Dirty Work

by Regina Kyle

  “Hey, man. I don’t know where the fuck you are or what the fuck you’re doing, but you need to call Alex ASAP. He’s been trying to get in touch with you. The landlord on that property you’ve been looking at in South Beach is ready to pull the trigger, but he wants an answer by end of day or he’ll go to the next highest bidder. And when you’re done with Alex, call me, asshole. As your friend, not your business partner. It’s not like you to fall off the face of the earth like this. I’m worried about you.”

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

  I don’t even bother to listen to the rest of the voicemails or read any of the text messages. Instead, I hit Alex’s number on my speed dial.

  “Finally,” he says when he picks up, not even waiting for me to identify myself. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  I skip the niceties and cut right to the chase. “Is it too late? Did we lose the property in South Beach?”

  “Gone with the wind, pal. Sorry. That’s what happens when you don’t answer your phone. Or respond to your messages. I must have left you twenty voicemails and at least as many texts and emails.”

  “Shit,” I say, out loud this time. It’s no use making excuses. “This is on me. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s your loss. Just let me know how you want to proceed. I can start looking for another location. But I don’t know how long it will take to find something that meets all your specifications. You’re a tough man to please.”

  I slump onto a stool, resting my elbows on the hard cold marble of my kitchen island. “Yeah, I know.”

  “And you have to promise me you won’t go AWOL again.”

  “I promise.”

  He signs off, and I take a deep breath before making the next call. When Connor picks up, I fall on my sword before he can chew me out.

  “I fucked up. Big time. We lost the Miami property.”

  “I figured as much. What happened to you? Did you lose your phone or something?”

  My phone? No. My mind? Yes.

  “Temporary insanity,” I mumble, eyeing the Keurig enviously. I could use a cup of coffee. Or something stronger. Like lighter fluid.

  “What?” Connor asks.

  “Never mind. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, my priority is straightening out this mess I’ve gotten us into.”

  “How? The landlord’s rented the property to someone else. You said so yourself. We’ve got a lot of time and money invested in this already. This could set us back months, if not more.”

  He isn’t saying anything I haven’t told myself in the past five minutes, but that doesn’t make his words any easier to hear. He’s had my back since we were seven, and this is how I repay him. What kind of a dick does that?

  My kind, apparently.

  “I know.” A heavy weight lands on my thigh, and I look down to see Roscoe’s head resting there, his soulful brown eyes looking back at me pityingly. Great. Even the damn dog feels sorry for me. “Like I said, I fucked up. You trusted me with this project, and I let you down.”

  I’d let us both down. Lost focus. Taken my eye off the ball. The one thing I’d sworn never to do. Well, that stops. Now.

  “I’ll fix this somehow. I swear. I’m taking the first flight I can get to Miami. I’ll talk to the landlord. See if there’s any way he can back out of the deal and give us the space. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll stay down there until I find another location. A better one.”

  “Look, Jake, you don’t have to—”

  “Yeah.” I cut him off. “I do. I’ll text you with my flight information.”

  I hang up before he can try to convince me to stay. Or whatever he was going to try to convince me to do. I shoot off a quick text to my secretary, asking her to book my flight and hotel, and I’m about to go hop in the shower when I see Ainsley hovering at the other end of the island. Roscoe abandons me and trots over to her, flopping at her feet.

  “You’re leaving.”

  She doesn’t yell. Or call me any of the names I definitely deserve. Her voice is soft and steady, but it guts me nonetheless.

  “You heard.”

  She steps over Roscoe, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her hair is still all sexily mussed from sleep, but at least she’s put some clothes on. I don’t know if I could have stopped myself from fucking her against the counter if she marched out here naked. One last hurrah before I have to head to Miami for who knows how long.

  “What did you mean when you said you were temporarily insane?” she asks.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck. She heard that, too?

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to know you think the past forty-eight hours were a huge mistake.”

  “A mistake that cost me the Miami deal.”

  She flinches like I’ve slapped her. “So I was right. You do think it was a mistake.”

  Shit. I’m screwing things up. Again.

  I take two deep breaths to try to collect my thoughts, but it doesn’t help. This morning has gone completely off the rails. I’m supposed to be feeding her goddamn breakfast, not fighting with her.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s what you said.”

  “Did you not hear me?” I slam my hand down on the marble so hard my fingers ache. So much for collecting myself. The noise makes Roscoe raise his head and whine, but I ignore him. I’ve got enough problems. I don’t have time for his shit right now. “The Miami deal is dead.”

  “I get that you’re disappointed—”

  “Disappointed doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  “There will be another opportunity, Jake.” She moves in closer, reaching out a tentative hand to touch my shoulder. “There’s always another opportunity. What there won’t be is another me.”

  I hear her, but I don’t. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the anger, the frustration boiling up inside me. It drowns out everything else. Hope. Reason.

  Even her.

  I shake her hand off. “I had people counting on me, Ainsley. And I instead of doing what I was supposed to be doing—my goddamn job—I was off playing carnival games and screwing the dog walker.”

  She flinches again, my words striking another, deeper blow. I’ve gone too far, and I know it. But some stupid, inexplicable force is preventing me from backing down.

  She draws herself up to her full five feet something, fortifying herself, like she’s preparing for battle.

  “Executive concierge,” she corrects me, her words clipped and brittle.

  My phone dings. It’s a text from my secretary. She has me booked on a flight leaving JFK in a few hours.

  I stand abruptly and let out a long breath. “I can’t do this now. I have to catch a plane to Miami. We can settle this later.”

  Maybe by then I’ll be able to get my head out of my ass and my foot out of my mouth. But Ainsley’s got other ideas.

  “I think we settled it already.” She grabs her drawstring bag from the floor by the door, where she dropped it last night in our haste to get to the bedroom.

  Christ, that seems like a lifetime ago now.

  “I’ll be back to get the rest of my stuff later,” she says, not bothering to hide the little catch in her voice. “When you’re not here. And don’t worry. Odds & Errands will take care of Roscoe while you’re gone. For an additional fee, of course.”

  She’s out the door before I can respond, and I’m left standing in my boxers, watching my parents’ annoying, freakishly large dog lick his balls and trying to figure out how my entire life went to shit before breakfast.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ainsley

  “EARTH TO AINSLEY.” Erin reaches across the desk and taps my head with the eraser end of her pencil. “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Of course I am,” I lie. “You were
saying something about the Bartons’ grocery order.”

  “That was so five minutes ago,” Aaron says with an impressive eye roll. “We’ve moved on to Mrs. Vincent and her Mercedes. Which I still don’t want to drive.”

  I tap my keyboard, and a tick appears in the appropriate box of my trusty computerized spreadsheet. “Noted.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Erin sits back and studies me from across my desk with a worried frown. “You haven’t been yourself since—”

  “Can we stick to business, please,” I say a little too harshly.

  The problem is Erin’s right. I haven’t been myself lately. It’s been two weeks since I walked out on Jake, and I swear I’m barely functioning. Without him, everything feels empty. Blah. Beige. It’s like I’m moving through a thick fog of melancholy that I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try.

  I wasn’t half this bad when Dale pulled his disappearing fiancé act. I felt betrayed, sure. And abandoned. After years of being part of a twosome, I was alone.

  But I didn’t ache for Dale like I do for Jake. Losing Dale was like giving up Diet Coke. Once I kicked the habit cold turkey, I didn’t really miss it. Losing Jake is like having a limb cut off. The pain may ebb and flow, but it never fully goes away.

  What makes it hurt even more is that I thought we were really connecting. And not just in the bedroom, although that part was pretty spectacular. That thing Jake did with his tongue on my clit...

  Nope. Not going there. What was I thinking before my mind went down dirty memory lane? Oh, right. Connecting. Outside the bedroom.

  It seemed like Jake was starting to relax and loosen up with me. Having fun with the drag queens at the diner. Filling a penis piñata. Screaming his head off on the Cyclone at Coney Island.

  But one phone call from the office, and he was back to Mr. All-Work-No-Play. The angry words he hurled at me ping-pong in my head, fresh pain stabbing my gut with each ping, ripping at my heart with each pong.

  A mistake that cost me the Miami deal.

  I was off playing carnival games and screwing the dog walker.

  I blink back tears—it’s bad for office morale to let your employees see you cry—and do the same thing I’ve been doing for the past fourteen days—tell myself no matter how much it hurts, it’s for the best. If there’s one thing I learned from my last breakup—and from Ferris Bueller—it’s that life is short, and spending it worrying about work is a waste of valuable time. I can’t be with someone who’s not down with that philosophy.

  No matter how occasionally fun and always fuckable he is.

  “Uh, boss?” Aaron says softly, nudging me out of my depressing daydream. “The schedule?”

  I clear my throat and focus on my computer screen.

  “Right. So Erin—” I point to her. “Will take care of Mrs. Vincent’s Mercedes. And Aaron—”

  I point to him. “You’ve got the Bartons’ groceries. Okay?”

  They both nod, and I make another tick in the spreadsheet.

  “Good. Now which one of you wants to feed and walk Roscoe today?”

  “That’s another thing.” Erin tucks her pencil behind her ear and eyes me again. She’s way too suspicious. Then again, she’s the only one of my assistants who’s met Jake. No doubt she suspects he’s the tall, dark and handsome cause for my mood swings. “Why don’t you walk him anymore?”

  “Yeah,” Aaron chimes in, depositing his long, lanky frame into the seat next to her. “You’re the one who insisted we break our no pets policy. Besides, I thought you liked the hairy beast.”

  “I do.” And his temporary caretaker. A little too much. “But my schedule’s full today.”

  “With what?” Erin asks.

  With whatever keeps me far, far away from Jake’s apartment. I’m not ready to go back there. I may never be ready. Too many memories, good and bad. It’s hard enough having to answer his daily texts about Roscoe.

  “I’ll take the morning shift,” Aaron jumps in, rescuing me. Bless his clueless little heart. “If she’ll do the dinner run.”

  I turn to Erin. “That okay with you?”

  She shrugs. “Sure.”

  I send them on their respective ways, grab my I Drink Coffee Because Adulting Is Hard mug, and head into the kitchen for my third cup of dark roast. It’s shaping up to be another long, depressing day. And it isn’t even nine o’clock yet.

  I just manage to get a K-Cup in the machine when my intercom buzzes, telling me someone’s downstairs. I shove my mug under the spout and hit the brew button before heading into the living room to answer it. A girl’s gotta have priorities. Whoever’s down there, they can’t be more important than coffee.

  The buzzer goes off again, three times in rapid succession. My mystery visitor is an impatient little fucker.

  I puff a stray lock of hair off my forehead and hold down the talk button. “Hello?”

  “It’s your mother.” Her voice makes me shrivel like I’ve been doused by a bucket of ice water.

  “Mom.” I’d sink to the floor if I could, but my arm’s not long enough for my finger to stay on the stupid intercom button. I settle for leaning against the wall for support. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can’t a mother visit her daughter?”

  Not my mother. Not in this lifetime.

  Hell, I wasn’t even sure she remembered where I lived. Or maybe I was hoping she forgot.

  “Ainsley?” I can almost see the look of haughty disdain she’s worked years to perfect. “Are you still there?”

  I sigh and stab at the intercom button. “Come on up.”

  It’s not like I have much of a choice. As much as I’d like to, I can’t very well leave the woman who gave birth to me in the lobby.

  I glance around my studio apartment, my eyes lighting on all the things she’s sure to find fault with. The dirty dishes in the sink. The piles of papers everywhere. The basket of laundry I haven’t gotten around to folding yet.

  I fleetingly consider doing a quick cleanup, but fuck it. She’s the one who showed up unannounced. If she doesn’t like my housekeeping skills—or lack thereof—that’s her problem.

  From down the hall, I hear the elevator ding, followed by the staccato click-clack of my mother’s ever-present designer pumps—I don’t think the woman’s worn anything with less than a three-inch heel since grade school. I open the door and step aside to let her in.

  “Darling.” She brushes past me, striding into my humble abode like she owns the damn place. Not that she’d ever lower herself to live south of Central Park. “I’ve been worried sick about you. You haven’t returned any of my calls or texts.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Things have been crazy.”

  I cross my fingers behind my back at the lie. Not the sorry part, the crazy part. I really do feel bad for giving her reason to be concerned. And not just because I know how much she hates the worry lines she gets around her eyes and mouth.

  She pushes aside a stack of magazines, daintily brushes off the couch cushion and sits, crossing her legs and smoothing her perfectly tailored pencil skirt over her slim thighs. I have to hand it to her. For a woman over fifty, she’s in damn good shape. My mother has always prided herself on her appearance.

  Unfortunately, she doesn’t feel the same way about me.

  “You look terrible,” she says, pursing her lips.

  “Gee, thanks.” I stare down at my respectable but pedestrian outfit—boyfriend jeans, a V-necked top and a white blazer. I guess I should be thankful. If she had come an hour earlier, I’d have still been in my Hello Kitty pajamas. “If I knew you were coming, I would have put on my Sunday best.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She clucks her tongue at me like I’m a rebellious teenager. Or one of her staff. “You’re pale. And the circles under your eyes are getting darker by the minute
. Are you sleeping? Eating? Have you been taking the multivitamins I suggested?”

  Not enough, too much and what multivitamins? I must have tuned out that lecture. Something I did frequently when my mother got on a roll. It was a matter of self-preservation.

  “I’m fine. Like I said, I’m just busy.” I remember my coffee and head for the Keurig. “Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Coffee? Tea?”

  Or I could open a vein and let you drink my blood.

  She waves me off. “Work is going well, then? Business is booming?”

  I sip the sweet, caffeinated heaven, taking my time to savor it before answering, and flop into the bean bag chair I’ve had since college. It was the first piece of furniture I ever purchased, and I don’t have the heart to get rid of it. Plus, it’s more comfortable than it looks, and my mother despises it. She says bean bag chairs are for children, and if it doesn’t have a frame, it’s not supporting hers. That’s bonus points in its favor in my book.

  “We’ve got more than we can handle,” I admit, not too modest for a little humble brag. “I’m considering hiring another assistant.”

  If I can stop mooning over Jake long enough to put a job posting up on ZipRecruiter.com.

  My mother arches one perfectly tweezed brow. “I take it that’s why you haven’t called Martin.”

  I rifle through my mental Rolodex but come up empty. “Martin?”

  “Fletcher,” she supplies with an exasperated huff. “The head of our co-op board. I texted you his number. He’s been expecting your call.”

  Dammit. This again?

  “Yes, this again. Although I wish you wouldn’t swear. It’s not ladylike.”

  Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. But now that I have, maybe it’s the perfect time to get this out in the open. Maybe that’s what my subconscious was after all along.

  I take another sip of coffee, wishing I’d thought to spike it with a shot of something stronger, and dive right in. “The truth is, Mom, I haven’t called Martin—Mr. Fletcher—because I don’t want to come speak at any tenants’ meeting. I’m not looking for pity clients.”