by Kelly Wood
“I get that now. I am sorry. Truly sorry.”
“I didn’t even get the words out, and you ran. You looked like I had stabbed you in the back!”
“You did! You know how I feel about marriage.”
“I know your illogical thoughts on it. I thought after all our time together, you’d have seen clearly how it would actually be between us.” He stopped pacing to face me.
“I do. Now. Now, I get it,” I said.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“And, now it’s my turn to trust you when you couldn’t trust me before.”
I finally saw the true blunder of my ways. It wasn’t an ‘I’m sorry and we’ll move on’ moment. It was a trust issue. One coming from both sides. I didn’t trust Gray to talk through my feelings, and now he didn’t trust me to stay. This was much deeper than I had thought.
“It was a momentary lapse in judgment. It won’t happen again.”
“Regan, you can’t say that. You don’t know. But, I do know that something else will happen, something that will scare you. It will rock you to your core, and you can’t say positively what you’d do. And I can’t say positively what I would do.”
“How do we fix this? Can we—no scratch that, I know we can. What do I need to do to prove it?”
Gray leaned against the door, his steel-gray eyes pierced my soul. My breathing slowed down as I waited for him to answer. The moments stretched on until I felt like I would shatter with one touch. I felt exposed having that conversation in nothing but a bikini and towel. Gray was wearing nothing but his swim trunks, oblivious to it.
“Commitment.”
“I said—”
“No, Regan. A true commitment. Before God, our families, our friends. It’s ‘make it or break it’ time.”
“An ultimatum?”
“No, not an ultimatum. I want you to think on this. Talk it through with friends and family. We can’t go back. We can’t stagnate either. We either need to move forward or move on.”
“Does this have to do with what Anais said tonight?” Gray walked toward me and rested his hands on my upper arms. He touched his forehead to mine. The tips of our noses almost touched.
“No. Maybe. Ultimately, it has to do with us. I want a wife. I want you as my wife. We don’t have to have the picket fence and two-point-two kids, but we do have to have the commitment. I don’t want to play house anymore.” He kissed me. A long, chaste kiss.
“Will I see you while I am thinking about things?”
“We’ll see.” And he left.
Chapter Twenty
"Let's start our day with Mimosas. I need one." Peter handed me a glass.
"This is more like a tank of mimosas,” I said, holding up the pint glass.
"That was the best, and worst, dinner party I have ever thrown," Peter said.
"I had nightmares last night about it. I hate snakes," I said.
Peter and I were back in the restaurant trying to motivate ourselves for work. I was exhausted from all of the drama. The reports I needed to start payroll checks were mocking me from the printer, but I couldn't seem to motivate myself. Instead, I was sitting in an office desk chair spinning in a lazy circle.
"At least the food was good," I said, trying to point out the silver lining on the evening. Desk, door, wall, desk, door, wall.
"True. When Mom said 'drama' last night I thought she meant interesting conversation, not flying snakes."
Jax and Liam had made a hasty exit after the snake incident. I didn't blame them. After Gray left, I tossed and turned in bed all night with the feeling of something moving under my blankets. My skin crawled even thinking about it.
I picked up my reports and skimmed them while sipping my breakfast. Mondays were a relatively slow day for business, but a busy paperwork day. I planned to stay in the office most of the time.
"I'm off to run some errands. I'll be back later. Text if you need anything." Peter kissed my cheek goodbye, leaving as quickly as he had arrived.
I spun around in my chair to face the computer the minute the door clicked shut. I was glad to be alone was because I wanted to look at the credit card totals without someone hovering over me. Part of me wanted to ask Peter about them, but a bigger part of me was nervous. I think Anya’s murder was playing tricks on my mind. All of sudden, I was seeing deception and intrigue around every corner. I rolled my eyes at myself. I should just ask Peter. I tried to talk myself into doing it, but tingles ran up my spine, stopping me. I decided to hold out a little longer. But, I promised I would ask him at some point. Later. Maybe. I logged into the main systems computer and got to work as soon as I was sure that Peter had left the building.
I pulled up the list of credit card batch outs for the last period, looking at each individual date for the totals. Just as Seth had told me, the credit cards swiped in the restaurant were together for each day. I ignored those and looked up the totals for the other ones.
The totals varied for each day, some days as low as two thousand dollars with only two card numbers entered while some were as high as thirty-six thousand dollars, with many cards used. The card numbers were all typed in by hand, not swiped in a card reader. Double weird. That meant there weren’t any signed slips I could look through. And, the restaurant got charged a fee from the credit card company when the card was manually entered. That could add up quickly in unnecessary fees; fees owners usually tried to avoid. The overall total for the period was two hundred and twelve thousand dollars. Due to the privacy policy, I could only see limited information about the card on the computer. I really could’ve used some signed credit card slips.
Okay, so what did that mean?
I sat back in my chair, chewing on a pen cap. At least I now knew where the number of two hundred and twelve thousand dollars came from for the Profits and Loss Report, but where did the actual money come from? I flipped through any calendars I could find. I pulled up the calendar on the computer. Nothing in either referenced what the extra charges were. As a last-ditch effort, I pulled out the Red Book. That was the actual name of the book, not our nickname. The book was oversized and red. Super original. Red Books were used in a restaurant to track activities and for the management staff to write notes about anything happening on their shift. It was a great way to communicate what was going on from day to day when people didn’t always see each other, or to reference old events. I flipped through the last thirty pages. Nothing.
I stared at the computer screen, my mind wandering. I didn't know where to go from here. So far, I had credit card charges minus signed slips and no record of what the charges were for. Working backward from there, it was safe to assume that everyone involved in management knew what the charges were. Therefore, eliminating the need to write anything down.
Seth did refer to the private parties some of the girls worked, but even if that were the case, there had to be a record of who went where, why and for how long. Not to mention the charges incurred.
I went back to spinning my chair. There was only one other place I could go from here. I’d gone through this computer inside and out. I’d searched all of the drawers and loose papers. There was nothing of interest here. The only file I opened that I didn’t understand was a list labeled ‘References.’ Who cared about references? This only left me with one more place to look.
Peter’s house.
I didn’t know if I could rifle through his personal office. I felt no qualms about it here. He asked me to help him here, but, only here. I had never even stepped foot in Peter’s home office before. There’d never been a reason for me. It’d never been specifically called off limits, but it had always just been his space.
What would I get out of going into his home office? That sounded selfish. It wasn’t about me. He had to know these numbers were crazy. I could just ask him why they were so high? That would be the easiest route. But my gut told me not to. I didn’t know why; it was just a feeling. In my experience, Peter knew what the sales figures and cos
ts were, but he never really cared what the exact numbers were as long as we were within our budget for each category. I’d bet money he still felt the same.
I tried to rationalize my behavior. I mean, Peter did ask me to help him with the books. And there was just more information that was needed. What if it was something that could help him? There was something in this for me, too. I had been yanked one way and then the other because of half-truths and omissions. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know so I could make valid decisions instead of others making them for me. I wanted to stop making decisions on emotions alone. It’d gotten me into enough hot water already.
It was settled. I would most definitely check the files at the condo. When I was alone. No sense in bothering Peter. He had too much on his plate as it was. I stopped pondering my own fate and got down to actual work.
If it all made so much sense, why did I feel guilty already?
Not that it would stop me.
Chapter Twenty-One
I was just finishing up payroll checks when Peter walked back in. I had all of the checks printed out and was holding them in my hand with copies of each in my bag.
"How's it hanging?" I asked.
"A little lower than it used to, but good." He dumped his bag on the desk; Salsa, chips and cottage cheese spilled out. Peter would never starve to death. He had carried around these staples, along with a full pack of cigarettes, for as long as I had known him. He quit smoking years ago but carried the pack with him in case of a terrorist attack on Chicago. He said he would go down eating his favorite foods and smoking like a chimney.
"What's up with these checks? Some of these girls are making thousands of dollars. How is that even possible?" I asked. I had been staring at these checks for an hour now. At first, I thought I’d made a mistake when entering the numbers. Nope. Maybe I accidentally changed their hourly pay rate, causing the math to come out wrong. Nope. Bartenders and servers made good money for hours worked, but nothing like this. And, they usually took it home with them each night in cash.
Peter’s eyes widened like a deer in headlights for a brief second, but so quickly it was almost unnoticeable. If I hadn't been looking directly at him, I would’ve missed the expression altogether. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn't have believed it. Could Peyton be right? Could something nefarious be going on here? Did he get mixed up with something? Could he be the “something”? I didn’t like that thought at all.
But what? Blackmail? Money laundering? I shook my head at my crazy imagination. I obviously read way too many mystery novels. This was Peter for crying out loud. I knew him as well as I knew my actual siblings.
"We started outsourcing the prettier girls. People or companies hire them to work private events, company parties at CEO estates . . . Things like that. Since the girls aren't working for tips at the events, we build a commission into the party prices for them."
“The pretty girls? You’d better watch yourself with the feminists with that comment.”
“Yes, the pretty girls. I don’t care if you are fat. I don’t care if you have acne running down your face and chest as long as you are a good worker. But sex sells. You know that. They know that. They just don’t want to admit it.” Peter sat, slumped really, into the other office chair. “You made better tips behind the bar than the other girls because of your looks.”
“I thought it was because of my sparkling personality?” Peter leveled me with a look. That must be a no. I let the comment slide and moved on to work.
"That explains why the wage line is so high on the PNL." I looked at the check in my hand. "You’re paying the girls eight hundred dollars an hour for these events? That's crazy high. How are you making money? How did the parties even start?"
"It’s actually one thousand dollars per hour that we charge the customer. The pub gets twenty percent of the hourly wage," Peter said.
"That's ridiculous!"
"It is what it is, Regan." Peter spun around to face me. He leaned forward, taking my hands in his. "Regan, you remember what the numbers were like when you left. We were on a slippery slope. If the sales had kept going down, then I would've had to close the pub." Peter took a deep breath, pausing for a moment.
I squeezed his hands back in reassurance. I did remember. At the time, restaurants were closing at an alarming rate throughout the city. With the economy in shambles, eating and drinking out was the first thing to be cut from any budget, leaving restaurants and bars empty of patrons and just scraping by.
"I hired Anya at a lower salary, trying to cut money wherever I could. Then I stopped using a party planner to save on her salary. That’s when Anya had the idea of outsourcing the girls. We decided to give it a shot. Anything we could think of to get more business." Peter leaned in even closer to me, pulling my eyes to his. Our noses were almost touching.
"That one idea saved us. We started getting regular requests, and the bar started picking up again since the new clients were coming here for lunch, too."
"Peter, I get it. I'm just . . . I don't know . . ." Something still felt off to me, but I was reluctant to say anything to him yet.
"Regan, its fine. I was just as shocked when I saw how well it was going. I ended up restructuring our bonus system because of it. Managers now get ten percent of the miscellaneous gross sales. Private parties pay for everything, so the money the pub makes is able to stay with the pub."
I picked up the PNL report from the desk, glancing at the numbers as we talked. The Miscellaneous Sales columns ranged this year from one hundred thousand dollars to three hundred and fifty-four thousand dollars in each period. Doing some quick math in my head, I said, "You and Anya each made ninety-five thousand dollars in bonuses this year alone? PLUS, your regular salaries?" An airplane could’ve landed in my mouth, it was hanging open so wide. When I worked here, we made some good bonuses, but nothing compared to these numbers. A good bonus before was a new pair of Jimmy Choos, not a dozen new pairs.
"You should be happy. I'm paying you your old salary for the help, PLUS the new bonus system. It’s more than you make off of one of your little books."
Okay, now he was just being mean. I started writing travel books a few years ago. They would never be a New York Times bestseller, but they paid the bills. They also allowed me and Gray to keep traveling. I was hurt that Peter would put them down. He knew the hard work, time and love that I put into each one. It was a low blow on his part. I pulled my hands from his.
“Regan, I’m sorry. Just, enough with the questions. I know you don’t like change, but things have changed since you’ve been gone. Just work with it.”
“I don’t mind change.” Even I heard the defensiveness in my voice.
“Oh, please. You like your world your way and have never liked playing by others’ rules.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means to loosen up. Just do the job I am paying you for.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
I sat back in my chair, exhaustion taking over. I hated when Peter and I got snippy with each other. I always had. The conversation replayed in my head. Peter was right; five years ago, the pub was in a downward swing in sales. Some months were running in the red, but it was still making some money overall. It was the life of a restaurant owner, especially in Chicago, with the amount of dining and drinking options offered for people to choose from. Restaurants here could go from the hot spot to a ghost town in one day. The only places that were super consistent were the tourist traps. Vacationers didn’t care what was actually popular in the city, they wanted to go to that one place their friend told them about six years ago.
I remembered worrying about the numbers on more than a few nights before I quit. Smart restaurateurs closed down before they lost their shirts. I worried many nights that we were on that path. I loved the pub almost as much as Peter and Anais. I was glad they were able to turn it around. I had just never seen a business turn around so well.
Chap
ter Twenty-Two
I hid out in the office, answering emails and paying bills for the rest of the afternoon. I double-checked the numbers on the PNL, making sure all of the invoices and payments were entered correctly. The numbers all matched. Everything was totaling to what it should, even with the crazy amounts that Peter was pulling in with the private events and ridiculously high hourly wages. By the end of the afternoon, my mind was a fog of numbers. I enjoyed this work, but it was very draining. It was actual work. Since letting my creative side out, I’d found writing didn’t feel like work. I felt accomplished with it, not drained. My cell phone ringing jolted me out of my reverie. I smiled as I brought the phone to my ear.
“What’s cookin’?” I asked Gray.
“Hey, babe. How’s your day?”
“Good. Weird.”
“Such as?” Should I share my suspicions? My mind was still warring with Gray’s ultimatum. Let’s call a spade a spade. That’s exactly what it was. But, my heart had already decided. It was decided years ago when we first met. I knew then that Gray was different. Different from others I had dated. Different from what others’ expectations in a partner were. I had always loved that, but through all of his uniqueness in how to live life, he had a strong throwback to the past. He believed in marriage. He believed in a strong family unit. It was one of the things that attracted him to me when we met. I came from a strong family unit. I had just tried to ignore it and run from it, sometimes.
I wanted to tell Gray I had made up my mind, but I decided to give it a few days for my head to catch up. I wanted our future to be free from roadblocks. Especially the ones I tended to throw in front of myself. I was my own worst enemy. Knowing it and understanding it still didn’t make it easy to overcome.
“I need a little bit more time,” I said.
