by Julia Kent
“How?”
“The Hastings I knew in high school would have said, ‘Fuck those fuckers,’ pulled herself up by her bootstraps, and gone out and showed the world that she was better than anyone ever expected.”
Silence hangs in the air between us as his words sink in.
“I already did that,” I say softly. “And look where it got me.”
“Maybe mucking stalls for me really is your best shot at greatness.”
I glare at him.
“Besides, who would want to work for that Ian McCrory guy? It would be hard to stare at that body all day.”
My glare gets stronger, but I can’t keep the smile hidden. “If I take his job offer…”
“If?”
I point at him. “It will have nothing to do with this little inspirational speech of yours.”
“Of course not.”
I lean up against the barn wall, cross my boots at the ankles, and swallow until my throat clicks. “You want to know why I really don’t want to take the job working for Ian?”
Eric shrugs.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Because it makes me feel even more like a failure. I used to hate the guy. He’s really good at what he does. And I was really good at what I did. And when I beat him, it felt amazing. It was better than chocolate. Better than… sex, even.”
“You must not have had very good sex, Hastings.”
“Why do men keep saying that to me?”
“I’m not the only one? Let me guess. Ian said it, too.”
“Eric, stop.”
“Sorry. Go on. Do your Hastings-pretending-to-have-emotions bit.”
He’s joking with me, but in a way he’s right. All those pieces inside me are re-organizing themselves, trying to figure out where they live now. How they align. How everything fits together, without Burke, so that Hastings can be Hastings again.
And who the hell is Hastings? I don’t have a core anymore. I don’t have a North Star. There’s no defining purpose to my life.
How do you make something of nothing?
“I’ll think you’re a failure if you don’t take the job with Ian,” Eric announces as he picks up a pitchfork and starts stabbing it into the hay.
“How so?”
“There must be some lesson that you’re supposed to learn from all this.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone religious.”
“No. But sometimes life throws us the lessons we’re supposed to learn.”
“That’s awfully close to, ‘God doesn’t give you more than you can handle’.”
I get another shrug from him. “I’m not sure I believe that,” he says. “When Annabelle died, I had more than enough to handle. I lost my wife, lost my friend, Lori lost her mother, and suddenly, I was a single dad of a little kid. But I think you should look at the patterns in your life that you keep repeating over and over again. You’ve always pushed away help, Hastings. Maybe it’s time to break the cycle. Maybe when you do that, you’ll find out what your purpose is.”
“When did you turn into a philosopher-farmer?”
He grins. “Probably right about the same time you made your first million.”
“That million’s long gone.”
I get a third shrug from him, and then he turns his back, starting to clean the stall.
I do the only thing I can think to do: I pick up my phone. I unblock Ian.
Ding ding ding....
Holy textstream. All the texts I didn't see from him while he was blocked come through, more than ten.
All of them in high pursuit of me.
For a moment, I waver. Eric's right, but this hard sell from Ian is confusing. At the same time, Eric's comment about money, and my reply back about losing my first million, is a stark reminder of the very practical fact that I need an income.
Regardless of Ian McCrory's motives.
And as loathe as I am to admit it, it's nice to be wanted, even if I'm wanted by the same guy I schemed to beat for so many years.
I sigh, staring at the screen.
I text Ian. Two words:
I accept.
And then I hit Send.
8
One of the wealthiest guys in the world doesn’t even have an office here in Boston.
Ian McCrory’s office is a hotel suite. Of course it is.
By the time my smartphone map takes me to the address Ian gave me in his text, and I stare at the fourteen-story hotel in the Seaport District of Boston, I realize I’ve been had.
My “job”? I’m guessing it involves his pants.
Or lack thereof.
Ian is sorely mistaken if he thinks that he can bring me on the payroll just to be a well-paid bedmate.
Bedmate.
My anger mingles with some misplaced lust I try to shoo away like an annoying mosquito.
I fail.
After a brief series of negotiation texts, we settled on a strong hourly rate and a consultant contract for three months. If this works out, he’ll bring me on board as a salaried employee later. Allegedly, my work involves database mining and pattern matching for large-scale, high-tech investment opportunities.
I’m now guessing the data Ian wants me to mine involves his lap and the back of my throat.
I stare at the hotel sign. I look at the address on my phone. The large revolving door mocks me, moving slowly as hotel guests and convention center attendees stream in and out. Eric’s comment about making the same mistakes over and over again pings through my mind as I watch the door turn and turn and turn.
Break out of my pattern, huh?
I march toward a regular door, pull the handle, and walk in, ignoring the bellman, who nods at me.
The address says Suite 1401, and as I get on the elevator, I see that’s the penthouse. That strange mix of anger and lust begins its slow rise from deep in my core, mirroring the elevator ride to the top. I wonder how many other women he’s done this to.
Too many, probably.
Which fills me with a jealousy I have no right to possess.
Over the years, I’ve been propositioned plenty of times. The wedding ring, the widespread knowledge that I was married to Burke Oonaj, my killer resting bitchface–none of it ever insulated me.
And all I have left now is the bitchface.
It'll have to be enough.
The elevator doors open onto a small foyer. The luxury doesn’t impress me; I’ve seen it all before. Before I can press the bell to the double doors of the penthouse, they open. A woman in a smart suit stares at me with the pleasant but blank expression of a well-trained executive assistant.
“Ms. Monahan. Mr. McCrory is waiting for you.”
She guides me into a large living room with four doors off the main area. One is open, and I can see Ian at a desk, talking, one arm motioning. A second door is open. Clearly, it’s his assistant’s office.
I wonder what’s in the other two. A bedroom, I presume.
“Ian is on the phone right now.”
“I can see that.”
“My name’s Irene,” she says confidently. “Can I get you some coffee, tea, soda, sparkling water?”
It's like hearing the menu of a trendy hipster restaurant. “No ginger kombucha?” I joke.
She blinks exactly once, then lifts her smartphone. “I'll have some sent up.”
“No, no. Coffee would be great. Straight up black. Simple.”
She nods. The low rumblings of Ian’s voice make their way out to the waiting area.
I sit on the very edge of a stylish chair, smooth, plain wood curved by craftsmanship. Irene returns quickly with coffee in hand and sets it on a table next to me.
“I’m sure he’ll just be a few minutes,” she says, and then departs for her office. The click-clack of a keyboard, muted but obvious, greets my ears a few seconds later.
The coffee’s too hot to drink yet, and there are no magazines here. Nothing to read. No television, and the room is silent, no music. It’s me and my thoughts. I could pull out my smart
phone, but why? It’s time to wait for Ian.
My concerns about this being a sex date have dissolved, unless Irene turns out to be the hired third for a planned threesome, and she doesn’t strike me as the type.
Not that I would know what the type is.
“Hastings,” he says, walking out of the room, tall and broad and darkly alluring. His eyes comb over my body from top to bottom. “I think I like you better in the barn. How is Cowtherine?”
I laugh. “According to the vet, she's doing fine.”
“And the calf? Did they name it?”
“Yes. They named him Peter.”
Ian groans. “Peter the Great, I presume, is his full name?”
I nod. The niceties don’t really work with him. It feels stiff and strange to make small talk with a man who watched me hauled away in handcuffs, who sent a team of lawyers to help me, who paid for my defense, who stood shirtless in a barn while I fisted a cow–and who is now my saving grace as I stand before him, ready to onboard into some undefined new job.
He gestures to my coffee and then sits across from me, leaning back in the chair, legs stretched out, fingers laced in his lap.
“Let’s talk about what you’re going to do for me,” he says.
My mouth goes dry as a few seconds tick by, our eyes locked.
I finally break the silent gaze and say, “You don’t have a big team here. Where will I work?”
He thumbs toward one of the closed doors. “Next to Irene.”
“That’s it? You, me, and Irene?”
“It’s a pilot project. Irene used to go with me wherever I went, but now she’s based here. When I’m in town, I’ll work from here, too.”
“You keep this place even when you’re not around?”
He shrugs. “It’s easier than dealing with leases and renting office space somewhere downtown.” He eyes me critically. “Besides, I’m not convinced you’re in this for the long haul.”
“You’re not wrong.”
He nods, chin moving up and down decisively, as if his body knows exactly how to move in ways that complement his internal state. Not many people have mastered that.
“Hence the three-month contract,” he says. “I have complete faith in your abilities. I don’t have faith in your longevity.”
“Why bring me on board?”
“Because it would be a waste not to.”
I snort.
“I mean it, Hastings. You’ve got one of the sharpest minds in finance. Shame to see it go to waste.”
“So that’s it.” I take a sip of coffee and then stare at him. “Three-month contract, work here in your office with you and Irene doing data insights? What’s in it for you?”
“I already told you,” he says. “Your mind.”
But his eyes drift over my body instead. He’s not inventorying my mind.
“My mind is special. I’ll give you that,” I tell him. “What’s in it for me?”
“A job. A little reputation rehab.”
I make a decidedly un-ladylike sound. “There’s no hope of that.”
“Plenty of people who’ve committed crimes worse than the ones you—”
I hold one finger up, making him interrupt himself.
“The ones you’ve been accused of,” he elaborates carefully.
I back down.
“Plenty of people have pulled themselves up out of the ashes and gone on to a second act.”
“Those are the ones who actually committed the crimes, Ian, not the ones who are patsies for the guy who committed the crimes.”
“How is Burke, by the way?”
I shrug. “How would I know? I haven’t heard from him.”
“The SOB didn’t even apologize?” Ian grinds out.
“He did. Two words: ‘I’m sorry.’ You know about that.”
He shakes his head. “That text has to be one of the biggest acts of cowardice I’ve ever seen.”
“And you work in finance,” I joke. “You’ve seen more than your share of cowardice.”
He bites his lower lip as he smiles, a grin spreading in a boyish manner across his face. “Maybe I’m old fashioned, Hastings. Maybe I just don’t like seeing a woman in distress.”
“You didn’t pay all those legal bills for me because you were worried about my distress.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I did?” He runs a hand through the hair on the back of his head, absentmindedly rubbing. “There’s a point where money doesn’t matter.”
We both burst into laughter at that statement.
“You know what I mean,” he adds. “I couldn’t watch you set up as the fall guy and not do something to help.”
A prickly sensation begins in the same spot on the back of my head that Ian is rubbing on his. “Are you somehow involved in all of this, Ian?” I ask, the words coming out slowly. I can’t believe it’s never occurred to me before. “Were you handling all my legal coordination out of a sense of guilt? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Hastings, the only guilt I feel is the guilt of a man who should have figured it out sooner.”
“Technically, you never figured it out at all, not until the zip ties were on my hands.”
“Yeah, that was a sight to behold,” he says. “When I imagined you in handcuffs, it was never like that.”
My skin turns into a blast furnace.
"Like what?"
"In front of other people."
"The other people were federal agents, Ian.” My breath halts in my chest. “Wait a minute–you imagined me in handcuffs before that?"
Irene happens to walk in at that exact moment. Her face is completely neutral, a testimony to her professionalism.
“Ian, you have—” her eyes flit over to mine “—an advisor on line four.”
“It’s fine, Irene,” he says. “Once Hastings signs the NDA, you can talk openly about our clients.”
“But she hasn’t signed the NDA yet,” Irene points out.
He winks at me. “Let’s get that out of the way and get her fully on board and in a position where she can find pleasure in accomplishing her goals.”
And with that, Irene takes me to her desk, opens a folder, and shows me a stack of neatly labeled papers awaiting my signature.
Ian closes the door to his office.
I sign forms.
With the stroke of a pen, I am gainfully employed.
And throbbing.
9
Mom, Dad, and I are drinking our morning cup of coffee together when the doorbell rings. Confusion bounces between the three of us like a radar signal gone nuts.
“Did you…?”
“Are we expecting…?”
“Kind of early for UPS.”
I stand up, staring at my pajama bottoms with bananas and hearts all over them. I’m wearing a black tank top, no shoes, and my hair is in the messiest slipknot you could imagine. It’s 6:38 a.m. Who could be ringing the doorbell?
Dad gets up, one knee popping, his groan about getting old an everyday feature of being around him that is also getting old. Mom touches her hair with the palms of her hands, fluffing it slightly, smearing the pads of her index fingers under her eyes.
“What’re you doing, Mom?” I ask.
“Making myself presentable. What if someone comes in?”
“I’m sure nobody’s going to.”
“Come on in!” Dad calls out to the doorbell ringer.
I grab a sweatshirt that’s hanging off the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table and throw it on. It’s got the logo from Mom and Dad’s insurance agency. It was also clearly last worn by Dad.
It smells like Old Spice and grout.
Eric Hesserman appears in the doorway, grinning at me. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, a tight gray T-shirt underneath, and is carrying two large containers of something liquid.
“Didn't know Hesserman's delivers!” Dad says heartily.
“What’s this?” I ask.
He plunks what
appear to be two-gallon containers of a milky substance down on the table in front of me. “Sheep’s milk,” he declares.
Mom’s face lights up.
“Where did you get that?” I ask. “I tried everywhere in the eastern half of the state!”
“Didn’t come from the eastern half of the state. Came from up north. I found a source right on the New Hampshire/Vermont line.”
“You went all the way up there?”
“It’s not that far. An hour or so.” Eric spots the decanter of coffee still in the machine. “Mind if I have some?”
Mom jumps up and gives Eric a big hug. “I haven’t seen you in years!”
Eric gives me an eye roll, but it’s a happy one, over Mom’s shoulder. “How ya doin’, Sharon?”
“Does this mean you’re making more manchego?” Dad asks me, tilting his head with curiosity. “You used what we had for Mallory's shower.” A pouty face emerges. Dad doesn't know the rest is buried in the garage refrigerator. Mom had me hide it in a box marked Vegan Protein Powder, which means Dad will never, ever find it.
“I guess so. What else am I going to do with four gallons of sheep’s milk?”
“You can make feta,” Mom chirps as she gives Eric room to go get his cup of coffee.
Dad gasps in mock horror. “Not when she can make manchego instead!”
It’s been years since Eric’s sat at our kitchen table. Suddenly I feel like I’m back in high school, only now he’s in a committed relationship with a guy named Jackson who I’ve never even met. He has a daughter, and me?
I’m staring at four gallons of sheep’s milk.
“This must have cost an arm and a leg,” I marvel, immediately regretting my words because it means I have to ask Mom and Dad for money. Haven't received my first paycheck yet.
“Nah. I bartered for it. Consider it payment for helping me with that cow.”
Mom and Dad do a double take. “You helped Eric with a cow?”
“I meant to tell you,” I lie.
“Trust me, Sharon,” Eric says, leaning across the table resting his fingers on the back of Mom’s hand. “Four gallons of sheep’s milk doesn’t even come close to the payment I owe Hastings for sticking her arm shoulder-deep into a cow’s vagina.”
Dad starts sputtering his coffee.
