The Hangover

by Lively, R. S.

  The machines are huge. There are forklifts, bulldozers, cement trucks, lumber, and pieces of steel, and it looks like they haven’t broken dirt yet. I tilt my head toward the sky, unable to see where the crane ends in the everlasting night sky. “Wow.” If I thought that fence was high…

  Making sure the coast is clear, I peer around the machine toward the trailer. I don't see any lights on, or any form of someone in the building, so I take it upon myself to climb on up. My hands grip the edge of the tire. It’s the same height as me, and I lift myself up again, trying to get my feet on one of the ridges of the casing. There is a bar hanging just out of my reach. If I can grab onto it, I might be able to get on top of the crane arm.

  I yelp when my right foot slips, but I manage to regain my balance. I swing myself over to the ledge between the other tire. Right when I grip the bar with my right hand and pull myself up, a light blossoms from under the crane, and I hold my breath, still hanging several feet in the air.

  "Who's there?"

  If I don't say anything, maybe he will go away.

  "I know you're out there."

  I clap my other hand over my mouth, muffling my heavy pants, hoping that he doesn't hear me. His shadow breaks the light, letting me know he is getting closer. Crap, Dylan was right. I get myself into messes. I admit, this one I came into with bad intentions, but I decided against it. That counts for something, right?

  My right arm starts to shake from holding my weight longer than I ever have before. The only thing I'm used to carrying is a tray full of food. No. No. No. My hand slips in slow motion off the bar, and I find myself mid-air, falling to the ground, landing right on my back with a loud thud.

  I'm screwed.

  Logan

  My Rolex shows seven o'clock. Wow. I can't believe I've been here all day. I rub my eyes, feeling the burn from the staring at a computer screen too long. A part of me wants to stay here, away from the estate and my drunken mother, and away from her bitching about how I'm a horrible son for leaving her daughter in jail. It's not like she is going to stay behind bars forever. Well, not right now anyway. It might just be a matter of time.

  The chair squeaks as I lean back, lacing my fingers behind my head. Minus all the bullshit at home, it's been a good day. A productive day. Tops is selling fifty percent, we are ahead of schedule on the resort project, and I've had three hours to myself, allowing me to create budgets and plans. I even took the time to draw up some new additions for the resort. I doubt the architect will be up for it, but it's worth a shot.

  I think adding a hot tub to each room and doubling the size of the nightclub lounge will be worth it. It won't take long to pay off the extra expense. Hell, if it comes out as awesome as I hope, I'll personally buy the top floor of the hotel and live there. Anything to get away from the mansion that reminds me of Dracula's castle.

  I lean against the desk, rubbing my face to try to get the exhaustion out of my pores. My hands run over my stubble and it scratches my palm. I'm only twenty-nine. I shouldn't be feeling like this. I shouldn't dread going home, and I shouldn't be so tired. That shit is for old married people, and last time I checked, I'm neither of those things. I stand, twisting my back, and sigh when my spine pops all the way down. Damn. I suddenly feel like a new man.

  My phone vibrates on the desk and Frankford's name flashes. "I know. I know. I work too much," I joke, waiting for him to say something about my inability to have a personal life.

  "As much as I agree with you, sir, you have a guest roaming around."

  That makes me stand up a bit straighter. The security cameras haven't been installed yet. I thought they would be a pointless investment, considering we only have equipment here. Hell, we haven't even scratched the surface of the dirt yet. "Is he dangerous? Does he have a weapon? Notify the authorities, Frankford."

  I peek out the curtains, but the only thing I see is darkness and moonlight shining off the machinery.

  He chuckles. "Sir, it's a woman holding a bag of sugar. I do believe you need to go out there and see for yourself."

  Sugar?

  "A damn tree-hugger. That sugar will ruin the machinery. We have to stop her." I hear myself saying the words, but I don't even sound urgent. A part of me is too tired to care.

  "Well, I don't think she’s using it for that purpose. I do quite enjoy her trying to be secretive. Do we have to do anything right now?"

  "I think we need to get you a hobby, Frankford. Enjoying someone trespassing shouldn't be so enjoyable."

  "I do believe you're right, sir."

  "I'll handle it. Stay in the car unless you think she’s dangerous."

  "Yes, sir."

  I drop the call, slide the phone into my pocket, and set the briefcase next to the door. I flip the light on and step onto the small porch.

  "Who's there?" I ask into the night. Crickets rub their wings together, singing. In the distance an owl hoots. The stars shine in the millions, like diamonds trapped in space. It is a perfect night for many things, but catching a criminal? Not one of them.

  "I know you're out there." I shove my hands in my pockets and make my way down the steps until my three-thousand-dollar shoes are in the dirt. I kick a small rock toward the fence and see the bag of sugar Frankford was talking about. Why would it be by the fence if she planned on ruining hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of machinery? She isn't the brightest among felons, is she?

  I step closer to the crane that arrived today, hearing a very small gasp. It could have been anything. A gust of wind, a small animal, or an annoying hippie woman who doesn’t know her place. I strut around the crane to see a figure on her back, groaning about how she knew she shouldn’t have done that.

  She’s right. She shouldn’t have. I don’t care that she is a woman. I am sick of the protestors, or whatever they call themselves, showing up at my work, and it is obvious that this woman had ill intentions. I'm pressing charges. I'm sick of the mayhem, chaos, and strife these people cause me. It's time they learn a lesson.

  I stand above her, and the only thing I can see is the ratty old Queen T-shirt and bright red hair. Her face is covered by her hands, but for some reason, that red hair seems familiar. I've only seen that color one time in my entire life, and that was at Tops’. It's a unique shade. A deep, beautiful cherry-red. This color reminds me of maraschino cherries on top of vanilla ice cream. It's my favorite dessert.

  "Hurts, doesn’t it?" I ask, casting my shadow over her body.

  She groans again, moving her hands away from her face. Our eyes meet. An electrical storm brews through my body causing my breath to catch. She is the most spectacular woman I have ever seen. Even in the darkness of night, her bright emerald eyes shine, her lips are ruby-red, almost matching the shade of her hair, and her skin is pale, just like the color of vanilla ice cream.

  "Obviously," she snips, rolling over to her stomach to lift herself off the ground. "Everything hurts." Those words come out as a painful grunt.

  I shrug a shoulder before lifting her off the ground. "Maybe that should show you not to cross property that doesn't belong to you."

  She deadpans me as she dusts the dirt off her ass. "Yeah, I learned that. I didn't come here to cause trouble." She rolls her eyes and tilts her head back and forth like she is contemplating her previous statement. "Okay, at first, I did. I wanted whoever is in charge here to pay for cutting down the trees—"

  "Ah, so you’re one of those."

  Her small feet stomp toward me. As much as she tries to look threatening, she isn't. "Listen here, bucko."

  "Bucko?" I lift a brow, tugging on the sleeves of my blazer.

  She pokes my chest. "Yeah, bucko. I'm am fed up with people telling me that what I believe in is silly. And you know what? I may be a little obsessive with the tree thing, considering I came here and planned to dump sugar in one of these gas tanks."

  I open my mouth to tell her off, but she holds up her hand. "But I decided against it, okay?"

  "Then why are you on
this side of the fence, and not that side?"

  Her face flushes with embarrassment, and she averts her gaze from mine.

  "Look at me," I demand.

  Her lips part with an audible gasp as she lays her eyes on me again. Almost like she recognizes me.

  "Tell me why you are on this side and not the other side." I risk a step toward her, invading her personal space. She invaded my professional space anyway. Fair is fair.

  She bites her lip, drawing my attention to those ruby reds. For the first time I notice that she is truly gorgeous. "I've never been this close to a machine this size before, which is funny considering my father works construction."

  She shrugs and leans against the tire of the crane. "I wanted this Stone person to see how he fucked up, but after the day I had, I realize that I was being immature and selfish. I was just taking out a lot of my own anger about everything on this Stone guy. I took it upon myself to jump the fence to get a closer look at the machines."

  "And the sugar?"

  "I was going to take it back and use it in my coffee."

  I smile, rubbing my face with my left hand. My blazer sleeve rises up, making the gold of the Rolex flash against the light. "Well, I'm that Stone person. I accept your apology."

  The kindness and sincerity vanish, and those emeralds narrow into slits as she stares at me. "You were the one at Tops’! You bought him out! How dare you!" She pokes me in the chest again, but this time, I grab her hand and hold it in place.

  "You need to learn manners, Cherry."

  She fights against me and struggles against the hold I have on her wrist. "My name is not Cherry! Real original, by the way."

  "I know," I grin, "Whitley."

  "How do you know my name?"

  Even though they’re glittering in anger, there’s something beautiful about her eyes. "I'll tell you if you calm down."

  She huffs again. Whitley's nostrils flare as she decides what she wants to do. "Fine." She wrenches her arm from me.

  I back away from her, tugging the lapels of my suit. Whitley hasn’t moved, and small puffs of her breath show in the brisk night, telling me that I'm not the only one affected by whatever is going on here. She steps forward from the crane but keeps her distance from me.

  "You need to do your research before you go bring a knife to a gunfight, Cherry. You wouldn't have won this war if you did anything here. I have security cameras placed everywhere." I don’t have any, but she doesn't need to know that. "You know who I am, yet you like to push boundaries."

  "You're just a man with money, Stone. Other than that, you're an average Joe beneath that suit." She curls her lip, trying to convey her disgust with me, but we both know better.

  I hum and lace my hands together behind my back. "Since you're so quick to judge, I met with Tops today. He and my father go way back. So, be shocked when I tell you that he reached out to me about buying the diner. He wanted to sell the entire thing, but I convinced him only to sell fifty percent. He's my father's friend, and I'll always make sure his friends are taken care of."

  "By coming in and changing everything!" she shouts, and her beautiful green eyes shine brighter, filling with tears.

  Ah, damn it. I don't do well around crying girls. "I'm only changing what he wants me to change."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Ask him yourself."

  "I will." She juts her chin out like she won.

  Naïve, girl.

  She turns to leave, but I wrap my fingers around her wrist and run my index finger down the silky flesh of her wrist. "Where are you going?"

  "I'm grabbing my sugar and skedaddling."

  A chuckle falls from my lips. "I think you think you might be getting off easy. You trespassed onto private property with the intent to cause me and my business harm. I can’t just let you go."

  Her eyes widen in fear, big and round emeralds. "I was hoping—" she swallows, letting her eyes fall to my lips. “Don’t call the cops, please,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” I chuckle. “Let me take you out.”

  She jerks away from me. "Are you kidding? You're the enemy! I might be toning it down a bit on my obsession, but my morals tell me you aren't the good guy."

  "Pretty judgmental for a girl who broke many laws today. I could say the same thing about you."

  She crosses her arms, and the move pushes her breasts up. "And if I say no to your… Request?"

  "I call the cops, and have you arrested for trespassing."

  "Are you kidding me! Who knows how many illegal things you have done, yet, you want to blackmail me over climbing a damn fence?" She pokes me in the chest again. "You're a real piece of work, bucko."

  "I've never been arrested. I have one speeding ticket from when I was eighteen. I've never broken any law that I know of. You think you can put me in one of your little categories, judging me because I chop down your precious trees."

  Shame flashes across her features as she nods. "I know."

  Well, there's a turn of events. I wasn't expecting that.

  "I'm toning down my… hobby. Today was more of a goodbye than anything else. All the stuff going on lately has made me think. I have things I need to work on, but I'm aware of my faults. Are you?"

  "I don't have any." The words fell from my lips before I could stop them.

  She laughs. "I'll only go out with you if, at the end of the date, I get to tell you three things you could improve about yourself."

  Her personality surprises me. She is sassy and has spunk, but at the same time, she is vulnerable and struggles with finding her place in the world. I barely know her, but I can tell that Whitley is hard-working and has an abundance of passion to share with the world, even if it can be misplaced. I have so many questions. For the first time in my life, I want to get to know a woman more than just shallow dating and sex. I want to really get to know her deeply.

  "What if you don't find anything that needs to be improved? What if I'm perfect just how I am?" I say, leaning forward to inhale her scent that the wind keeps blowing in my direction. Cucumber.

  Her voice croaks. "Well, if you're asking, then that's already something that could be improved. No one is perfect."

  “For real, Whitley. Say you'll go out with me and I’ll keep this between me and you. Tops doesn’t have to know.”

  "I'll think about it." I can tell she’s hiding the anger in her voice because I brought up Tops.

  "You'll answer now."

  She lifts one of her perfectly groomed, red brows at me. "You're used to instant gratification, Logan. I don't give that."

  I grunt in irritation when she turns her back and walks away, picking up the five-pound bag of sugar. "Where do you think you're going?"

  "Home." She starts climbing like a professional, keeping one hand around the sugar while the other ascends.

  I casually put my hands in my pocket. "Seems like you've done this before."

  She makes it to the top, straddling the fence. "Nope, just good at climbing."

  "Let me take you home. My driver is right there."

  Whitley snorts and tosses her head back. Her laugh bounces off the machines, and the surrounding trees. It sends an electric shiver through my whole body. "Your driver? No thanks. I like a man who can take himself places," she winks back, jumping down from the high fence.

  "Whitley," I say her name in warning. I don’t like people testing me. "How did you get here?"

  She flips the long braid over her shoulder. "Later, Stone."

  I watch her disappear into the night, holding that damn bag of sugar. I rub my hands down my face, exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time. I press the button to the gate and meander to the car, opening the door myself, because I am a man capable of doing things myself.

  "Sir."

  "Frankford. How about me and you go to Tops’ tomorrow? Lunch is on me."

  "I'd be delighted, sir."

  I lean against the headrest, buckling my seat belt and pour m
yself a glass of scotch. I always keep a bottle in the mini fridge. "Stop calling me, sir. It's Logan."

  "Yes, sir."

  I sip my scotch and laugh. "Now, I think you're doing it to get under my skin."

  "Hmmm, I would never, sir."

  I smirk against the rim of my glass and look out the window, hoping I'll see a flash of red in the distance, but I see nothing. Just darkness haunting the night.

  Whitley

  I will never admit that Logan Stone is the sexiest man I have seen. Looks don’t matter when he acts like a pompous ass.

  Oh, but what a gorgeous ass.

  “Whitley, stop it! He is nothing but a headache," I mumble, counting the tips I have made today, but I lose count. Again. "Son of a…"

  I slam my hand against the counter, sighing an annoyed breath. Ever since running into him last night, my brain has been as scrambled as the eggs Tops serves. Leaning against the counter, I drop my head in my hands and rub my temples, trying to ease the ache thumping in my skull.

  "They say when you talk to yourself, you're going insane."

  I pound my head against the stainless-steel countertop. Thud, thud, thud.

  "I know, Tops. I guess it’s been one of those days. I can't seem to remember how to count." Because my mind is preoccupied with thoughts of Logan Stone. Unfortunately.

  "Why don't you just separate the money in ones, fives, tens, and so forth, write the amount down, and just add it up." He places a hot, steaming bowl of his delicious Buffalo-style chicken wings in front of me. The hot sauce wafts in the steam, burning my nostrils. My mouth waters. I love his chicken wings. They are baked to perfection and tossed in his homemade hot sauce. After he plates them, he pours the remaining liquid over them to make it look like the wings are swimming, drowning in the spicy goodness.

  I smack my lips together. "What? I'm sorry. I didn't hear you over the sound of the sauce."

  Tops tosses his head back, his deep chuckle filling the room. It's how I imagine Santa Claus would sound. "Can't handle the heat, then get out of the kitchen."