“Are they really that bad?” Mia looked surprised.
“Yes.” I took another drink. If only I had some way to relieve the stress . . . for example, taking out my frustration on Charlie Dwyer’s cock.
“I don’t know how you stand it,” Coco said, taking another handful of chips. “Dance moms sound as bad as brides.”
“At least you can be done with a bride once her wedding is over. I’m stuck with these mothers for years unless I tell them to take a hike.”
“So tell them to take a hike.” Mia shrugged, as if it were that easy.
“I can’t. If one of my competitive dancers leaves, more will follow. The loudmouth ones have a lot of influence.” I dropped my forehead to the cool marble. “I’m a smaller studio as it is, and it’s hard to compete with the big powerhouses that have a thousand kids and five huge rooms and mega bucks. I have to deal with them. But I have to stop taking their phone calls at night.” And do something else with my time, like . . . . No! Stop it! No more Charlie Dwyer thoughts. You can’t escape into a fantasy this time. You have actual problems here. Face them.
“They have your phone number?”
In my mind, I grabbed a fly swatter, knocked the wasp to the ground and stomped on it.
When I was sure it was dead, I picked my head up and nodded miserably. “I gave it out last year as part of this whole Better Communication campaign. Told them to call me with questions or concerns at any time.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” Mia asked, her eyes wide.
I groaned. “I wasn’t. I had no idea what I was in for—now they email me and text me and call me twenty-four seven with all their complaints. Tonight a mom caught me in the parking lot to tell me that her daughter can’t be at the mandatory choreography session tomorrow because she’s going to an audition for a ketchup commercial. Ketchup!” I yelled, as if it were ketchup’s fault. “Yesterday I would have said ‘OK, fine’ but today I summoned all my courage and told her she’s out of the piece if she can’t make it.”
“Good for you,” cheered Mia. “You’re too nice. Except to your plants.” She glanced at my windowsill.
“Look, I have bigger problems than my plants, OK?” I said miserably. “There’s a leak in the studio ceiling, the paint is peeling in the lobby, and the wood floor in the downstairs studio is totally warped. The entire place needs a very expensive makeover.” My voice was shaking by now, my throat tight. “And I knew that when I took over and totally planned to take care of it. But I’ve been so busy with the day-to-day management and teaching, I haven’t had time to get to all that.” Tears spilled over, and I pressed my fingertips to my eyes.
I kind of wanted the wasp back.
“Erin, you don’t have to do all this alone. We can help you,” Mia said.
“Of course we can,” Coco added. “I wish you’d have said something before.”
“Thanks, but I know you guys are busy. You’ve got houses to renovate and weddings to plan and husbands and fiancés and grandmothers to manage, not to mention a business to run.” I sat up a little taller. “Actually, you know what? It helps just to talk about it.” I did feel a little better now that I finally admitted to someone that owning a dance studio wasn’t entirely the dream job I’d thought it would be.
“We are never too busy to help you,” said Mia, commandeering the pen and paper from me. “Now let’s make a to-do list for you. It’s easier to face a lot of work if you have a plan. You should start by hanging those shades in here. Tomorrow.” She looked down at me pointedly.
“OK.” I emptied my wine glass and set it down. “I think I need a drill.”
“We have a drill. I’ll ask Lucas where it is.”
“So do we,” Coco added. Then she grinned. “Or you could call that cop. He looks like he’d be handy with a drill.”
Yes! Drill me, Charlie Dwyer. Hard!
“No way.” I shook my head. “Charlie Dwyer will do no drilling in this house. Ever.” Coco took a sip of her wine, looking at me over the top of the glass as if she knew better.
Confession: Part of me hoped she did. Certain parts, anyway.
***
When the wine bottle was empty, we rinsed our glasses, double-checked the locks again, and went upstairs. Mia and Coco took the guest room, which held the trundle sleigh bed from my childhood room, and I went to my room to get them some comfortable clothes to sleep in.
On my way I ducked into the bathroom to grab the Box and Naughty Rabbit from under the sink. Not that Mia or Coco would be so shocked if they saw those things, but they were much more open about sex than I was. They talked freely about doing things I’d only fantasized about.
And I fantasized a lot.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t had good sex—I had. At least I thought I had. It’s just that I’d dated such nice guys. Guys my mother adored and whose mothers adored me, said what a sweet girl I was. Guys who treated me like gold. Guys who would never steal a hamster or hold up a lemonade stand. Guys who would pretend they hadn’t seen the fuzzy handcuffs in the bathroom.
Gentlemen.
But I could never bring myself to be totally honest with a gentleman about the things I wanted sexually. I felt like it would be too shocking, like maybe if they knew the things in my head, they’d think I wasn’t the girl they (and their mothers) believed me to be.
And to be honest, I'd never experienced any of the insane chemistry I saw between Coco and Nick or Mia and Lucas, so holding back hadn’t been that difficult. Now, this could be because one boyfriend came out shortly after our relationship fizzled, and the other decided to join the priesthood. (I’m not even kidding. Those were my two serious relationships—a gay man and a priest.) Anyway, it would be nice to find someone with that spark.
Until then, there was work to be done, there was late-night wine with friends, and there was Charlie Dwyer and the Naughty Rabbit.
Damn it—I meant Brad Pitt. There was Brad Pitt and the Naughty Rabbit.
Although next time, I might put him in uniform.
He had to have been a cop in something, right?
Find out what happens at Erin’s townhouse—and afterward—in FLOORED, the final novel in The Frenched Series, by Melanie Harlow.
Book 1: Frenched . . . http://amzn.to/1xZ69hk
Book 1.5: Yanked . . . http://amzn.to/1D2YwbY
Book 2: Forked . . . http://amzn.to/1yVnbP3
Book 3: Floored . . . http://amzn.to/1v1mj5M
OFFICE SPACE
Sara Mack
“Piece of shit!”
Ripping open the copier door, Aubrey tried to extract yet another piece of jammed paper. As she tried to remove the document carefully, it tore. She cursed under her breath as the top quarter of the page remained trapped just beyond the reach of her fingertips. Her frustration level soared as she contemplated kicking the machine. Where was a baseball bat when you needed it? This was at least the tenth piece of paper it had eaten today. If the damn professional tutors would just copy their own shit . . .
“Hmmmmmm . . . wrrrrrrrrrr . . . crunch.”
“Oh my.”
Aubrey closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew that sound and the voice behind her. One of her student workers, Leslie, had jammed the paper shredder.
Again.
“Um, Aubrey?” Leslie asked timidly. “I think I may have clogged the shredder.”
You fucking think? Aubrey fought to maintain her composure. How many times had she told Leslie you can’t feed thirty pages through the machine at once? How many hours has she spent unclogging the damn thing, meticulously pushing and pulling the trapped paper with a pair of scissors? She usually ended up with a broken nail and two or three slices on her fingers from the blades.
“Just leave it,” Aubrey snapped, not bothering to turn around. She crouched down to get a better look at the paper stuck in the copier. There was no way in hell it was coming out of there without the machine being taken apart. She eyed the screws that held the thing together and
briefly contemplated hunting down a screwdriver.
“Forget this,” she said as she stood, slamming the copier door. She had other, more important things to get done today. She hastily grabbed a piece of paper, pulled her favorite Pentel RSVP fine point pen from behind her ear, and made a sign. DO NOT USE.
I don’t get paid enough, she thought to herself. I’m an Admin, not a miracle worker.
Turning off the copier to prevent further issues—she knew at least one employee would try to use the thing regardless of her note—she turned around to face the shredder. What she saw nearly made her head explode. Along with the thick, stuck stack of papers hanging out of the top, the floor of the copy room was littered with shredded confetti. Silently, she added another level to her Anger Meter. She thought she had five levels of fury. Today’s events were fast creating a sixth.
“Aubrey?”
She heard her boss just before his body appeared in the doorway. “Ah, there you are. How are those budget projections coming?”
“Slowly,” she said honestly, stepping over the pile of shredded confetti. “Nothing seems to work right today.” She gestured toward the equipment.
Her boss, Peter Mitchell, glanced from the copier to the mess on the floor with a frown. “Leave it,” he said. “Call for repair. I need those budgets by five.”
Aubrey nodded and headed out of the room to her desk. Crunching numbers was something she actually liked to do, and she had already completed half her task before she was asked to make copies of the tutor’s daily record sheets. As she took a seat, she grabbed her can of Monster and threw back a few gulps. Let’s do this.
She opened her computer and searched the directory for the equipment repair line. After placing the call for help, she maximized her Excel screen and went back to completing her projections. Near the end of the accounts, something wasn’t adding up right. She quickly went back to the college’s database to pull up the correct XGRT screens for reference, but they were locked.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” she muttered under her breath. She sent her department’s accountant an instant chat message.
Aubrey: Why are the XGRT screens locked?
Samantha: What? They shouldn’t be.
Aubrey: Mine are.
Samantha: Let me check on it.
Aubrey drummed her fingers against the desktop. The accountant responsible for her department’s information was confused and scattered most of the time. Might as well peruse Pinterest, she thought as she set to clicking. “Nice,” she said aloud as she found a recipe that included copious amounts of bacon.
Her chat beeped.
Samantha: I can’t find the problem and everyone is gone. It’s 4 on Friday and I’m the only one here.
Aubrey groaned and responded: It worked an hour ago. What changed?
Samantha: I don’t know.
“Of course you don’t,” Aubrey muttered. How was she going to finish this project in time? It’s already four. Was she supposed to make up the numbers?
Aubrey: You should call ITS
Samantha: What’s ITS?
What?! Aubrey’s eyes bulged at her response and she resisted pounding her head against the desk. Is she kidding?
Aubrey: Information Technology Services. They fix the computers.
Samantha: I think it’s on your end. I’m logged in just fine.
Wait. She’s logged in?
Aubrey: You’re logged into my budgets?
Samantha: Yeah. I was updating some things.
Aubrey’s nostrils flared. She had reached the sixth level of Anger. Samantha should know only one person at a time can log into the same account if it’s not in read-only mode.
Aubrey: That’s the problem! Log out so I can get in!
Samantha: Oops! Sorry. My bad.
My bad? How Samantha is still employed here Aubrey would never know.
Samantha: I’m out.
Thank the Lord Jesus.
Over the next 45 minutes, Aubrey worked diligently to complete her task. Numerous times she had to analyze accounting’s numbers versus her own. Why don’t they match up? It was beyond ridiculous. Samantha’s over there screwing off, she thought, and I’m the one figuring out her mistakes.
With five minutes to spare, Aubrey emailed the projections with a lengthy explanation to her boss as to why her figures didn’t necessarily match up to what accounting had. As she began to shut down her computer, Mr. Mitchell appeared in front of her desk.
“Did you send the projections?”
Aubrey nodded.
“Good. Listen, I checked out the copy room and those machines are pretty messed up. I know you placed a call for service, but I sped up the process a bit. Do you mind staying until they’re repaired? The company has someone on the way and they can’t be in the office alone. I’ll give you comp time for your trouble.”
Aubrey’s mouth fell open and she instantly shut it. So much for taking the days frustrations out at the gym! She glanced around the darkened office; half the lights were already turned out. Of the twenty or so people who worked here, she and Mr. Mitchell were the only two left. Obviously he wasn’t staying. How could she say no? Letting out a defeated sigh, she begrudgingly said, “Yeah, I’ll stay.”
“Great! Email me when you leave, and I’ll add the comp hours to your bank.”
Aubrey gave him a sarcastic smile as he walked away, whistling. Clearly he was in a good mood. Off to see his new girlfriend, perhaps?
Aubrey’s shoulders sagged as she opened her internet browser. Since she was alone, she fully intended to spend the next few hours listening to Spotify, commenting on Facebook, and one-clicking books for her Kindle on Amazon.
Fifteen minutes into her one-clicking frenzy, her stomach growled. Mr. Mitchell conveniently forgot she may need to eat at some point. Yanking open her top desk drawer, she reached toward the back and found her emergency Butterfinger. This most definitely qualified as an emergency. Tearing the wrapper and taking a large bite, she continued to scroll through the free books on Amazon and sway in her seat to “The Lion Fell in Love with the Lamb” by the Twilight Orchestra. This instrumental never got old.
“Excuse me?”
Aubrey jumped at the sudden presence of a man in front of her desk. “Ohmigod!” A few chunks of Butterfinger flew from her mouth.
In the shadowed light of the nearly-dark office, she could make out his smirk and barely see his eyes dart from her to her Butterfinger spit. It landed on her desk in front of him. “Ah . . . I’m looking for the copy room? Someone said you have an emergency on your hands?”
Aubrey blinked as she swallowed. Where was the stereotypical portly, bald, butt-crack showing repair man? This guy looked to be around her age with a full head of tousled dark hair and dark eyes to match. His jaw hinted at a five o’clock shadow and when he smiled at her lack of response, he revealed perfectly straight white teeth.
He leaned forward a little, and she got a whiff of delicious cologne. “Hello?” he asked.
Aubrey snapped to. “Yes!” she said and stood abruptly. “We do have an emergency. Follow me.”
She stepped around her desk and led Hot Fix-It Guy to the copy room. As she walked, she tried to quell her embarrassment of spitting at him and worked her tongue to rid her teeth of anything candy-related. She also subconsciously smoothed her black skirt over her hips. Where did this guy come from?
“In here.” She gave him a sheepish smile when they entered the room. The light was on in this particular part of the office, and Aubrey’s breath hitched at catching a glimpse of the stranger’s face. Holy hotness! “The copier has a paper jam and ah . . . .so does the shredder.”
He glanced at the shredder in all its jacked-up glory and grinned. “I’d say so.”
He dropped his bag with a thud and kneeled down on one knee to open it. He pulled a myriad of tools from the case, setting them side by side, and then rummaged around to find a bottle of something that looked like oil. Aubrey stood transfixed by the way his arms mo
ved, the muscles in his biceps flexing and pressing against the short sleeve of his XEROX shirt. She could even make out the bottom of a tattoo on his left arm as his shirt sleeve rose with his movements. He perused the tools, selected a screwdriver, and glanced up at Aubrey with a smile. “You gonna stay and watch?”
Aubrey’s face turned red. “Um, n-no,” she stammered. “I’ll let you do your thing.”
Reluctantly, she stepped around him and made it through the doorway. As she glanced back, she found the shredder door open and Hot-Fix-It Guy on his knees, bent forward to peer under the shredder, unscrewing the top. She couldn’t help but notice how nicely his pants formed around his ass and she caught herself staring.
“I can feel you standing there,” he said into the hollow space beneath the shredder.
Shit! How embarrassing! She quickly made her way to her desk and sat down. Her eyes caught the glisten of her earlier candy-laden gleek and she hurriedly wiped her desk with a Clorox wipe. Could this day get any worse? She propped her elbow on the arm of her chair and set her chin on her hand. Sighing, she continued to scroll through Amazon. Book boyfriends were better anyway. Not that she stood a chance with this guy. She spit at him. And stuttered. And stared. He probably thought she was some sort of creeper.
Agonizing minutes passed. Since she and Studly were the only two there, she heard the whir of the shredder when it was operational again. She heard him move on to the copier, opening doors, and unhinging latches. As she lost herself in Facebook posts, he appeared out of the corner of her eye. As he approached her desk, he asked, “Can you help me in here for a sec?”
Hells yeah! Aubrey slowly stood and nodded, so as not to give away her enthusiasm. She made her way to the copy room where Studly said, “I need you to hold this up.” He gestured to the top of the copier. “The latch is broken and it won’t stay. I’ll place an order for the part.”
Angels & Sinners: The Motor City Edition Page 26
