Bossy Brothers: Joey

by JA Huss

  But in real life I’m a mess. And Charlotte wasn’t dumb. She knew. She saw her future if she hitched her wagon to mine. Every time she looked at me I pictured this little thought bubble over her head. Like she and I were characters is some dark and dangerous graphic novel. And that thought bubble always said the same thing.

  You’re not him.

  I don’t know who she wanted me to be, but I wasn’t him, whoever he was.

  She didn’t say any of that, not even the thought bubble stuff. But she didn’t have to. I could just tell she didn’t want me around. She got moody as she got bigger and farther along. She got emotional, and bossy, and mean.

  Meaner than she was.

  And some guy was calling her all the time.

  Another me, probably. Another could-be. Another what-if.

  We didn’t live together or anything. She stayed… wherever she stayed. Some family estate the Kanes owned in the country. And I stayed in a nice hotel down on First because there was no way in hell I was moving back into the Bossy with Jesse, Zach, and Johnny when I knew—I goddam knew—that my grand gesture in the form of a nursery had gone unnoticed.

  I was there when Maisy was born. Not in the room. The other guy was in the room. But I saw her little face right afterward through a window.

  I saw Charlotte too. And her guy. Bruce. His name was Bruce.

  Funny, thinking back. That I knew Bruce’s name that day, but I didn’t know Maisy’s.

  On second thought, that’s not funny. That’s sad.

  I bought Charlotte a card in the hospital gift shop. Tacky, I know. And told her good luck. I was leaving. And if she ever wanted me around she could call me at such-and-such number.

  She never called. In fact, she actually disappeared.

  I tried to check in a few weeks later. Just a phone call. But her number was disconnected.

  I took the hint. I was out.

  It ate away at me for a while. Almost a year, actually.

  Believe me. I get it. I know. I’m not father material. Bruce was, I guess. But a kid sounded a little bit fun. A little girl.

  God, my heart hurts just thinking about this.

  Because it could’ve given me a purpose. A reason to live and go on and hell, maybe even try to be a better man? You never know.

  And that’s all kinds of wrong and dramatic. I get that too.

  But it’s just how I felt.

  How did I walk away then? That’s a question I asked myself for a long time. If I wanted this family thing so bad, why didn’t I try harder? Why didn’t I make it happen? Why did I give up?

  I didn’t think of it as giving up, I guess. I had this romantic notion that I was protecting them. Walking away was another grand gesture. Keeping them safe and separate from this dark, cryptic, mysterious thing called the Boston family.

  I’m not gonna lie. Putting Charlotte and the baby behind me was hard for a while. I wanted to go back every day and beg her to see me as someone else. See me as the guy I could be and not the guy I was.

  But Charlotte is not the kind of woman who wants to be chased. She is the kind of woman who wants to be left alone—until she doesn’t—and then she does again.

  Kinda like me, I guess.

  So I didn’t chase her or stalk her. I just accepted shit for what it was. Got real, and then got sad for about a year.

  Until one day… I wasn’t sad anymore.

  I don’t know how that happens. I don’t understand how people move on. I don’t understand how I moved on.

  I just know I did.

  Anyway, my detectives found Maisy Kane two weeks ago. I hired a team of high-profile lawyers and found out that fucking Charlotte has been missing for ten months. Lost at sea or some shit like that.

  Personally, I think she walked out. Bruce was long gone. Dude never stuck around. And that hurt too. Because he wanted a DNA test, I guess. And he was not the father.

  I never asked her for a DNA test. I never asked her to prove it.

  “You good?” Wald asks, clapping me on the shoulder.

  I nod. But I don’t say anything.

  Because I’m not good.

  I want this kid. I want her like nothing else I’ve ever wanted in my fucking life.

  Maisy Kane.

  “No matter what happens,” Huck says, “just… be cool, OK?”

  I nod at him too.

  We’re meeting the lawyers to get the DNA tests results today. Because while I do not care whose DNA is inside little Maisy, the courts do.

  Maisy won’t be there. But her guardian will.

  Michael Conner. The Michael Conner of Conner Industries.

  He is definitely not the father. But he was Charlotte’s husband when she… died? Disappeared?

  Whatever happened to her, she’s gone and he’s here.

  With my daughter.

  This asshole has been raising my daughter for almost a year.

  I am livid.

  I am a monster filled with rage every time I think about this.

  “We gotta play this smart,” Wald says. “You hear me?”

  He shakes me by the shoulder.

  I nod one more time. Which… is not convincing my two best friends of anything.

  “I’m fucking serious,” Wald says. “Don’t blow it, man. No matter what happens. Do not blow.”

  “I won’t,” I say, tugging on my suit coat. “I won’t.”

  But I’m gonna. I can feel it.

  No matter what happens, I’m gonna be angry. If I am Maisy’s father I’m gonna be angry. If I’m not, I’m gonna be angry.

  There is no way past this day without a whole lot of rage inside me.

  My phone rings in my pocket.

  “That better not be them cancelling,” Huck says.

  I have to give my two best friends a lot of credit. They’ve been very supportive of me. Above and beyond supportive.

  I take out my phone and look at the screen. “Hmm,” I say.

  “Who is it?” Wald asks.

  “My brother Johnny. Give me a sec, OK? I’ll meet you guys downstairs.”

  They nod and I turn away, walking deeper into the penthouse as I tab accept and say, “What’s up?”

  “Don’t. Fucking. Do this.”

  “What?”

  “You know what. Do not go to that meeting.”

  “How the fuck do you know about it?”

  “I know everything, Joey. You should’ve come to me, dude. You should’ve told me. I’d have told you—”

  “You’d have told me to forget about it.”

  “With good reason. We have no idea,” he says, lowering his voice. “We have no idea what the fuck we’re into. And you want to bring a child into this world?”

  “She’s already here, dumbass. She’s five years old.”

  “I don’t mean the world. I mean our world.”

  “Look,” I say, rubbing a hand down my face. “I don’t need this right now. OK? I have no say in your life, you have no say in my life, so just leave me the fuck alone.”

  I end the call, turn off my phone, and take a deep breath.

  Try to get rid of the rage.

  And can’t.

  CHAPTER FOUR - BROOKE

  “Look,” I say to the woman on the other side of the desk. “I know what you see when you look at me.”

  “What do I see?” she asks. She’s wearing a gray business suit with a light pink blouse. I know she’s wearing matching pants, not a skirt, because she got up from her desk to shake my hand when I came in the room. I like this outfit. A lot. I’m jealous that I didn’t think of it first.

  I say, “You see a well-dressed woman with no skills. No real résumé. No schooling, no experience. And you’re wondering how the hell I even got into your office. How did I get past HR?”

  I know how. I’m a damn good liar, that’s how. But that’s not the best selling point. So I say, “I got past HR because I’m tenacious. I’m creative.”

  “You’re a liar, Miss Alder.” She sig
hs and holds up my résumé. “This is all lies.” Then she shakes her head and makes a little huffing sound. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re running and frankly, I don’t care. But you’re wasting my time. So…” She pans her hand at the door. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I have street smarts,” I say quickly. “I came up in the school of life.”

  “Please.” She sighs again. Then she pushes a button on her phone and says, “Violet? Would you please call security? Miss Alder is leaving now and she requires an escort.”

  “What the fuck?” I say. “What the fuck is your problem? I’m telling you I can do this job. I’m telling you—”

  “You’re telling me,” she says—loudly, I might add—“that you cannot be trusted.”

  The doors open and two men in security uniforms block the entrance. “Come with us,” one says.

  I stand up, hike my purse over my shoulder, and say, “I’m leaving.” Then I cast one more glare at Ms. Whatever-Her-Name-Is, spin around, and walk out.

  Security follows me all the way down to street level. And when I walk through the front doors of the massive building, I look over my shoulder and catch them watching me leave.

  Fuck them.

  Fuck everyone.

  I’ve been going on these interviews for weeks now. At first I told them the truth about almost everything. Not my past life or how I got to the city. That’s no one’s business. But I was upfront about my lack of education, and skills, and experience.

  I figured they’d see me as a spunky up-and-comer. Because that’s what I am. I know what I’m capable of better than anyone. I might not know who I am, but I’m not trash. And that’s what they see. That’s what they all see when they look at me.

  On paper Brooke Alder is no one. But in real life I feel like I can compete. Like in a real situation, I could have the starring role.

  Despite my lack of direction and purpose these days, I am very good at figuring shit out. I’m very good with solutions.

  So three weeks ago I… modified my résumé.

  OK, I lied. I gave myself an education. Just a bachelor’s degree at first, but then I realized most of the good jobs wanted a graduate degree. So I gave myself a masters. MBA. Those are the magic letters on a résumé.

  I went through several majors. First it was marketing, then business, then sales. Turns out there’s no degree in sales. Oops. That’s when things really started falling apart for me.

  So I switched gears. I looked for technical jobs. I can cook, so I applied to be a chef. Yeah. That interview came with knives being pointed at me and a man screaming in French as I was kicked to the curb.

  Then I went for less techy things and hit up middle management. But they checked my fake references.

  Like, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to lie my way into a real-life opportunity, but seriously, I’m trying real hard here. They should see my lies as something of an asset, not a deterrent.

  Because lies get shit accomplished.

  I am… what’s that fucking poem? The path less traveled? That’s me! I’m the untrodden path. Or whatever.

  And I totally looked the part for each and every interview. I’ve been shopping my little tenacious heart out every day trying to find just the right costume.

  Why didn’t I think of the gray suit with pink blouse? It’s so great.

  But the clothes aren’t working. They’re not fooling anyone.

  There’s too much me showing.

  Not enough lies. I think I need more lies.

  Or maybe those self-help books were right? Maybe the only way to find your path in life is to be you. The true you. And let everyone see it.

  I just don’t see how that’s gonna make anything better.

  All I want is a freaking chance, you know? Just one chance. I need someone to open a door for me. Just one stupid door and my life changes forever.

  That’s how doors work. I know this. I had a door open for me once when I was sixteen. It was a pretty great door and I lived that life until it ended. But then another door opened and now I’m here.

  And here’s the thing. I still need one more door.

  That’s the part that really sucks. I need more than just those doors I was given. I’ll probably need more than just one more too. I need tons of doors. And there’s just not that many out there. And everyone wants a door. There’s not enough to go around.

  The old me would say, “Make your own fucking door, Brooke.” And I want to, I really do. It’s just… I don’t seem to have the basic raw materials required for door-making.

  I’ve done all four R’s that stupid book talked about.

  Recognize.

  Reveal.

  Reenergize.

  Remake.

  I’ve done all that. I’m trying my best to remake myself. It’s just hard because… I’m not sure who I was, but also, I’m not sure who I want to be, either.

  But every time I give myself this little pep talk there’s this little voice inside me that says, Be yourself, Brooke. Just be yourself.

  That little voice doesn’t seem to really understand who I am.

  Or the panic that is building inside me. The panic that the old me was as good as it gets. The panic that this is all there is.

  I can’t think like that. I can’t. Or I’ll give up.

  I only have one year. One good year of living well before time runs out and all the doors I managed to open get slammed in my face. I feel like the clock is ticking down the seconds to my ultimate demise.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Huh?” I whirl around and find one of the security guards scowling down at me. “What?”

  “You can’t stand here,” he says.

  “It’s a sidewalk,” I snap. “I am absolutely allowed to stand on this sidewalk.”

  “You’re loitering,” he says, pointing to a sign that says No Loitering.

  “I’m not loitering. I’ve been standing here for like ten seconds.”

  “You’re talking to yourself, ma’am. Do you need me to call someone to pick you up?” He raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps get you back on your medication?”

  “What?” Did he just accuse me of being crazy? “Fuck you,” I say, then walk to the light and start pushing the button.

  He watches me until I cross the street and stand on the other side, unsure where to go. This was my only interview today. And it really did take a lot of lying to get into this one. I have no more prospects lined up.

  “Why are you watching me?” I shout across the street. Which makes many people shoot me weird looks.

  The security guard says nothing. Just stands there, making sure I don’t walk back across the street and soil their perfect image.

  It’s a pharmaceutical company, for fuck’s sake. I was trying to get a job as a sales rep. I looked that job up online and they dress nice. And pull wheelie briefcases with drug samples inside them. And visit doctors’ offices and make bonuses when they get the doctors to agree to push their drugs.

  I could do that. I’d be very good at that.

  “People already hate you!” I yell. Because I can’t stand the way that security guard is looking at me.

  I turn away and lean against a building, folding my arms across my chest as I stare back at the security asshole. “OK, Brooke,” I mumble. I probably was talking to myself. I do that a lot. But I’m not crazy. I just like to talk things through. Out loud. “You need a new plan. A new door. A new—Oh, hey. What the hell?”

  I stare at the office building across the street and one block up from the place I was just at. “Bright Berry Beach Cosmetics! You have got to be kidding me!”

  It’s like a sign. It’s like the clouds have parted and a single beam of light is shining down from heaven onto that building.

  My door! That’s my door!

  Mila what’s-her-face runs that company. That chick who wrote that book. And they hire people to sell cosmetics.

  People like me. She said that in her book. People who have no
skills, people who need a second chance, people who want to better themselves and not spend all their time in college.

  That’s totally me!

  I could sell cosmetics!

  Two seconds later I’m pushing that button again at the light.

  Security Man and I have a staring contest as he continues to watch me. But I don’t care. He doesn’t own that sidewalk. Our eyes are locked the entire time I cross and he opens his mouth to say something as I approach him.

  But I get there first. “Fuck you,” I say. “I’m going over to Bright Berry Beach Cosmetics. I have an interview.”

  I walk right past him and don’t even bother looking back. Not even when I cross the next street and I’m heading up to the front of the building.

  This is why I’m here. I can feel it. It’s like… fate.

  There’s a doorman there too. And he doesn’t even look at me funny. Just smiles, says, “Good morning,” in a pleasant, but professional tone, and holds the door open for me as I approach.

  “Thank you,” I say, smiling.

  Now this is how normal people act.

  Inside the lobby is pretty busy. There’s dozens of people milling about. Some kind of tour going on too. Maybe new hires? I study them, just in case they are. Sizing myself up. Comparing myself.

  They all look pretty put-together. And for a moment I think maybe that Mila lady was lying about hiring girls like me.

  But then again, I look pretty put-together too. And I’m still a girl like me.

  So I suck in a deep breath and turn towards the reception area.

  “Hi there,” a middle-aged woman says behind the desk. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here for a job,” I say.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asks. It’s not snide. Just a question. Still, my heart flutters because, of course, I don’t have an appointment.

  “No,” I say. “I’m just… hoping.” I was going to say hoping to get one. But the rest of my sentence falls off.

  “Oh,” the woman says brightly. “You need an application.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  She slides a clipboard towards me and says, “Here you go. Just fill this out and bring it back to me when you’re done.”

  I nod, kinda nervous. Too nervous to say anything else. So I take my clipboard and walk over to a small seating area with a table. There are two other people filling out papers on clipboards so I suddenly feel like maybe this could work out for me.