by Tamara Allen
“It’s been a while.”
“I guessed as much.” His thumb brushed the damp corner of my eye, and he kissed me lightly on the jaw. “Coming back to life—it smarts a little.”
I sucked in a breath and let it out on a laugh. “Smarts like hell. In every way.” But it felt damned good, all the same. “Casey . . .” Though I was well past any excuse for shyness, I felt self-conscious. “Why didn’t you just let me walk away?”
“After you kissed me?”
I nodded and his lips curved wickedly. “You can blame Louise.”
“Louise Nowell? What—”
“She called you the office curmudgeon. Our pet curmudgeon, I believe she said.” He eyed me with a more serious air. “I figured twenty-five was too young for that—”
“Twenty-four.”
“Even worse. But you didn’t seem to want to be friends, so I was ready to give up.” He threaded fingers in my hair and tugged gently in reproach. “Then you kissed me and—well, goddamn. They say you can tell a lot about a man by the way he kisses.” The grip in my hair loosened, fingers cradling the nape of my neck. The blue eyes were as frank as ever. “I guess that includes whether or not he needs to be kissed back.”
Shaken, I broke from his gaze. “You’re taking pity on me, then.”
His free hand circled my wrist, guiding my hand toward his open trousers and up against the solid length of his cock. “Does that feel like pity?”
I closed my hand around him, firming my grip, and his tightened convulsively on my wrist before letting go. My hesitant stroke made him groan, and he buried his face in my neck. “Speaking of pity . . .” He was gasping softly as he raised his head. “For God’s sake, take it.”
I rolled over, pinning him, and his hips rose, his cock a warm weight sliding in my grasp. He exhaled, hot and close, in my ear. “Knew you liked me . . . deep down.”
I answered the joking tone with a stroke that made him snake both arms around me and drag me against his chest. Heartfelt encouragement—and something more. He hadn’t been teasing. He liked me. He hoped I would like him as much . . . The thought overwhelmed me.
I could’ve liked him from the day we met. He hadn’t prevented it. I had.
Now I was helpless against the desire to make up for it. I wanted to stay the night—hell, part of me hoped morning would never come. But it did, and the battle loomed, a battle for which I’d lost all heart. Casey was as quiet as I while we dressed, but at the door, he caught my arm. “You don’t want to talk about this?”
“We might be smarter not to.”
His mouth twisted. “Not even a good luck, may the best man win, and all that?”
I sensed he was trying not to grin. “May the better man, isn’t it?”
He snorted, and the grin emerged. “The one with the working comptometer?”
“That would be me.”
“Unless I beat you to the office.”
“Ah, but I’m under doctor’s orders not to run.”
“Then I’ll definitely beat you.”
Laughing, I leaned in until we were nearly nose to nose. “Just try.”
He swiftly blocked my exit with an arm and pressed warm lips to my ear. “Whatever happens . . . Meet me for supper? Six o’clock at Childs. The big one on Broadway.”
By nightfall, one of us might well be jobless. I wanted to tell myself I didn’t care. I had the feeling he was trying to convince himself of the same. “Supper. Come what may.”
Slowed by my trip home to change my clothes, I walked into the office to find one of Mr. Templeton’s tardy slips on my desk. Casey cast an impish glance my way. “Minutes wasted add up quickly, Mr. Wetherly.”
I picked up the slip and tore it neatly in two. Then four. Then eight. Casey’s eyes widened, and he shook his head just as I tossed the paper over my shoulder—and judging by the throat-clearing behind me, into Mr. Templeton’s face.
“Mr. Wetherly, that late notice was for your edification. May I ask why you’ve ripped it up and hurled at me in this manner?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were behind me.”
“So I assumed. And the reason you destroyed it?”
“It wasn’t relevant.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Something contrary had gotten hold of me. “To the task at hand. Per your instructions, Mr. Templeton.”
The low chatter around us had died away. Everyone seemed dumbfounded, all but Casey, who watched me with a narrowed gaze. He shook his head again, a warning I thought rather sweet. I’d made my choice.
“Mr. Templeton, I do apologize for tearing up the notice. Especially as I’m giving you notice that I no longer care to be your test subject. You’ve thrown me and Mr. Gladwin into a sort of no man’s land, expecting only one of us to prove worthy of retaining this position. Mr. Leach said that if it didn’t suit us to be so judged, we should request a character reference. You may not care to give me one.” I shot Casey a resolute glance as he started to rise. “I have to be honest. I don’t think this is a decent way to treat any of us. We all work like the devil. You may think turning us into automatons will spare Security Mutual a few of the troubles everyone’s been facing, but in the end, it’ll do more harm than good.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Templeton sputtered. “There is always room for improvement, Mr. Wetherly. One must compete if one is to survive—”
“I’m familiar with the way the world works. Maybe I’ve just seen too much ugliness in the last couple of years. Too many good men set at odds because someone higher up thought it was the only way to fix things.” He started to speak, and I raised a hand. “I’ll save you wasting any more words on me. Mr. Leach is in his office, isn’t he?”
“I believe so,” Mr. Templeton said stiffly.
He didn’t object as I headed for the elevator. Loud whispering went on behind me, and I did my best to ignore it. No one would stop me.
Except perhaps Casey. He reached the elevator as I did, clamping a hand on the gate before I could open it. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I didn’t want to win the job that way.”
“Did it occur to you I didn’t want to win it this way?”
It hadn’t. Nor had it occurred to me he’d be so angry. “This wasn’t an impulsive decision. I didn’t like being pitted against you. I didn’t like what I was willing to do to get you fired—”
“I told you last night none of that mattered. You did the right thing. You don’t have to quit out of guilt—”
“I’m not.” I lowered my voice. “All those weeks overseas, I was little more than a serial number. A number moved from one town to another, one trench to another. An expendable number facing the possibility of coming home in a pine box.” I pulled the gate wide and stepped into the elevator. “There has to be more to life than measurable benefits. What about values we can’t calculate in hours or dollars? If this is all we fought for . . .” My throat tightened, and I could only shake my head. Casey stared at me, seemingly speechless, as I jabbed the ground floor button. The ache in my throat was spreading to my chest, and I had no desire to see Mr. Leach or anyone else. I didn’t know where I was going. I just needed to go.
Lost in my thoughts, I wandered Manhattan until I was as lost in body. I took perverse pleasure in feeling even more displaced—and yet some still-practical side of me kept watch for help wanted signs. I’d wash dishes, paint rooms, maybe even clerk somewhere, and I’d get by. But if Dad were let go, it’d be a struggle for all of us.
I’d been hasty in quitting, but I couldn’t regret it. Casey needed the job. He’d come too close to that trip home in a pine box, and he was harboring plenty of his own worries. He also had his pride, and wounding it was the one thing I did regret. My attraction to him had taken me by surprise—but not as much as his to me. He’d been so sympathetic the night before, and I’d been clumsy and shy in trying to bring him the same pleasure. Still, he’d put himself cheerfully at my mercy until he had me convinced
that no one, not even Sam, would have satisfied him so well. He’d joked that we’d both be fired in the morning, and he’d fallen asleep beside me as if we’d been together for ages.
The pleasure and comfort in that stayed with me all day. I didn’t want to lose it.
I didn’t want to lose him. In the busy, brightly-lit Childs, I took a table near the expanse of plate glass looking out onto Broadway and wondered what I might say to encourage him to give me another chance. I’d fallen out of practice with life—and each time I tried to step back in, I missed my footing. He’d forgiven me once. But now, as the hour slipped past and the crowd thinned without revealing Casey’s smiling visage, I acknowledged that maybe he’d had enough.
Settling the bill for my meager supper of toast and coffee, I started for the subway, only to end up on a long, cold walk east. I couldn’t go home and crawl into bed without knowing, one way or another, whether he wanted to see me again. Though I’d dealt myself enough blows for one day, I didn’t care. Not knowing was worse.
I stood at his door for five minutes before finding the courage to knock. He might have company, he might be asleep, he might be too angry to talk to me . . .
He might be out. And I knew where. Even if I’d had the address, I could not intrude.
The weight of the day had grown in the past few hours, enough to bow my shoulders as I sought seclusion in a crowded train and then along a street too busy with cordial neighbors. Home loomed, but the sight didn’t comfort me. I’d be sleeping with ghosts again, if I could sleep at all. I didn’t recall smiling at Casey that day, three months ago. I’d been in no frame of mind for it. But something about him had probably drawn it out of me, despite my fear; the same something that was pulling me back into the rhythms of the world I’d left behind. He’d provoked and maddened and cajoled and encouraged, and in the end, it had been wonderful. At least for one night.
If there was comfort in knowing life could be wonderful again, I resisted it as I mounted the steps and felt around in my pocket for my house key. I did take some grim satisfaction in noting the porch light was off. My folks were out. I wouldn’t have to face them till morning. As soon as I was employed, I had to get out on my own, even if that left me in the most wretched circumstance. In between missteps, I would surely find some solid ground.
My eyes burned. Goddamn my stupidity, anyway.
“Foster?”
The keys slipped out of my grasp and clattered to the ground. Trying to recover breath and voice, I peered into the dimness beyond the climbing nasturtiums and saw him on the porch swing—but only for an instant before he sprang up and bounded toward me. “Where on earth have you been? For God’s sake.” But he was smiling—no, grinning broadly as he grabbed my shoulders and leaned in, brow touching mine. His clandestine kiss. “I’ve been looking high and low. I was scared you’d left town.”
“You’ve been looking for me?” I could manage nothing more intelligent. I was still reeling. “I thought—”
“Yeah, I know.” He drew back, tilting his head, grin fading into a regretful smile. “I was sore at first. I’ll admit I don’t like anyone taking pity on me—”
“I wasn’t—”
“No, but the situation I’m in, it made a difference. Maybe you hated the way Mr. Leach went about choosing between us, but if you’d still been seeing me as the annoying son of a bitch who stole your comptometer, you would have stuck it out.”
“I was a little impulsive. But I was glad to be.” I wanted him to understand. “You don’t realize how long I’ve been living with this terrible fear of—everything. I came home from France choked up with it. The world narrowed down around me—I let it—and I lived like that until Mr. Leach called us upstairs, and I had to fight for my job. And that I had to fight you—” I shook my head. “You seemed so well, so comfortable, so damned confident. I didn’t like you very much for that, but the only person I had any right to be angry with was myself.” I let my gaze drift, feeling ashamed again for the things I’d done. “And then you went and goddamned rescued me—”
“Like hell. You rescued yourself.” Casey hesitated, and I caught the smile dawning. He leaned in, tone teasing. “Except for this afternoon, I guess I should say.”
I’d never seen him look so happy. “For God’s sake. What?”
“After you left, I tried to catch up to stop you from talking to Mr. Leach. Only you weren’t upstairs, so I talked to Mr. Leach on my own.”
As pleased as Casey seemed, I waited in dread for the rest. “Did you tell him I quit?”
“I told him you and I both knew what it was like in a world that valued efficiency over humanity. And in fact, we weren’t the only ones among his employees who could describe that world to him in all its bloody detail. I told him I understood that he was looking after his company as he thought best, but I was a little too battle weary to turn against any more of my colleagues. Mr. Leach said he understood and asked if I would like to wait for a character reference or have it mailed.”
“Oh, Casey—”
“Hold on a minute. That’s merely Act One. When I went downstairs to clean out my desk—debating cleaning yours, as well—I was besieged by nearly everyone on the fourth floor, all of them desperate to hear if we’d both been fired. When I brought them up to date, well . . .” He grinned again suddenly. “Act Two. They marshalled the troops with a swiftness that would’ve made old Templeton weep.”
“For you?”
“For us,” Casey said gently. “They snuck away to say their piece to Mr. Leach. Templeton caught wind of it and . . .” He laughed. “You’ll never believe—”
“You’re driving me mad, you know.”
Casey acknowledged it with a nod. “Act Three. Templeton went upstairs and told Mr. Leach that apart from a few minor aberrations ostensibly induced by the conflict they’d created between us, you and I were two of the best, most capable employees in the company.”
I had to gasp for breath. “And?”
“Mr. Leach came down to the fourth floor and announced no one else would be let go until he’d made a thorough review, decided what changes in direction might provide a more overall efficiency to take us through the new year—and we’d see how things progressed after that.”
“You’ve still got your job, then.”
Casey nodded. “And so do you.”
“What? But—”
“You never officially quit.” He put an arm around my shoulders and turned me toward the street. “We’re both expected back tomorrow, bright and early.”
In the road below, children were taking advantage of the deepening dusk with a noisy game of hide and seek, briefly interrupted by a streetcar letting loose weary souls in half-buttoned coats and wind-battered hats. But the chorus of cheery greeting that met their arrival and the warm lights beckoning from windows all along the road seemed to bolster flagging spirits and take them the rest of the way home.
“A nice little corner of the world,” Casey said, glancing at me sidelong.
“Yes. I was thinking of moving.”
“Someplace closer to work?”
“Closer. Yes.”
“All alone?”
“Well—”
“It won’t be as nice.”
“No,” I acknowledged. “Not as familiar. Or safe and tidy.”
“You’ve had too good a look at my place,” he said with a laugh.
“Possibly. Although there was something nice about your place. Something homey.” I returned the sidelong glance. “Any rooms to let there?”
“Just one. But you might not like it. Your roommate would be this chatty fellow who’s said to snore. He’s no hand at keeping house and hasn’t much in the way of furniture. And occasionally he gets caught up in things and clean forgets he’s invited anyone to supper.” Casey avoided my glance, but the grimace on his face was apology enough.
“Just remembered?”
The grimace grew more expressive. “Foster—”
“It’s
all right.” I sidled nearer so I could slip fingers around his and squeeze.
He looked at me then and smiled sheepishly. “Told you you might not like it.”
I bumped my shoulder against his. “This fellow sounds all right. He makes up for any shortcomings by doing a good turn. A damned wonderful turn.”
“Well, life’s more interesting that way.” There was quiet appreciation in his voice. He gave my hand the smallest tug. “Come take a look at the place, and I can promise you a bite of supper in the bargain.”
Warm and beckoning. As an invitation back into the world, it suited.
I decided to take it.
About Tamara Allen
Tamara Allen lives in the piney woods north of Houston, Texas, where she spends her time on administrative work, taking care of her family, and writing when she gets the chance.
Contact
Website: writermara.wordpress.com
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: twitter.com/Mara_Allen
“The toast of the ladies this season is the dashing Mr. W——. A certain Lady B—— was recently overheard comparing him to Narcissus in his beauty. Her companion admonished her for comparing the gentleman to so conceited a creature and was heard to remind Lady B—— of his recent honourable defence of his sister. When Mr. W—— heard her name had been impugned in a gentlemen’s club, he challenged the offender to a bout of pugilism in Hyde Park and blackened the fellow’s eyes! Those who are observant may have noted the absence of one Lord E—— from drawing rooms this past fortnight . . .
Sadly. Mr. W—— is man of little fortune—his improvident father has reportedly all but emptied the family coffers, which is no doubt why Miss W—— has just accepted the hand of the wealthy Mr. F——, lately of Manchester—a match that was apparently the subject of one Lord E——’s highly improper remarks and the cause of his recent inclemency . . .”
The London Lady, April 1821
The day on which Lysander Winterbourne’s life changed forever was, for the most part, a very ordinary one.
