“Gorgeous, with the amount of sick days I’ve pulled off so far I’ll have to call in dead.”
I lightly giggle, glad he's moved on to humor. “So, anything I can do to help? Want to do lunch?”
“Nah, I’ll just take it out on some hot body,” his voice becomes an octave cheerier.
Of course that’s his answer.
“I can hear you roll your eyes from here,” he says, making me chuckle.
“So what’s the real plan for the day?”
“Start with coffee. When it loses its effect continue to alcohol, and then that hot body.” We both laugh this time.
“Classic. Will you be okay?”
“You know I love you, right?”
“I know, Ian, and me you, from the roots of my natural blonde to my French-manicured toes.”
A short, hoarse laugh comes from the small device in my palm.
“I need to start the day and so do you. I’ll check up on you later. Kiss.”
As soon as we hang up I go to the web and order an absurdly expensive designer basket of chocolate cupcakes, to be delivered to Ian’s work place with the following note:
Whatevs the calories gorgeous, nothing better to align chakras than unadulterated, sinfully exquisite carbs.
Love ya tons, H
~~~
In my cubicle at work, drinking the last sip of my second cup of coffee, I go through the pile in my inbox. It's time to roll up my sleeves, a sigh of frustrated recognition falls from my lips. Lunch will have to be at my desk if I ever want to reduce this immense workload to a decent amount. I wonder whether I should get another caffeine fix before I start, but in the end go with no. Somehow jitters, nausea and vomiting from a legal stimulant overdose don’t seem like the best condition to carry at work. As I look for my phone, the glittering chain on my wrist catches my eye and a smile reflexively pops up on my lips. I circle the bracelet around my wrist til I can see the little heart clearly. I read the inscription again, like I've done about a thousand times today, even before getting out of the house, and grin toothily with sheer contentment.
“Some bling.” Josh, standing above me, looks pointedly at the shine.
“That it is.” I smile at him.
“What’s the engraving say?”
I lift my hand and show him.
“Daniel?” he asks.
“The one and only.” My lips couldn’t stretch any further.
“I like his style. He is definitely a keeper. Guys like him are hard to find, Hayley.”
I know boss, believe me, I know.
“Anything I can do for you?” I ask, certain that having a gushing girlie chat about my new glittery ornament wasn’t the reason he dropped by.
“Yeah,” he answers, leaning his hip on my desk. He starts giving me some useful input for a project I’ve been working on.
This guy is just great at what he does. Apart from his annoying mega smile, his recent obsession with my Ian, and his exhausting tendency to fatigue me with small talk, he is the perfect mentor. Josh finally lets me continue my work after taking the better part of an hour from my busy day. When Daniel calls a quarter of an hour later telling me he will be home late tonight because of a prolonged business meeting, I decide I have a good enough excuse to stay late at work and to try to shrink my currently extensive workload.
Long after the sky out the window turns into a burned grey, I find myself shivering. I check the window, but it's shut. I put on my jacket to warm up. At the pause from my concentrated state, I realize my eyes are burning and the thudding in my head that I'd earlier dismissed as too many hours at a computer screen combined with caffeine gets more intense. I decide to call it a night, thinking about a warm bath and an early snuggle into bed.
Once at Daniel’s, which I find hard to call home even in my head, I dismiss the idea of a bath; I'm too exhausted to even consider it. My shivering doesn't stop, even under the thick comforter, so I check my fever. My temperature is so high that I'm glad the mercury didn’t burst out of the thermometer. I decide to sleep in the living room.
I’d hate for Daniel to inherit whatever malignant microorganism is colonizing me.
Tossing and turning, freezing despite my blanket, I open my eyes to the TV on mute in the darkened room. I pull the blanket even tighter around me, and absently look up to find out that my pillow is actually a lap. Daniel is slouched above me, fully clothed in a suit and tie, resting his head on the sofa’s wide back. His chest gently rises and falls in a peaceful rhythm. My plan to get away from him for his own good failed. Nevertheless, I’m more than glad that he's here. I smile, take the remote from his limp hand, and turn the power off. I take Daniel’s hand between mine and, resting my head on it, I let my fatigue do its work.
Chapter 11: Soup, Wine, Ginger, Truth or Dare and Plain Ol’ Comfort
A sound of metal jingling against some hard surface followed by a muffled clatter comes from the kitchen, brutally pulling me out of my deep sleep. Rather startled, I raise my head to look over the sofa, and find Daniel’s back. He's hunched over the kitchen counter and appears to be engaged in some culinary labor. I check the time on the entertainment center. Noon? Rubbing my eyes, I try to wipe away the remains of my heavy sleep.
I slept so much. I haven’t called in sick. Shit.
Slowly I lift myself up from the sofa that’s been my comforting convalescent burrow for the last several hours. Pulling my sleeves over my fists, I hug myself and stretch.
“Daniel?” My voice is still a touch hoarse from sleeping so long.
“Hey baby, how do you feel?” He turns at the waist to face me, a ladle in hand, revealing two unlabeled white containers set side by side on the counter. I stare perplexed at the odd scene before me. The comforting, delicious scent of broth reaches me as I take another step.
“I think I’m a bit better. What are you doing home? Umm, what are you doing?” I nod toward the counter.
He smiles a thin smile. “Brought you some soup.”
I feel my heart slowly melt into a frothy puddle. Daniel blinks at me over his shoulder and I walk up to hug him tightly from behind. “If I weren't afraid of infecting you, I would kiss you so hard right now.”
He chuckles lightly.
“Are you for real? Am I dreaming you?”
“I’m very real and much yours.” He says still with his back to me.
I inhale in utter pleasure.
“Aren’t you supposed to be dealing with a foreign country or something?”
“My girl’s sick.”
I beam; a smile erupts from all the way down, from deep inside of me.
“I need to call Josh. My god, it’s after mid-day…” I mumble distractedly, resting my head on his wide, hard back. I breathe in deeply, indulging on his smell which is mixed with the fresh linen scent of the white dress shirt he has on. I hug his waist and melt further into him, smiling serenely.
“Already called him earlier this morning.” Daniel says, looking back over his shoulder toward me. I shift my head, my chin still resting on his back, and blink at him twice, surprised. He shrugs. He then squats to check out the oven clock.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says suddenly, and I let go to stand beside him.
Psycho?
“Sorry. It's truly tempting, but I’m definitely not in any condition for that.”
With a light chuckle, he fetches his car keys and shoves them into his front pocket.
“Eat your soup and rest,” he orders, then kisses my forehead airily, letting out a short laugh again. “I’ll try to get home early today,” he says, then mutters under his breath, “For fuck’s sake, I’m so late.”
And he is gone.
I spend the afternoon doing close to nothing except sketching and trying to watch TV. Daniel’s third call makes me snort, and I ridicule him for being just a tad too protective.
“Daniel, seriously, I’m doing better. I ate my soup, I’ve rested and I haven’t left the couch.”
“Listen H
ales...” There's a short silence, which I can clearly guess is due to his inability to disconnect completely from his work. “...I’m not sure I'll be able to make it early today after all.” He ignores my comment, and his voice is a little too grave to deliver such minor info. I laugh lightly at his melodrama.
“I. Will. Be. Fine.” My eye roll comes involuntarily.
“I'll check up on you later. I gotta go.” He shows not a shred of mellowing; his solemnity is intact. I shake my head, amused.
I will most probably survive this, D.
I finally take a shower late in the afternoon. As I take the first step out, the intercom buzzes. I feel much better, though I'm still fighting the last remnants of being sick: it seems to be one of those twenty-four hour viruses. I check out the intercom monitor screen and a smile spreads across my lips at Ian posing like a bimbo-actress-wannabe in some low-budget action premiere. I quickly shrug on yoga pants and a pink hoodie, run my fingers through my hair just for the sake of looking somewhat presentable, and head for the door.
“Took you long enough to answer,” Ian grumbles. He twists his mouth, resting casually on the door frame, his feet crossed at his ankles. Tasha, standing beside him, shakes her head and mouths, “Lame-o.”
“Think it’s easy pulling this beautiful?” I answer, blinking at him with puffy eyes. They both snort and Ian cheerfully proclaims, “You're always beautiful. Now, get your germ-possessed cadaver as far away from me as possible. I can’t be infected. My body is an important work asset.” He pushes me away gently with one cautious finger.
“I could never imagine you looking as stunning as you currently do. So natural.” Tasha flashes her perfect set of teeth at me and squeezes me in a warm embrace. Ian succumbs to herd, hugging me and lifting me up.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask as I let them in to the main room.
“Well, fuck me dead, some shack you’ve moved to,” Ian states, gesturing with his hands toward the room. His tendency to dramatize every single thing that spills from his mouth sometimes overwhelms even me a little. Tasha and I trade sardonic stares.
Daniel’s house is much less opulent than the mansion Ian’s parents own but trust Ian to stage a mini scene.
“So... What are you guys doing here?” I lead them toward the kitchen and they follow me.
“Not happy to see us, friendie dearest?” Tasha raises a shaped eyebrow.
I beam at her.
“Okay, here's my side of the story.” Ian interrupts us with what he makes out to be the start of an epic tale. “At seventeen hundred sharp I got a call.”
Tasha and I giggle at the way he tries to build suspense with his preface.
“Miss Taylor delivered the King’s order that we shall keep company to his recumbent queen.”
I fire a quizzical stare Tasha’s way for affirmation, my eyebrows nearly melding into one. She nods assent with a small smile.
“Now my side,” Tasha says dryly, as I pour Ian a glass of chilled white, her an Italian merlot and myself a mug of jasmine tea.
“At fourteen hundred thirty...” Tasha mocks Ian’s earlier performance, setting the three of us alight with humor.
“Basically, a few hours ago I got an email from the CEO of my company. Mind you, it was a polite email…well, for him,” she says, teasingly. “Telling me to pack up my stuff and go take care of my best friend.”
Absently I bring my hand up to cover my face. He doesn’t have any boundaries, that dictatorial significant other of mine.
“Sorry, I guess, err, on his behalf…?” I send them both an apologetic, awkward look.
“Hey, don’t you dare go there!” Ian growls. “My loyalty to the hottest king ever is unquestionable. I execute the king’s orders to the letter.”
“C’mon Sir Lancelot, let’s not get carried away. How about we go sit on the deck,” I say drily and offer Ian the hook of my arm.
“Pfft, as if we wouldn’t be here anyhow.” Tasha engulfs my waist and rests her head on mine.
“Hold on, let’s take these babies with us.” I study the clear container in Ian’s hand curiously. “Freshly homemade ginger cookies,” he says. “I made them especially for you, gorgeous.”
I smile and kiss his cheek. Gotta love my Ian.
The three of us squeeze into one wicker recliner. Ian places the cookie container on my thighs as I'm the one slumped in the middle. For a better part of an hour we nibble at Ian’s blessed gastronomic work of art, sipping our drinks over T.Y.P. crooning in the background. The two of them fill me in with a minute-by-minute account of their week. I am relieved to hear Ian didn’t violate any poor creature in my bed.
“Yet,” Tasha declares sneeringly.
After that, Ian and I listen very attentively to Tasha’s elaborate stories about her dates with her seemingly perfect new crush.
“What are you humming?” I ask Ian.
“A song from Pinocchio.” At my raised eyebrow he clarifies: “Which I watched with Ayden the other day.” Ayden is the kid Ian big brothers as part of a volunteer program, and it's time he loves serving, though it used to be a slap on the wrist for a crime too idiotic to mention that he committed a very long time ago. His sentence is long served, but he still chooses to take part.
Tasha and I beam at him fondly, adding a collective feminine sigh. He takes a sip of his white and states, “The wooden dude is a genius. He figured out the ultimate lifestyle.”
“Is that so?” Tasha’s lips lift up.
“It goes something like, ‘I've got no strings to hold me down, to make me fret, or make me frown. I had strings but now I'm free’.” Ian's satisfied grin practically blinds us.
Only Ian can make a hymn praising polygamy out of an innocent kid’s song.
“Mmm hmm, I see. You mean guaranteed STDs make the ultimate lifestyle, Sir?” I shake my head with a chuckle. My companions join me in tittering.
“You’ve been there before getting all domestic with Mr. Sexy as fuck. You tell me.” Ian squints his eyes at me.
“Ouch, bitchy,” Tasha says, and we all trade amused glances.
“What are we going to do with you?” She asks next.
“Love me til your very last breath on earth?” Ian says and the three of us snort in stereo.
“Truth or dare, gorgeous,” Ian says to me, spikes set aside.
“I’ll go with truth. No chance I’m doing anything that will make me move my butt.”
Tasha huffs in assent. “Before you ask, same answer here,” she tells Ian.
“Truth, no chance in hell are you moving back to the apartment, huh?”
Ian and Tasha exchange amused looks that don’t go unseen, as subtle as they try to be. When I grimace and am about to answer Tasha stops me at, “Uhm, well,” by raising her hand.
“Before you answer, may I remind you that you are still under the oath of the scared pact we made ages ago, the ‘thou shalt not bullshit thy besties,’ one?”
“Truth.” I surrender, twisting my mouth, and they both smirk smugly at me.
“Spotlight back on you guys now, thank you.” No way am I going to be the center of this, especially with the wicked glee these two have in their eyes.
“Truth Ian, why did you call your dad the other day?”
I wince. Trying to gut the poor guy out here in the open, Missy?
“I guess, pathetic as it may sound, I thought that maybe if he knew I was in trouble he might reach out to me.”
I lace my fingers into Ian’s in a silent gesture of empathy. The three of us turn quiet; suddenly it feels like evening is approaching quickly and the temperature's dropped a couple of degrees. Or is it just due to the morbid topic?
“So Tash, how is Brad at dazzling your private parts?” Ian says with a clear attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
“Don’t want to jinx it, but he’s just…” Tasha’s look turns wistful, I can just imagine how her pupils will take on a heart shape any second now. “Well, he does know how to make a woman...smile.”
“Nothing wrong with him?” Ian insists, feigning shock.
“On the scale of one to keeper? I’d go with nine and a half.”
I smile, impressed. Guess he's a rare species for Missy here to give him such a high ranking.
“So far… I'm crossing my fingers not to encounter any surprises along the way.”
The three of us sit in comfortable silence for a good ten minutes, or maybe eternity. Our spaced out, meditative state reminds me of past times. Times that now seem from another life, times in which we used to sit around like this for hours. The only small difference is that back then it was due to consuming some substance that mellowed you and took your mind to uncanny philosophic places.
“You know what, guys,” Tasha says, breaking our prolonged meditative silence, “my life is so boring, so banal, so freaking normal.”
We both turn our heads her way.
“I am so normal it’s just about sickening.” She sighs.
“As opposed to us you mean?” I say. Ian’s face twists in a hilarious puzzled expression.
“As opposed to almost everyone we know...” says Tasha. “I grew up in a house surrounded by a perfect white picket fence in the burbs with an ultra-normal family. Guys, seriously, my house has a genuine white freaking picket fence.” She huffs. “Had a perfect GPA. Always had long lasting, no drama relationships. Everything just absofuckinglutely normal.”
“And you consider that a problem because?” Ian puts both his thoughts and mine into words.
Tasha rolls her eyes and continues. “I bet with all this normality, that of the three of us it'll be me with the midlife crisis. A sad suburban mental breakdown by the age of 35, caused by severe boredom.” Tasha lingers at the end of the sentence in a dark, dramatic tone, her eyes fixed on some point ahead.
I shake my head in contempt.
“You know, Tash,” Ian says, wearing his serious adult hat, “the last time I can remember that my life was simple and drama free was right before my umbilical cord was cut, and believe me, you don’t want that. Boring is good. Boring is sane.”
Inner Core: (Stark, #2) Page 8
