by Ried Reese
I’m sure that to anyone who might have happened to walk into my room in the past couple minutes, I probably look like a crazy person. I’ve been clawing at my face like a deranged druggie every fifteen seconds or so since—well since I woke up.
My nose tickles unbearably, and I finally manage to catch hold of the single, wayward strand of blonde hair. With a quick jerk, I pluck it from my head and release it over the side of my bed.
It floats straight back up into my face along a traitorous waft of air from the ceiling fan overhead.
I snarl loudly, batting it away as I flip over violently and bury my face in my pillow. My sigh exhales the last of my oxygen, so I turn over to my back, pull the covers up to my nose, and cover my eyes with my pillow.
There. I’m safe now.
I could have escaped the irritation of my own hair a long time ago by just getting out of bed, but I don’t want to yet. I should rouse my lazy ass and turn off the fan. Humming and banging sounds creep under the gap between my door and the floor, so Gemma is awake. I’m frustrated enough by the tiny annoyance of my ticklish hair to entertain the idea of asking her to turn it off for me. I know she will if I ask—along with some advice about not feeling sorry for myself.
That’s why I don’t call out, even when her shadow zips by on the other side of the door.
I’m not sorry for myself. I’m sorry about disappointing myself. If standing in front of the mirror, staring into my own eyes, and apologizing to myself would alleviate the blame I place upon myself, I wouldn’t hesitate.
I can dance so much better than I danced yesterday. Why didn’t I?
Stormy, blue-gray eyes, rippling, dark-skinned muscles contrasted by a white and gray button-up shirt, and a confident, masculine voice shouldered Brandon into my thoughts for the hundredth time this morning.
Brandon. He didn’t recognize me. For a few brief minutes, I’m thankful for that. But I can’t help but think that during the meeting yesterday afternoon, my quest for mental stability convinced me that muscular, handsome, high-school crush Brandon ruined everything.
None of this was Brandon’s fault. He had distracted me, yes, but before that, before I saw him at all, I still hadn’t been able to learn the routine like the other dancers.
I let a breathy sigh drift through the folds of my blanket. Only one thing comforts me. With this new job, I’ll be able to see Brandon every day, and possibly work with him too. His deep voice will call my name, and I’ll turn, spotting him immediately no matter the number of people renovating the club or the distance between us. He’ll smile, his white teeth standing out against his dark face in a contrast that lights up his features, and he’ll wave me over to him. I’ll listen to what he has to say, then help him quickly with whatever he needs, and he’ll be surprised how fast I can make computations and how good a memory I have for numbers—
Realizing I’m daydreaming again, I draw my knees up under the blanket and curl up tight on my side.
Should I have even accepted this job? Yesterday, uncertainty and fear had torn their way through my mind and decided for me, but now….
House of Stars is Cullen’s dream. Gemma talks about him sometimes—okay, a lot—or maybe all the time, really—and somewhere, buried beneath all the details about his body and passion for Gemma, she has talked about his past and his reasons for spearheading the conception and renovation of House of Stars.
Cullen gave me a chance to live my dream inside his by offering me a job as a showgirl. Then, after I let him, Gemma, and myself down by proving incapable as a dancer, he had offered me another job.
If I can’t cut it as a dancer at House of Stars, what if his faith is misplaced? What if I can’t make it as an accountant either? Entrusting the responsibility of handling his money to a girl who had already failed him once can’t have been an easy choice, and I do not doubt that without my relationship to Gemma, Cullen wouldn’t even think of rehiring me.
But, he has. He came to me, offered me another chance, and I said yes. If not rhythm or natural talent, at least I still have logic. I seldom make mistakes with numbers, I can put aside other concerns and focus, and I’m not afraid of hard work. My short attempt at living my dream didn’t pan out. Boo hoo. Maybe the universe will grant me another chance; perhaps it won’t. Either way, for now, it doesn’t matter.
I have bills and rent to pay, and I’ll excel at accounting and make money to fucking pay them. My determination gives strength to my lackluster muscles. I throw my covers almost off the bed in my newfound energy, stand up, switch off the ceiling fan, and head out into the living room.
“She lives,” Gemma greets me through a mouthful of cereal. She’s sitting on our raggedy old couch and watching Netflix on her laptop. “I was wondering if you were gonna stay in bed all day.”
“I was soul searching,” I say cryptically, searching for the box of cereal myself. “Is Cullen still picking us up?”
“Yep, until we figure something else out.” Gemma gives the laptop a poke. “This thing still tries to sleep while I’m watching stuff.”
“Did I thank Cullen yesterday?” Silence answers my question. I poke my head around the refrigerator door to see Gemma hold out her hands in a what-are-you-talking-about gesture. “After he gave me the accounting job. I can’t remember, and if I didn’t, I need to today.”
“You did. You called him Mr. Roberts again, too.”
My lips thin. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my boss.”
“Yeah, but he feels weird about you calling him that outside the workplace, especially when he comes over here.”
“Too bad.”
Gemma pauses her show as I sit down beside her and put my feet on the couch, balancing the bowl between my chest and knees. “So, you ready to tell me what happened yesterday?”
“I had a shitty day.” It’s the truth, albeit an incomplete truth.
“But you haven’t explained exactly how shitty it was. You never took your eyes of Zinzy and tried hard when we learned the routine, and then when we start practicing it, you couldn’t stop staring around the room. What were you looking for?” A sly smile crosses Gemma’s face when I begin to toy with my cereal. “Or who?”
Gemma and I have made it through some pretty tough spots together and spent years living together. When we lived in our old apartment with its questionable stains, encroaching smells, loud neighbors, and cramped spaces, she always found a way to stay positive. I’m a realist; she’s a dreamer and hopeless romantic. Now that the idea a man might have something to do with my life has entered her mind, she isn’t going to let it go unless I say something.
Rather than let her pester about it constantly, I set my cereal on the old coffee table. “Okay, fine. Back in high school, when you—” I stop and think for a moment. Gemma is a year and a half younger than me, and Brandon are. “Never mind, you wouldn’t know him. Anyway, there was this illegally hot senior—football player, track star, worked out 24/7—you know the type. The whole school knew he planned to enlist to be a Navy SEAL.”
I take a breath while Gemma crosses her legs and settles back to listen. “The way he talked and acted and the people he hung around with, you wouldn’t have believed it, but he had straight A’s. I think he was actually embarrassed about it because stuff like that wasn’t cool with his ‘friends’. A teacher called him out for having the best grade in a physics course once, and he played it off like it was dumb luck.”
“Peer pressure,” Gemma comments. “You’re basically defining high school right now.”
“Listen, you said spill, so I’m spilling,” I silence her, narrowing my eyes. “Anyway, this guy’s name is Brandon, by the way, and he treated me like shit. I had the biggest schoolgirl crush on him, and I actually still believe he had one for me too, for a while.”
“Well, we know where he’ll be, since he’s Rick’s cousin and he’s working for Cullen. Think we can take him together?”
I stare at Gemma sternly. Her brown eyes stare innocently b
ack.
We burst into hearty laughter at the same time and don’t stop until we’re both hiccupping. “N-no,” I managed finally, straightening from where I’ve been doubled over my unfinished cereal and wiping my eyes. “He’s ripped. Anyway, this was a long time ago. I’ve been over it for years.”
“Over ‘it’? Not over ‘him’?” Gemma’s knowing smile makes me roll my eyes. “So what did this Brandon guy do to you?”
“What do you think?” I snorted. “You watch dramatic romance TV shows too much. The hot, sporty senior and the nerdy glasses girl don’t get together IRL. Also—” Gemma isn’t going to judge me. Why am I hesitating? “Also, Brandon is black.”
“Girl, you’re talking to a twenty-two-year-old girl in love with a forty-two-year-old man. Come on. Gimme a better reason.”
“That was the only reason we needed to stay apart back then. You knew my father. He kicked me out for skipping a job interview for a dance lesson. You really think he would have let me date a black man? And Brandon had all these expectations to be the best at everything. I saw his dad once when he came to one of Brandon’s football games. Brandon made one mistake, and all his dad did was berate him for it. It was like he didn’t see his son make all those other great plays.”
I snort again, nibble on my cereal, and drop the spoon back into the bowl when I realize the flakes are limp and soggy. “Imagine the shame if his son had even looked at a nerdy white girl when everyone knew he and that bitch Anaja were destined for each other.”
“Oh, this is making more sense now. I remember Anaja. What did you put in her drink that one time?”
The memory almost makes me smile. Almost. Smiling with soggy cereal and buried memories are hard. “A cockroach, I think. You know I’ve never done anything like that since.”
Gemma’s toying with a loose key on her laptop keyboard and has already forgotten about the cockroach. “You should give Brandon a chance, Taylor.”
“What! Why?” The words blend together in my haste to correct Gemma. I need to be talked out of this, not into it! Now is the time for Gemma to go all protective-best-friend and tell me dating someone from my past who treated me badly is a stupid idea. “I made it pretty clear how I felt back then, Gemma. Anyway, he doesn’t remember me.”
My pause lingers as my mind shoves down memories of ignored words, scathing glances, and laughter. The laughter had never been Brandon’s, but what was the difference if it came from him or the people he associated himself with?
“Okay,” Gemma speaks the word seriously and calmly. She turns fully toward me, swiping her dark brown hair out of her face. “Answer this question honestly, and I’ll leave you alone. Is Brandon the same as he was in high school?”
That stops me short. His smile, the way he casually complimented my dancing and quick math, his open, freely-spoken words, the warmth in his blue-gray eyes instead of the steel I remembered—“No, he’s not,” I answer slowly.
“Then,” Gemma’s voice rings with honesty and conviction, “give him a chance. I don’t mean drop into his arms like a glob of jello. I mean get to know the new Brandon, and if you like what you find, let yourself open up some more.”
My roomie shakes her head at the doubt in my face. “Come on, Taylor. Talk with the man. Find out why he’s not a Navy SEAL, and he’s not married to that Anaja girl.” Her smile becomes suggestive. “Have some sex with him. You sure as hell need it; you’ve been too uptight lately.”
Sex with Brandon. Gemma suggests that as if it isn’t what I’ve been thinking about since I laid eyes on him.
“Cullen and I had some fights and wasted time because we were convinced we would never work,” Gemma persisted. “There’s age, there’s what he used to do for a living, there’s his business—take your pick of obstacles. The only reason it matters that you’re stuck remembering high-school Brandon and that he doesn’t remember you is because you’re letting it matter.”
I sigh. “When did you get smart?”
“You know numbers; I know romance. Now go put on something sexy and catch yourself a hot black hunk.”
Chapter Six: Brandon
“Stopped working,” I echo. I’m standing in House of Stars, my toolbelt strapped about my waist and ready to work on the lighting behind the bar. “What do you mean, the screen room stopped working?”
“Well, not completely,” Cullen says, looking more tired than usual. “I’m sure you’ve seen it. It’s the square room with screens on every wall and the ceiling, meaning it has five screens in all. The one on the ceiling and one of the wall screens aren’t working.”
“Is it the screens themselves? If it’s the screens themselves, it’s a problem for the manufacturer, not an electrician, because the product is faulty.” My stomach sinks lower the longer this conversation continues.
“They’re brand new and had great reviews, and I doubt that two out of five would be faulty. Seems a little unlucky, even for me.” His eyes rove around House of Stars. “Listen, I just need to know for sure—100% certain—that the issue isn’t the wiring or some other electrical issue. I absolutely cannot order two new screens if I’m not certain. I know that the other company did wiring and it might be unfamiliar, but please do what you can to assure me it either is or is not the wiring. If you need to contact the original contractor or have them come here, you’ll be reimbursed.”
I’m accustomed to deadlines, and I’m not afraid of responsibility, but this sudden, new problem is going to completely destroy my plans for the electrical renovations in terms of time. I have no idea how long it’ll take me to find the issue—or if I even can find the issue at all.
Actually, the only part of this that doesn’t worry me is whether I’ll be able to fix the issue. I know my job, and I know fixing the problem won’t be the tricky part.
“I’ll do what I can,” I assure him, “but I can’t promise when I’ll be able to give you an answer.”
“I understand. Just let me know as soon as you find out.”
I have to remind myself that sighing heavily with annoyance while within earshot of clients doesn’t turn them into repeat customers. This is just what I don’t need at all. I’m fine with being held accountable for my own work, but this is different. Another electrical contractor installed the screens, and even though I know Cullen knows that this could hurt the reputation I’ve been working so hard to build.
I also intended to make the necessary orders today for materials I needed to finish the job, but I want to visit the electronics store in person to place the order. If this complication takes as long to resolve as I expect it to, I might not have time to do that today before the place closes. Vegas nightlife doesn’t extend to electronics stores.
“—know what those are. I got through the four main types of financial statements in accounting.”
I recognize the voice immediately. The words roll off the tongue sharply, but not rudely. They’re matter-of-fact, but almost stiffly patient, as though the speaker thinks others ought to already know these things and wonders why anyone bothers asking questions.
Even through the natural prickliness and impatience of my dancer’s voice, she still sounds as beautiful as she looks.
I turn and look for Taylor. She’s walking beside the same woman whom I saw speaking to Rick yesterday. By the questions the woman is asking Taylor, I assume she must be the senior accountant.
I want to listen to Taylor’s voice as she walks by, deep in conversation, but my ears forget how to work. I’m pretty sure formal skirts aren’t supposed to be short enough to leave a tantalizing number of inches of unblemished thigh visible, and I also doubt her white drop-V blouse is supposed to drop quite as low as it does. Her black jacket matches her skirt and fits her chest, hips, and slim waist perfectly, hugging every curve without wrinkling anywhere. Her hair is parted close to the right side of her head and falls about her shoulders in soft golden curls that bounce as she walks easily in stilettos.
On top of it all, she chose a red l
ipstick that managed to change my mind about disliking a color I usually find overdone when applied to a woman’s lips. Everything about her is perfect. This is unfair.
Screens. Job. Catastrophe. I have work to do, and I need to get started, but I don’t manage to rouse myself from this starstruck stupor until Taylor has tapped out around the bar, into the staff rooms, and out of sight.
Once I do get my mind back on track, it’s easier to keep it there than I expect. The two screens, as Cullen told me, are definitely not working. When I walked into this room, I was entertaining the hope that there might be a quick, obvious solution. There isn’t.
What’s getting me is that two out of five screens aren’t working. If one screen wasn’t working, I would be inclined to think the screen itself had a fault. If none of the screens were working, I would know for sure it was an electrical issue. But, only two out of five screens are working. What the hell?
I start as I always do—by checking the simplest possible and the most likely fixes. My investigation turns up nothing, and finally, a rumbling stomach forces me to abandon my efforts for the moment. It’s well past lunch time, and most of the renovators have finished and returned to work. Retrieving my lunch wrap and bottle of water from the back room refrigerator where we are allowed to keep food, I walk out of the rooms and toward the round tables, intending to sit there.
My feet change course and make for the bar instead when I spot Taylor sitting there, chin on her hand as she gazes at a laptop.
I sit beside her and set my lunch on the bar. “Hi, Taylor.” Wow, that’s awkward. Just ‘hi.’ Can’t I think of anything more original?
Taylor doesn’t seem bothered by my choice. She sits up straighter and smiles, glancing at me before scrolling down a page on the document she’s perusing. “Hey, Brandon. How’s work going today? I know about the screen room.”
“I’ve ruled out a few things that could have been wrong, but I don’t know what’s wrong yet.” I really want a mental break from the irritating screens, so I comment, “That looks… fun.” I realize the document is a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet.
