by Ford, Aria
Now the board is making me explain myself. I don’t like answering to anybody. Since I sold off some shares to investors a couple years ago when I needed capital for new projects, I have to answer them. I have to answer their questions. I practiced looking humble in the mirror while I shaved this morning. I’m not very good at it, especially since my first instinct is to tell them to fuck off. I make the decisions. I’m the one who started pop up clubs in college and parlayed that into a chain of wildly successful nightspots in four major US cities. They’re just money men who want an explanation.
“Gentlemen,” I say by way of greeting, “I’m sure you invited me here today to speak to you about Thorns. The prospective location you approved purchase of has proven to be less than viable for our business model.”
“Is there any truth to the rumor that you backed out of the deal over a woman?” Charlie Price says.
“No, I withdrew from the agreement as a result of a felony. I witnessed Randy Simpson raping a waitress at a private dinner. I stepped in to prevent further assault, but even after the ink was dry on the contract, my conscience wouldn’t let me go forward.” I say. It’s a diplomatic way of telling them that I want to ruin the son of a bitch, not buy his club.
“Is there litigation in the case?” one of the lawyers says.
“Not currently. No criminal charges were filed, and Simpson’s office indicates there is no civil suit pending,” I say. “Regardless, it would damage our brand to be associated with the Simpsons. I hope you agree that we don’t wish to grant tacit approval to sexual harassment or assault by doing business with them.”
The board agrees, and I am fully empowered to scout a new location. Which is good since I found one already and put in a bid on it. I didn’t doubt my ability to sway the board. Just like I don’t doubt my ability to drive the Simpsons out of business and out of town.
I’m not just backing out of a deal.
I’m taking them down.
For Kate. For every woman Randy has mistreated, hurt, harassed, and raped. And for myself, because I know it’s the right thing to do—as much as revenge can be right. My mother didn’t raise me to be vengeful, but she did raise me to stand up for what was right. One might say I’m putting my own spin on those teachings.
It’s something I can do for Kate. She’s never far from my mind. I think of her all the time. When I wake up certainly. And during the day. I was in Tokyo, and I thought of her when my taxi drove past a McDonald’s. Of the crazy-happy smile she gave me over a couple of sausage burritos. When I could give her diamonds. I could give her the world, but she didn’t want the world from me. I gave her my card. She could have contacted me at any time during the last few weeks. Six. Six weeks and four days to be exact. Not that I’m the kind of man who wastes time keeping track of things like that.
I went out on a date. A couple of them, as a matter of fact. One of them was a pretty redhead, MIT graduate, didn’t laugh too much or talk about being a vegan all the time. Everything was in her favor. Except after dinner, I took off. Told her I had a headache or an early meeting or an emergency—I don’t remember which. I just knew where it was headed—she expected me to kiss her, to take her to bed. She put her hand on mine at dinner, and I pulled mine away like she’d scalded me. I didn’t want a beautiful and accomplished woman to touch me even for a second. I am not a man who has dry spells, who goes a month or more without having sex. Until now.
I haven’t touched another woman since Kate.
I haven’t wanted to.
That’s the scary part. I’m not attracted to anyone else. Usually I have to tell myself two or three times a day to be professional, to not check out some fine ass or great cleavage that I see. Now I won’t even talk to a woman who sends over a bottle of wine and her number when I’m at a business dinner. Back then I would’ve sent her my room key and made a night of it. Now, I just send back the wine with an apologetic smile and a note that says ‘no, thank you’. My secretary has overstepped the bounds of our working relationship twice to ask if I’m sick or secretly married. Because she’s not having to make reservations or send flowers or make orders from La Perla. I don’t think I’m sick. I know I’m not married. I just lost interest as if I’m already taken.
I would rather be alone with the memory of that night, of having her up against a brick wall, her flesh trembling under my hands. I would rather think of her on my own than be with another woman.
Nothing takes my mind off that woman.
I finalize the deal on the new club in less than half a day. Then I call in my design team to talk rebranding so Thorns will fit our aesthetic. I call marketing and tell them to get a teaser campaign placed in all the Rose clubs to whip up interest in the new club. I’ve done a good day’s work. So, when I head out to the gym and see a blond ponytail swish by, I’m surprised when it catches me in the gut. It’s not her, but I always think it will be. Every blond. Every woman I see, my eyes are searching for the mysterious and captivating Kate.
I could have my secretary call EA and have that waitress’s information on my desk within minutes, perhaps even seconds. Griffin Doyle does not chase women though. She made it clear she didn’t want more than one night, no matter how many times I made her scream. I couldn’t make her want to be mine. I’ve never had to learn to handle rejection, since she’s the first woman who’s ever seemed able to resist me. Maybe I just want what I can’t have.
But that’s not it, she has to want it too. I want the way she kissed me. The way her hands clutched at my shirt. The way she held me when we slept—the time she spooned up behind me, and it felt like paradise. I want her. I don’t know her name, but she’s in my head. I’m afraid she may be in more than just my head.
I haven’t been sleeping either. When I do, I dream about her. Not about the fiery intensity of our night together, but about trying to get to her when Randy Simpson had his hands around her throat. I dream about it over and over, and sometimes I don’t get to her in time. She haunts me.
When Gina calls, even she notices something is off with me.
“God, you’re worse than Cameron. I mean, he’s been nicer since we got back together, but he doesn’t listen. And neither do you. Men, I swear.”
“Did you just say ‘men’?” I say. “You’re a kid. Don’t go getting cynical already.”
“I got the flowers you sent, and the iTunes card. Thanks,” she says.
“You’re welcome.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I missed you,” I say.
“You’re getting mushy in your old age, bro,” Gina says with a laugh. She’s not wrong.
I give up and ring my secretary, tell her to book a private dinner with EA to cater. To do it at a different club. To request the same waitstaff as the Simpson dinner. The exact same.
If she still works for them, I’ll see her.
In fifteen minutes, I get confirmation that it’s booked at the Rose Crown for Saturday night. I think about seeing her again. I wonder if she looks the same. I wonder what I’ll say to her.
Let me kiss you.
Let me do more than kiss you.
Stay with me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Caleigh
I get two weeks’ maternity leave at half pay. After that I can have up to six weeks unpaid. Daycare is a problem. There’s no cheap daycare that I’d actually leave a baby at, or anything living for that matter. I’ve looked at like two dozen places and the only one I’d consider taking the baby to is expensive. It was clean and there’s a good staff to child ratio who read to the kids every day, but unless I want to leave the baby in a nasty living room with the TV on and cat hair all over the place, there’s nothing I can afford long term. I need to work as long as possible before I deliver. I need to save more money.
I gave up Netflix, and the shampoo that smells good. It’s not enough. I worry all the time. I read this Baby Center stuff and think, if I get gestational diabetes or preeclampsia, I won’t be able to wor
k or pay rent. Amy is nice, but I’m not asking her to cover me on bills. She couldn’t even if she wanted to.
I have a list of places to look at, some more babysitters and another daycare center, but the idea of leaving my baby someplace while I go wait tables feels awful. I know most of the world does it, works and pays someone to watch the kids, but I dread it. I lay my hand on my stomach now and talk to the baby at night. I tell him about myself and about the life I want us to have, how I’ll always love him, and I want to give him the best life possible. That I’ll work hard and take care of him. But I cry a lot too.
At the checkup where I first hear the baby’s heartbeat, I wish so powerfully for Griffin to hold my hand and share this with me that I ache. I want him here, but I want to be a good memory for him, not some girl who trapped him and went after his money, who tied him down with an illegitimate child.
I do the only thing I can. I buy a notebook, and I write in it every night. I keep a pregnancy journal, but it’s addressed to Griffin. He’ll never see it so I can tell the truth.
Today I heard his heartbeat. It’s so fast you wouldn’t believe it. I know it’s a boy. I mean, I can’t have a gender scan till I’m four months along, but I can tell. I talk to him a lot. I even tried to tell him a story last night. The three little pigs. He probably can’t hear me yet. But I want him to know my voice, to feel safe with me. Just like you made me feel safe and cared for me. That was the best feeling in the world, and it’s what I want for our child.
I’ll tell him his father was a boyfriend of mine. A good, hardworking man who cared about doing what was right. Who liked French toast and Eggs Benedict and the colors red and black. I’ll tell him you saved me from a bad guy one night. That I want him to grow up and be someone who does that, who uses his strength to protect, not to do harm. When he asks what happened, I’ll tell him. We broke up, and I didn’t know for a long time I was having a baby, and when I found out, I didn’t tell you. That way, when he grows up, if he wants to meet you, he won’t have grown up thinking you were dead or some terrible person. I’ve written down everything I know about you so I can tell him. I won’t have a picture to show him of his daddy, but I’ll have some stuff to let him know who you were as a person. That you were a businessman, and I still have your blue shirt.
I sleep in it. It’s become a ritual for me. I’m happiest at night wrapped in your shirt, my hand on my belly, saying good night to our baby. It helps me worry less, I think.
I’m worried all the time about how I’ll manage this. But I’m not the first single mother in the world. I’m going to look at WIC to help with food and stuff. I’m going to do my best for our baby. I want you to know that I’ll love him and take care of him no matter what.
I’ll make sure he knows it was my choice you weren’t in his life. That you didn’t abandon us. That I chose this struggle because I wanted him. Because I wanted what was best for you—a life of following your dreams without being tied down or feeling like I trapped you. That you would have done the honorable thing if you had the chance, but I didn’t give you that chance. I’ll own that.
I made some reckless choices that got me here. I’m forever grateful to have known you. I’m forever grateful for our child. I’ll never forget you.
When the catering manager calls to ask me to work Saturday night, I’m surprised. I had to cancel a job last week, and I missed two last month because I was sick. I’ve put on a few pounds. I’m feeling better. But I don’t know how long I’ll get banquet work, considering I’ll be obviously pregnant soon. I accept the job gladly. I can use the money.
I no longer look haggard and sick. For the last week, I’ve had this dewy, glowing complexion that I assume is from the vitamins. I’ve managed to put the four pounds I’d lost back on and five more besides. The baby, it seems, is hungry all the time. I tease him that he’s going to be made of Pecan Sandies and strawberry milk, since that’s what I’m craving all the time. So, I’m looking pretty good again and last week, I got boobs. The kind I dreamed of when I was fifteen and flat as a board. I already had small ones, but these make me stare at my reflection when I have a tank top on. These are sexy boobs. I’m pretty sure I have to give them back after the baby’s born. They fill out the black shirt I have to wear for the job. The buttons are pulled tight across them like I’m Dolly Parton in a size too small. I use a safety pin to hold the front of the straining shirt together.
When I get dressed for the job though, my black pants are too tight. I have to safety pin the waist because it won’t fasten. I borrow a black belt from Amy’s closet and use it to cover the pin after my shirt’s tucked in. I pull back my hair in a ponytail that is now longer and lush. Those vitamins have made my hair grow like crazy. I put on makeup and take the bus to the address I was given. As soon as I see it, I know it’s one of his clubs since it has Rose in the name. I know it will be red and black and sexy as hell inside.
The kitchen is standard, and I see it’s the same crew I worked with that first night. My stomach flips sickly. I don’t want to relive that night—at least not the work part of it. Heather greets me. We’ve worked together quite a bit, so seeing her makes me feel a little calmer.
“Feeling okay?” she says, passing me her eyeliner out of habit. I take it and put it with her compact mirror. “You have to unbutton. How many times do I have to—whoa. Those things are gorgeous!” she says as she undoes a button on my shirt.
“Thanks. They’re a perk.”
“That makes up for all the puking I bet,” she says admiringly. I shrug.
I’m blushing. Not because she noticed my new cleavage. I’m blushing because being here this way reminds me of Griffin’s hands on me. The way he dipped his head to capture my nipple in his mouth. A tingle thrills along my skin at the memory. I remind myself to be professional tonight. It’s not like I’ll see him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Griffin
I’m already sick of listening to Adam talk about the trouble we got into at the frat back in the day. He and Dawson don’t realize that I invited them to dinner so I had an excuse to hire the catering crew. If I really wanted to go over old times, we could’ve gone out to a bar. Or I could have left the past in the past where it belongs. Clearly to Adam, though, those were his glory days.
Dawson tries to steer the talk to business. He wants my backing on a startup. I didn’t realize this was a hazard of ringing up old friends, but there it is. It may cost me a good deal of money. I’m slightly more interested in his combination auction and dating app than I am in tales of keg stands past. Apparently, the object of the app is to find someone you want to chat with during an auction of nostalgic memorabilia—old Transformers and CDs and crap. So the app appeals to both lonely heterosexuals and hoarders.
My eyes keep flitting to the kitchen door. I’m looking for the blond. The other waitress brought our water goblets. I wanted to shoo her away with a wave of my hand. When our salads come, it should be Kate bringing them. If she still works for EA two months on. If she agreed to come. If she hasn’t found a better job and a better man. My fists clench at that thought.
I must have nodded at some point because Dawson seems encouraged and is talking more animatedly, waving his hands. I’m not investing in his stupid idea. He’s just a prop so I look less like a stalker when I close my own club for the night and hire a caterer for a dinner. If it was dinner for one, that would look too creepy, so I invited friends. Friends who seem to think I have some interest in what they have to say when it couldn’t be further from the truth. I want to see her again. I’m fidgeting. I feel feverish, restless. I remember her hands on my rib cage. I remember her smooth thigh in my palm as I pulled her leg higher, going deeper with every thrust. I drain my water glass.
It’s her.
The door swings open, and I see her. As soon as I see the back of her head, her buttery golden hair, I scold myself for ever thinking anyone else could be her. I’d know her anywhere just from the swing of her hair. She turns with
a tray in her hand and smiles. My mouth is dry and every muscle tenses. My body remembers her.
She looks amazing. Ripe and pink and even more luscious than the last time I saw her. I want to knock the tray out of her hands, rip her shirt open, jerk her pants down, fall on my knees and fill my mouth with the taste of her. My heart thuds in my chest. I harden instantly, aroused before she is even close enough for me to smell the sweet vanilla of her skin.
She gives Dawson his salad first and smiles at him. The bastard. I hope his startup fails. Then she serves Adam, says she hopes he enjoys his salad. I hope he chokes on his fucking salad because she smiled at him warmly. She turns to me at last. I see the jolt of recognition, the way she jerks back a few inches like the recoil of a gun. She turns pink to the tips of her ears. The flush extends down her neck. I want to kiss her throat. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She is gone in seconds.
I stare after her. Then I eat my salad in five swift bites. I want them to finish eating so she can bring the next course. Adam seems determined to examine and savor every leaf of lettuce on his plate, damn him. After a few minutes of watching them chew and Dawson trying to talk about demographics, I summon the wine steward and ask him to send the waitress back out.
He sends the other girl. She asks what she can do for me. I have to make myself be polite and not answer, you could go the hell away and send Kate out. I watch her flip her hair and push her breasts out and try to flirt with me.
“Could you send the other server out. There’s a problem.”
“I’m sure I could help you with whatever you need,” she says, “Caleigh can’t come out. She’s sick.”
