Screwed

by Kendall Ryan

  “Oh, how wonderful.” I can practically see her beaming. “You have to tell me everything you’ve been up to. I’m so proud of my smart girl.”

  As soon as I arrange to meet her at a Pasadena diner and hang up, I remember that I told Hayden we’d hang out next weekend. “Shit,” I grumble aloud. I grab my phone again and tap out a quick text.

  Emery: Can we do Sunday instead of Saturday? My mom’s coming and she’s only in town for a couple days.

  Two minutes later, my phone chimes with a reply.

  Hayden: That’s cool. Let me know if you need any ideas for what to do while she’s in town.

  Emery: Hmm. Not sure. She’ll be in Pasadena.

  Hayden: I can give you a ride. I should visit Pasadena anyway and meet the building manager about rent . . . Caltech grad students are poor as fuck.

  I pause to consider his offer, my thumb hovering over the keypad. On the one hand, I don’t want anything to interrupt my time with Mom. It would suck if we had to cut our lunch short because Hayden needed to get back to Los Angeles. On the other, I could avoid dealing with the utter hell that is Southern California traffic. Let Hayden raise his blood pressure for me.

  As I’m thinking, I get another text.

  Hayden: It’d be fun to meet your mom, she must be amazing lady if she made you. ;) You saw my awkward family today, I should get to see yours.

  That’s an unexpectedly good point. It still feels a little weird for us to be meeting each other’s relatives all of a sudden, but if I introduce Mom and Hayden, maybe I could ask her for a second opinion. Or maybe it’s a fourth opinion by this point, after all the people who’ve warned me about him.

  Before I can change my mind, I send a reply.

  Emery: I guess that’s only fair. Pick me up at work on Saturday at 11 AM?

  I wait for his confirmation—a simple OK—before I turn off my phone and finally sleep.

  • • •

  When we walk into the diner on Saturday, Mom is already sitting in a booth with a huge hamburger in front of her. “Over here,” she calls with a wave. “I’m starved, so I went ahead and ordered.”

  Hayden looks slightly startled. He probably expected this little old lady with thick bifocals and thinning gray hair—but the plaid flannel shirt and the hat proudly emblazoned with Mother Trucker in tall red letters, not so much. To his credit, he only pauses for a moment before replying, “We don’t mind. I’m only staying for a cup of coffee anyway.”

  We sit down facing her. Hayden orders his coffee and I get blueberry pancakes. Breakfast is just about the only meat-free thing on the menu here.

  After the waitress leaves, I reach out to hold Mom’s hands. My heart twists a little; her wrists and knuckles seem even stiffer than when I left home. “You’ve got to stop running these long hauls, Mom. The doctor said that manual transmission is wrecking your joints. And what if you get a blood clot in your legs from sitting eleven hours a day?”

  “Nonsense,” she huffs. “Best job I ever had. Fifty-five grand a year, I decide my own schedule, and I get to see the country. You think waiting tables again would be easier on my knees? And my hands and shoulders are too shot to go back to factory jobs.”

  “But you don’t need to work so hard anymore. You can stick to local deliveries. I’m done with school, and I’m making my own loan payments and living off my own savings. In a few years, I’ll start earning enough that you can retire.”

  “I’m not here to talk about me, sweet pea. Or about money. I want to hear what’s new with you.” She cocks her head with a sly smile. “And who’s your friend?”

  “I’m Hayden,” he says, standing up awkwardly in the booth and extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Winters.”

  Mom shakes his hand and he blinks; another thing he clearly didn’t expect is her patented death grip. “Call me Val. You work at Emery’s firm?”

  For the next twenty minutes, Mom peppers Hayden with questions about how we met, what he does for a living, where he went to school. He answers everything with as much grace as an interrogated prisoner can muster.

  I give up even trying to steer the conversation. Mom has always thrown herself full force into everything—she’s known for her fierce affection, fierce anger, fierce joy—and it’s impossible to stop her once she’s made a decision.

  Eventually Hayden finishes his coffee, leaves a fifty-dollar bill on the table to cover all three of our checks, and gets the hell out of there before I can protest his generosity. As soon as the door clangs shut behind him, Mom fixes me with a keen stare over her wire frames. “Don’t fall in love with that boy.”

  I splutter out my mouthful of iced tea. “W-what?”

  “You heard me,” Mom says calmly. “I’m crazy, not stupid. I see the way you look at him. I understand . . . he’s handsome as all get-out, and he seems pretty smart too. But he isn’t the type to settle down. Don’t put stock into what’ll never be.”

  A strange heaviness settles in the pit of my stomach. When I came here, I thought that Mom’s advice would quiet my restless thoughts and give me direction. Then why don’t I feel any better? Actually, I might even feel worse. I busy myself wiping up my spilled tea, chewing the inside of my lip.

  “I know what he’s like, Mom,” I finally say. “Don’t worry . . . we’re just friends.”

  She nods a few times. “Good girl. I didn’t raise no fool.”

  “No, Mom. You sure didn’t,” I say to reassure her, wondering if I’m lying.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hayden

  “What the hell are these?” Dottie’s shrill voice calls as she comes out of my bedroom with a purple G-string dangling from her little finger.

  I shrug. “No idea.”

  Her face twists in disgust. “They were under your bed. What do you mean you have no idea?”

  Her tone is accusatory, but I really have no clue. I haven’t had a woman here in weeks, and just with that thought alone, my cock aches in a silent plea for relief. I realize I haven’t gotten any since Emery moved in. That strikes me as odd, and I have no explanation for it. Realizing that Dottie is still talking to me, I blink away the thoughts.

  She gives me a reproving look. “Nice girls don’t wear the kind of panties I find in your bed. Crotchless G-strings are for strippers and bad girls. I want you to settle down with a good girl, Hayden,” she says, tossing the panties into the garbage like they’re diseased.

  “I know you do, Dottie, and I appreciate that.”

  Dottie comes three times a week to clean up, do laundry, cook, pick up my dry cleaning, and run errands. She’s sixty, but with more energy than the Energizer Bunny. She keeps my life running smoothly. I don’t want to do anything to piss her off, so I usually nod and smile at whatever piece of wisdom she’s offering up. But today, I’m stuck trying to figure out who those undies can possibly belong to.

  I cross the room to where Dottie is wiping down the countertop. “I’ve got to run. Don’t stay too late.” I press a kiss to her cheek. She’s like a second mother to me, and even if I do write her paycheck, her concern and care for me always feel genuine.

  She shoos me away. “I’ll stay until I’m happy that everything’s done. Have fun.”

  I nod, grabbing my keys. I’m meeting Hudson for some beers. It’s been too long since we’ve hung out just as friends, without the worry of work hanging between us.

  I head to The Avenue, a bar that’s become a regular meet-up spot for us. It’s on the edge of downtown about halfway between where he and I live, and it has an upscale feel without being swanky. The drinks are always cold, and the food is good too. When I pull into the parking lot, I spot his luxury SUV right away. Strolling inside, I find the coolness of the air-conditioning is welcome against my skin.

  He’s sitting at the bar with a bottle of beer already in his hand and another waiting for me in front of the stool next to him. God bless America.

  “Hey, buddy, how’ve you been?” I say, sliding onto the bar stool
next to him.

  He raises his bottle and clinks it to mine. “Life’s been pretty damn good lately. I haven’t had any angry tenants to deal with.”

  I smirk at him. “I’m following through. You didn’t doubt me, did you?”

  His eyebrows jump up. “Fuck yeah, I did. Especially when you started hanging out with the hot-as-fuck new girl.”

  “Emery,” I remind him. “And we’re still hanging out.”

  “No shit? As friends, huh?”

  I nod, taking a sip of my beer and feeling oddly proud. “We’ve been out to eat, and worked out a couple times together.” He doesn’t need to know it was yoga. That would just be weird.

  “I’m impressed, dude. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Yup. Strictly platonic.”

  Except last weekend when I hugged her good-bye and got a huge erection that was impossible to hide. Emery even called me out—asking me to explain myself. I lied and said it was nothing, and I swear the flash of disappointment across her face almost killed me. I wanted to tell her right then and there how insanely attracted to her I was, how beautiful she looked that day in her casual clothes, hanging out with my family.

  “So where have you been getting your good time?” Hudson looks genuinely confused.

  “I’m on a bit of a dry spell,” I admit. “You’ve thrown off my game.” I jab him in the ribs before taking another swig of my beer to try to forget all about that encounter with Emery.

  He shakes his head at me. “Don’t blame this on me. Maybe you have real feelings for this one. That could be a good thing. Get you back up on the horse, so to speak.”

  “No, it’s not like that between us. Emery’s sworn off men, and you know I’m sure as shit not looking for a relationship.”

  “Yes, but I’m saying maybe it’s time to move on. Grow up a little.” His gaze abandons the TV and swings over to mine. “Have you ever been really into a chick? You know, the big L-word?”

  “Are you trying to ask me if I’ve ever been in love with a woman before?”

  He nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Hudson levels me with that dark, intense stare of his.

  “What?” My tone is both playful and defensive. This really isn’t something I want to discuss. I’d rather be talking about work, anything other than the state of my love life.

  “I’m not buying it, Oliver. You’re so damn closed off from anything real, it’s not even funny. After Naomi—”

  I shut him up with a wave of my hand. “Forget Naomi. I was close to a girl once. She let out a loud, thunderous fart in her sleep, and that was it. I ended things after that.”

  “You broke up with a girl for farting?”

  “Indeed,” I confirm.

  “That wasn’t love, then.”

  “How do you know? Kelsey . . . or was it Kerrie? Anyway, she was sweet and funny, and she made a hell of a ham sandwich.”

  Hudson shakes his head. “Because when you’re in love, and your woman feels comfortable enough to do that in front of you, you’ll think it’s cute.”

  “I’ll think farting is cute? Not a chance in hell.” Women don’t shit, or fart, or belch as far as I’m concerned. And Hudson’s lost his damn mind.

  “Trust me on this one.”

  I don’t trust him any farther than I can throw him—and considering he clears six foot two and is solid muscle, it wouldn’t be very damn far.

  “You been seeing anyone interesting lately?” I ask.

  Hudson doesn’t sleep around with our tenants, like I used to enjoy before he abruptly put a stop to that, but he definitely gets his fair share of pussy. Not that I’m overly interested; I’m just eager to steer the conversation to his love life and away from mine.

  “How’s your sister?” he asks out of the blue.

  “Beth’s doing the supermom thing. Same old.”

  “No, I meant Gracie.” His eyes dart away from mine, as if there’s something he doesn’t want me to see. I try not to read too much into it. Hudson would never betray me by going after my sister. Plus, he’s too busy fucking his way through the female population, one leggy blonde at a time. Which Gracie is most definitely not.

  I shrug. “Gracie’s Gracie.” She’s always been my innocent little sister. It’s crazy to think she’s twenty-two now and just graduated from college.

  Hudson nods once, effectively ending that weird conversation. Okay then.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emery

  As the weeks pass and my bar exam looms closer, I ramp up my studying. But I still find spare hours here and there to spend with Hayden. He fully lives up to his promise to show me around the city. We explore not only the typical tourist stuff, like the Walk of Fame and the La Brea tar pits, but all the hidden gems that he’s learned about from his years in Los Angeles. My earlier anxieties soon melt away, leaving me upbeat when I’m around him and optimistic when I’m away. Everything has turned out fine; this friendship is totally working. I’m glad I didn’t listen to Roxy after all.

  Early one Wednesday, when all the law staff file into the conference room for our weekly meeting, Mr. Pratt is already standing at the head of the table. He starts strolling around like he’s King Arthur surveying his knights. “I want to thank you for all your hard work these past two months. We met not only a tough deadline, but the high standards of quality that Walker, Price, and Pratt is known for. We have a reputation among the best corporate law firms, and I can honestly say that you’ve lived up to it . . .”

  He blathers on for a few more minutes in that vein. Even though his speech is more than a little corny, pride surges warm in my chest, knowing I played a role in helping. This merger was my first real case. I’m actually doing law, I think with a thrum of excitement. I’m practically a bona fide lawyer already. Booyah.

  Mr. Pratt pauses beside my seat. “In fact, our client is so pleased with our work, they’ve invited us to their annual company get-together in Omaha. We fly in next Monday afternoon, stay at the luxury hotel they’ve booked, and fly back first thing on Thursday morning.” He speaks over the burst of muttering among the other lawyers in the room. “There’s a few loose ends to tie up—some business is best done in person, as I’m sure you all know. But primarily, we’re celebrating a job well done. All expenses paid. You can even bring a guest.”

  He plunks his hand down next to mine, looming over me and brushing his arm against my shoulder. He’s close enough for me to smell tuna when he exhales, and my gag reflex kicks in like a motherfucker. I just barely keep down my latte.

  Everything about this moment is so disturbing. It’s not even ten in the morning—why the hell does he have fish breath? I wonder if I can get away with “accidentally” rolling my chair over his foot. Even if he doesn’t back off, I’d love to see those spit-polished wingtips scuffed.

  “And since you’ve been such a valuable pinch hitter, Emery, that invitation includes you.” He winks at me with a crooked smirk. Oh, barf. “I look forward to spending some time together outside the office. Getting to know each other in a more intimate setting.”

  My stomach yanks itself inside out. Three nights alone in a hotel with Larry The Creeper? In a strange city over a thousand miles from anywhere I know, anywhere I can easily bail out to? Fuck that noise doesn’t even begin to cover it. There isn’t a swear word in the English language strong enough to capture the sheer depths of my “nope.”

  “Um . . .” It’s hard to think over the screaming of my fight-or-flight instincts. Life would be so much easier if I could just knee him in the balls and run out of the room. “You know, I wish I could, but I don’t think I can go. I need to study for the bar, and there’s the other cases we’ve put off while working on this merger . . .”

  He shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’ll look bad if you don’t come. You’re a member of our team, after all. And I’ve already RSVP’d for eight people.”

  Somehow I think he’s more concerned about his
boner’s feelings than the client’s. The client probably doesn’t even know I exist. But I can’t argue with my boss about how they would hypothetically react. He would just insist that he knows them better than I do, which is true. Whatever excuse I come up with, he’ll just shoot it down—or skip straight to pulling rank on me. He’s clearly hell-bent on trapping me in an Omaha hotel with him.

  I don’t think he’d go so far as to try anything, but you never know with a dirty old man like that. And even in the best-case scenario, I’d have to put up with his disgusting come-ons and wandering hands for three nights straight. I might jump off the damn hotel roof.

  Think, Emery, think. My eyes dart wildly around the room. The other lawyers are muttering about the arrangements for this impromptu “vacation,” and I hear a couple of them mention bringing their wives. That’s it—I just need a buffer. Someone to keep Mr. Pratt from thinking that we’ll spend even a single minute alone together.

  “In that case, I guess I can spare the time.” I look up to give Mr. Pratt a plastic smile. “My boyfriend will be so excited. He’s a big Mavericks fan.” I give Mom a silent thank-you for her obsession with college football; all the sports trivia I absorbed in childhood has helped me bullshit annoying men before, and this won’t be the last time.

  “Your boyfriend?” It’s unbelievably satisfying to watch Mr. Pratt’s face fall and crash into a million pieces. “Ah . . . yes, of course he’s welcome.”

  I mentally pump my fist. After telling us that we can bring guests, even the master lawyer can’t talk his way back out of this one.

  But I can’t savor my victory for long. Now I have to figure out how to talk Hayden into flying halfway across America to sit around with stuffy corporate types in an endless cornfield. We’ve started to become pretty good friends by now, but abandoning his responsibilities for half a week to play bodyguard is a huge favor.