile.
Which is why I offered to cook dinner tonight.
My kitchen is tiny and ill stocked, but I make a mean grilled chicken salad and if anyone deserves a home-cooked meal, it’s Sky. Between the COC and her dad, she’s always taking care of other people. She deserves to be taken care of for once.
I’m just about to open up a bag of greens when my phone rings. I check the caller ID and see the name of the Team Paxl athlete manager on the screen. I swipe accept.
“Hey, Chris.”
“What the hell have you been up to?” he asks without preamble. The guy’s never been one to beat around the bush, which is a trait I rather admire.
“Training,” I say, opening the bag of salad and pouring it into a bowl. “You know the drill.”
“What I know is that your article in The Daily Caller is making waves. It’s not a good look, man.”
Shit. I’d hoped Chris wouldn’t see the article. I should’ve known better. The guy’s a maniac and I’m pretty sure he gets Web alerts on all his athletes.
“It’s no big deal,” I say, trying to downplay the situation, though in truth, the situation is fucked. The worst part? It wasn’t even the article itself that was the problem. It was all the anonymous reader comments. “Just some locals trying to stir the pot and get their fifteen minutes.”
People with too much time and too little goddamn sense hiding behind their keyboards making observations about how I spend my free time and who I spend it with.
Small-town living at its finest.
“It’s a big deal if you’re spending your time hanging out in bars getting wasted when you should be preparing for Tokyo,” Chris barks.
Heat flares on the back of my neck and I exhale through my nose, trying to tamp down my anger.
“Come on, Chris.” I grab a tomato from the ledge above the sink and rinse it off. When I sit it down, the skin is bruised, the imprints of my fingertips preserved on its soft flesh. “You know me better than that. Do you really think I’m going to do anything to jeopardize my performance in the Summer Games?”
Chris mutters something that sounds like fucking kids.
“What was that?” I ask, grabbing a knife from the drawer. I should probably be offended. I am twenty-three after all, but I’m used to Chris’s antics. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
“I said the training schedule must be too light if you have time to be hanging out in bars.”
Yeah, that’s not it. I’ve been training like a fiend. Even now my arms are pumped from today’s workout.
“It was one night. Despite what the locals would have you believe, I’m not hanging out at the bar getting wasted on the daily,” I say, slapping the knife down on the counter as I recall the hateful comments directed at Sky. Trash. Lush. Gold digger. Even now, the memory has me seething. “Did you seriously call me just to bitch about some random comments on the Web?”
“Jesus Christ, Wes. It’s your hometown paper. If you can’t handle an interview in your own town, how are you going to handle the Tokyo coverage?”
“With my usual wit and charm,” I reply dryly.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Chris returns. “You know the drill. You’ve got to keep your nose clean if you want to stay on the team. I’m talking role model level clean.”
I grit my teeth. The Team Paxl sponsorship pays the bills. I can’t afford to piss Chris off, even if the comments are bullshit. Not unless I want to get a day job.
“Look, I hear you,” I say. “I’ll be squeaky clean from here on out.”
Even if it means declining all media coverage. Better to go dark than find myself wading through bad press. Chris may be a pain in the ass, but he’s right about keeping my nose clean. Sport climbing is an emerging sport and no parent wants their kid idolizing—or taking lessons from—a miscreant.
“Make sure you do.” Chris disconnects before I can respond and when I turn to plug the phone in, I realize I’m not alone.
Sky’s standing in my living room, lips pinched and brows knit together.
“Hey, gorgeous. I didn’t hear you come in.” Mainly because I was busy getting my ass handed to me by manager.
“The door was open.” She gestures to the phone in my hand. “What was that about?”
Fuck. Sky’s the last person I wanted to overhear that call.
“Just the team manager checking in. He wanted to make sure I’m following my training schedule.”
She arches a brow, clearly not buying it. “I take it he saw the article in The Daily Caller?”
I lean against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “The guy’s pretty hands-on when it comes to athlete management. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Chris had this place bugged so he could keep a closer eye on me.”
Not that I blame him. He’s got as much riding on the upcoming games as I do. I’m one of two Team Paxl athletes to make the US team. If I medal, it’ll bring free publicity to the brand as well as a slew of eager new customers.
“I knew something like this would happen,” Sky says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I knew it as soon as I saw people watching us at the diner last week. Then there were those awful women at the bakery.”
“What women?” I ask, dread creeping up my spine. “What are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She sighs. “It was just a matter of time. I just didn’t think… I mean, I never thought they’d turn on you.”
“It’s no big deal, Sky. Don’t worry about it. In a few days, the whole thing will blow over and Beaumont will have found something new to whisper about.”
She plants her hands on her hips and looks up at me, incredulous. “It most certainly is a big deal,” she says, cheeks going pink. “Like you said, you need your reputation squeaky-clean. Of course you do. You’re a role model for young climbers.”
I push off the counter and cross the small apartment to the living room. Sky has enough to worry about without adding my shit to the list. Besides, it really isn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things. The world sure as shit isn’t going to stop spinning over some questionable comments posted on a small-town paper.
Twitter, on the other hand…
I’ll cross that bridge if and when I come to it. With any luck, this whole thing will blow over in a few days. It’s not like my fans—or the climbing world at large—is reading The Daily Caller.
“Come here,” I say, pulling Sky in for a hug. The scent of her apple shampoo teases my nose as she lays her head against my chest. She’s soft and warm and holding her in my arms is the perfect end to a long day.
Sky wraps her arms around my waist and gives a quick squeeze before releasing me. “I’m sorry, but this—you and me,” she says, gesturing back and forth between us. “It’s not going to work. You don’t need me and my family problems dragging you down.”
What is she talking about? Where is this coming from? She can’t be serious. Not when things between us are going so well.
Sky takes a step back, putting space between us. “You’ve got a bright future, Wes. Y
ou don’t need me fucking it up.”
My brain is scrambling to catch up, because what she’s saying, it makes no sense. “I don’t know what you think you just heard, but that call had nothing to do with you, Sky.”
“Right,” she says dryly. “You and I both know that if you’d been spotted with anyone else at Station 13, no one would’ve said boo about it and you wouldn’t have to explain to your manager why you’re being trolled online.”
Maybe. Maybe not. But anything those trolls could do to hurt me pales in comparison to the power Sky wields.
In a few short days she’s turned my life upside down, and I refuse to go back to the way things were before. Hell, before Sky stumbled into that art studio, I was convinced there was only room in my life for one love—climbing. But I was wrong. Sky’s filled a void I didn’t even know existed. I need her smile, her strength, her passion. And yes, even her sass.
I can’t lose her. Not like this. Not ever.
Skylar
“You don’t have to do this, Sky.”
“Trust me. This is for the best.” I may not be able to make Wes see reason, but I won’t stand by while his reputation is trashed. Not online and not in Beaumont. If I walk away now, people will forget we were ever a thing and life will go back to normal.
For both of us.
Wes will go back to being a celebrated Olympian and I’ll go back to being the pitiable daughter of the town drunk.
My heart seizes and a cold sweat beads along my upper brow. Losing Wes will shatter what’s left of my already broken heart, because even though it’s only been a week, I’m falling head over heels for him. I don’t know how it happened or when it started, but somewhere between broken heels and bar trivia and sex under the stars, Wes managed to slip past my defenses. He’s carved out a place for himself in my life and in my heart, as if he’s always been there.
Shit. This would be so much easier if he would just let me go. Can’t he see I’m trying to do the right thing here?
