by Julia Kent
“What’s wrong?” he asks with glee, knowing damn well why I am limping. We can’t pawn any of these gym shops off on him because the assignment requires female guests.
“Not enough fiber in my diet,” I mutter.
His face goes blank. “I thought it was all the gym shops you’re doing.” He snorts. “I know it’s not from really good sex.”
“At staff meeting today I’m telling Greg he needs to give you the role of supportive father-to-be on all those cord blood bank shops that are coming up.”
His pale face makes me grin inside, because Josh can’t stand hospitals. “You wouldn’t!”
Before I can reply, he puts up a palm and shakes his head sadly, “Actually, you would,” he says, leaping up the remaining stairs like Peter Pan and holding the heavy door open for me.
“Thank you. Just stand there for about thirty-seven more minutes and I’ll get there.”
A strange scuffling sound from behind us makes us both turn. It’s Amanda, kicking a box the size of a small ottoman across the parking lot.
“What are you doing?” Josh calls out.
“I no longer have arms,” she whines. “Just shredded, noodly appendages.”
“Gym shops?” I shout. Using my diaphragm makes the muscles between my ribs hurt. Now it hurts to talk? I need combat pay for this job, I swear.
Josh drops the door handle and runs down the stairs.
“Hey!” I protest.
“Please,” he calls back. “I could drive to Starbucks and get us all lattes and return and you’ll still be on the eighth stair. I can help Amanda.”
He’s got a point. I feel like a turtle with fibromyalgia.
Josh comes whizzing up the staircase with the box in his hands like he’s Superman. Balancing Amanda’s stuff on one arm, he uses the other to hold the door for me.
“Show-off,” Amanda and I say in unison. I look at her and gasp.
“What are you wearing?”
She looks like the human embodiment of the coffee bean/piece of excrement on the top of my car.
“Car wash uniform. I have to go and pretend to be a counter employee for the rest of the day.”
“With non-functioning arms?”
“That’s what I said! Greg’s being unreasonable.”
“And that’s the uniform?” Josh squeaks, laughing. “I haven’t seen that much polyester since I watched the movie Boogie Nights with my boyfriend.”
Amanda and I pause, which isn’t hard. “Boyfriend?” We’re in stereo.
Josh blushes. “Well, you know—YES! I have a boyfriend!” he squeals.
We all squeal.
Greg opens a window and sticks his head out. “You guys sound like you’re replaying that scene from Deliverance. You okay?”
“We’re just talking about our cars and how much we love driving in tin cans of humiliation,” Amanda shouts back.
Thwack. The window snaps shut.
Josh starts to tell us all about Cameron while I make it to the seventh step and realize that Josh—geeky, smart, goofy, socially deficited Josh—has a boyfriend.
And I don’t.
Tears prickle at the edges of the soft skin around my eyeballs, taking the immediacy of my aching muscles away from my attention. I inhale slowly through my nose and grasp my leg, pulling it up. Eight. One more stair to go. Just don’t cry until—
Too late.
“You look great!” Josh says as I pull my leg up to reach the top. “All these gym shops are toning you.”
“It’s all neutral. I’m eating more ice cream to compensate.”
“For what?” Amanda snorts. “You’d have to work out thirty-seven hours a day doing CrossFit to make up for the amount of ice cream you’re eating.”
I’m about to answer but she makes it up the stairs and is right behind me, nudging me with her shoulder. I’m forced to stumble forward and take three steps in a row.
“You look like you could star in The Walking Dead.”
“You sound like you could star in Honey Boo Boo.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I was aiming for ‘offensive.’”
“You sailed right past it and hit the ‘lame’ target.”
We get to the stairs. No elevator. Josh and Amanda slip past me and I am grateful for the peace. It takes me seventeen minutes to get to the office. I’m late for the staff meeting.
Just as I walk in, I hear Greg say two different sentences:
“Shannon and you can go to the Catch My Vibe store with her mother.”
and
“The Fort shop goes to Shannon per James McCormick’s instructions, no matter how much you threaten me, Amanda.” Greg flinches just enough to show he’s worried.
Both freak me out, though not enough to drown out the screaming pain in my legs.
“Wait—what?” I ask. Three faces turn toward me, Amanda’s hostile.
“She can barely move!” Amanda argues, gesturing wildly with her head, her arms immobile.
“Pick up your pen and write your name,” I say in a quiet voice.
She’s been taking glare lessons from Chuckles, I see.
“It’s done,” Greg announces. “You get your shot later in the summer,” he explains to her. She leans down to drink out of a straw someone shoved in her can of diet soda.
As I bend to sit in my chair, I hear my hamstrings snap like a high-tension cord on a crane. Ping!
Greg eyes us warily. Josh adjusts Amanda’s straw.
“What’s wrong with you two?” Greg finally asks, though he sounds about as eager to know the answer as I am to know the specifics of my parents’ sex life. And, like me, Greg is about to hear more than he ever imagined.
“I just had more weight swinging in and out between my legs than you could ever imagine,” Amanda wails.
All the blood in Greg’s face drains out, like low tide during a tsunami, rushing back in so fast that he looks like a big red beet.
“Um, I meant what’s wrong professionally. I don’t need to know about your sex life,” he clarifies.
“This was for work! That Bulgarian ex-Olympian at the gym on Union Avenue made me do forty-pound kettlebell reps until I couldn’t stand it anymore!”
Greg sighs with relief. “That kind of weight between your legs!” He’s so relieved.
“What did you think I meant?” she demands.
“Never mind,” me, Greg, and Josh say.
“I thought you were upset about The Fort.”
“I’m upset about that, too,” Amanda adds. “But mostly I just want to get laid.”
“Don’t look at me,” Josh says, palms out.
“Or me,” Greg murmurs so quietly only I can hear him.
“I think we’re swinging away from professionalism,” I whisper in her ear.
“It’s the damn sex toy shop I did with your mother!”
“Anyone want coffee?” Greg shouts. Josh jumps up with him and they rush out of the room.
“Note to self,” I say. “Mention sex life, get free coffee from men at work.”
“Oh, and here,” Amanda says, as if uninterrupted. She flails one arm toward her a giant Vera Bradley bag, hands hanging down like a T-rex, ineffectual and useless. Normally I would take pity on her, but I’m kind of enjoying her pain.
After what feels like an hour, she pulls out a water bottle. One of those big, pink-and-white plastic water bottles that…
Has a giant mushroom cap on the end of it, and a Power button.
“Is that a—OH MY GOD, AMANDA!” I scream, shoving the monstrosity out of my way. It falls to the ground and in the impact, the Power button is pushed. A slow vibration rubs against my foot.
“What? It’s from the sex toy shop. You act like you’ve never seen a vibrator before!”
“Not at work! Here! With Greg and Josh around.” I’ve never met a vibrator I didn’t like, frankly, but this is a bit much.
“Your mom used part of her product allowance to give this one to you.”
Mom’s been assigned to seven different sex toy shops now because of the way she handled my breakdown in Northampton. Her evaluation was perfect and the client asked for her to do most of the rest of the shops.
I’m so proud. It’s like having your mother win the Nobel Peace Prize.
Almost.
I stare at the buzzing monstrosity and I just…I don’t…words disappear. The earth implodes. A supernova of nothingness replaces my consciousness. I did not just receive a hand-picked vibrator from my mother. Nope nope nope.
“See? It has a ‘D’ on the tip. Marie wanted it to remind you of Declan.”
“Remind me of...what?”
“Plus, the curvature of the letter makes hitting the G-spot easier.” She says this the way a home party product specialist might describe a decorative candle.
“Shut up.”
“Why are you so hostile?”
“Some product designer actually thought this was a good idea?” I challenge.
“Your mom said the sex toy shop owner told her it was so your man could leave his mark in an intimate place.”
“Where? On your cervix? That’s like being branded! You know a man designed that,” I fume.
The vibrator twitches on the ground, but I can’t stop it. My legs won’t move. I’ve been sitting here just long enough for atrophy or entropy or oldladykickedmyassery to set in, and all these gym shops have collectively rendered my leg muscles so useless I can’t even kick a vibrator with enough power to make it come within range of my hand so I can turn it off.
Bzzzz. “Amanda, can you help me? Reach under there and—”
“Reach? REACH? You ever bench-press eighty pounds, then do ten minutes of high-intensity rowing on a rowing machine while a Bulgarian screams in your ear? I’m lucky my arms are still attached.” She looks down. “Okay, good. Still there. Hello, hands. I love you!” She looks up at me. “Just checking.”
Bzzzz.
“Greg and Josh will be back any second, and I’d really prefer neither of them has to pick up a vibrator that my mother gave me.”
“It’s pretty impressive,” she says. “Has an anal probe attachment that’s shaped like an octopus tentacle.”
Greg walks in as she says the end of that sentence. He stops so quickly that hot coffee sloshes out of the tiny sipping holes in the tops of the two take-out cups he carries. His ears perk up and he tilts his head, searching for the sound.
And then his eyes find it.
“Is that a robot vacuum cleaner?” he asks, poking his head under the table to catch a look. “Judy’s been mentioning getting one. Says it could really make things better at home, because I’ve been slacking, and we need something bigger.”
“Uh,” is all I can say. Just as he bends down, Amanda kicks the vibrator, hard, but her aim is off.
It hits Josh squarely in the shin as he walks in carrying two more coffees. Josh looks down at the bleating white-and-pink flesh penis, then looks at Greg, who has a perplexed look on his walrus-like face.
“That doesn’t look like a robot vacuum,” Greg says.
Josh is nonplussed by the non sequitur. He looks at Amanda, then me, and asks:
“Do they make that in purple?”
Chapter Thirteen
No amount of begging, pleading, or offers to clean anyone’s shoes with my tongue—including Chuckles’—has made a difference. I am stuck driving my poop-topped car to my mystery shop for The Fort.
Why does this matter, you wonder? Because when you mystery shop a hotel, most clients want a detailed evaluation of every service offered in the hotel. For high-end luxury properties, that begins with valet parking.
That’s right. I have to hand off my Turdmobile to a guy who makes more in tips parking Teslas and Ferraris in a day than I make in a week.
And while I’m sure these valets have seen some novel vehicles, including electric-powered Hummers and cars with batwings for doors, a compact car with a big, brown coffee bean that looks like a piece of feces is going to be a new one in their repertoire.
Which throws being inconspicuous out the window.
Even Greg wouldn’t relent, making up some sob story about how he needs his car to take his mother to her hip rehab appointment. Pffft. Excuses.
The Fort is a massive building of wonder and beauty, blinding in the bright sunshine and shining like a beacon on the edge of Boston’s Back Bay. Located right on the edge of all the fun in the city’s core, you can walk to fine steakhouses, Faneuil Hall, see the boats come in, go to the aquarium, and have everything at your fingertips.
But first you have to talk to a valet named Guido who looks just like your ex-boyfriend.
Guido—according to the name tag—makes me do a triple take, because if Guido were a few years younger and had green eyes instead of brown, he’d be Declan.
“Holy—what?” I exclaim as I climb out of the car, keys in hand. The semicircular covered driveway in front of the glittering bronze-covered entrance seems like it’s made of polished marble. As my high heels clack on the ground, I realize it is marble. Actual marble.
And because it’s just rained, and various car tires have brought water onto the ground, I go flying in the air, keys arcing through the air like they’ve been ejected from a stomp rocket, arms and legs flailing to grab on to anything so I don’t crack my assbone in half.
Two strong hands wrap around my waist and save me from permanent butt damage. The red jacket Guido is wearing unbuttons and reveals a slim waist, broad shoulders stretching the fabric. His hair is a thick, wavy brown like Declan’s, eyebrows thicker, a strand of grey here and there peppering his hair. His eyes are kind and worried, though there’s a suppressed mirth there, his mouth twitching.
He sets me on my heels, my knee turning inward. I’m dressed in business clothing, the client insisting I assume the role of a C-level female executive traveling for business, in town for the night. And valet parking is the start.
“You hurt?” Guido asks in a bass voice that makes me jolt. If he had poured warm caramel sauce on my nipples I couldn’t have had a naughtier response. That voice must get a lot of women out of their pants for him. I, myself, will be using the bathroom clothesline to dry my panties shortly if he speaks again.
“I’m, um, fine,” I say, breathless. He steps across from me to retrieve my keys from the ground, giving me a chance to really look at his butt, er...at him. His face. His face! His cheekbones are broader than Declan’s, and he’s confident in that loose way men who work with their hands for a living have about them.
“Your car?” he asks with arched eyebrows.
“Business car.” I smile with more perk than I really feel. I’ve already developed an excuse for the piece-of-crap car. “Testing a new advertising model for a client.”
He nods, like he’s in on some joke I don’t know about. “I see, Ms.…”
“Jacoby.”
“Jacoby.” He smiles and gives me a small bow. “Does the market test include aromatherapy as well?”
“What?”
“Never mind, Ms. Jacoby.” He jingles my keys and looks at my car with amusement. More amusement than I’ve ever felt. “I’ll park your company car and keep it safe from harm.”
“Really? Actually, I’d prefer you just park it on the street. Maybe someone will steal it and then I’d—” The words are pouring out of my mouth before I can stop them. Something about Guido is so casually comfortable, so companionable, and the facade of being an executive fades away without my even thinking about it.
He smirks and instantly looks nothing like Declan. What was I thinking? I clearly can’t get him out of my head, so I’m inventing men who look like him. But when Guido’s face goes back to semi-serious, it’s like a shadow of my ex is there.
I’m going crazy, aren’t I?
Driving the crazy piece of sh—
“I’d lose my job if I did that,” he says in a low conspirator’s voice.
I swallow, my mouth dry. All the moisture in my body mig
rates south. “Just kidding.”
He eyes me in a way that makes me feel like I felt the first time I ever met Declan.
Inventoried.
“I suspect you aren’t. Kidding, that is.” And then he just stands there, watching me. It doesn’t feel sensual, though. More of a neutral acknowledgement of my existence, for which I’m grateful, because if he starts sending out sexual signals of any kind I’m going to fall over in a puddle of my own goo.
The awkward pause makes me realize he’s waiting for a tip. Of course! We have a mystery shopping procedure for this, so I pull out the $5 bill and hand it to him. He frowns, then glances at the other valets. What kind of parking dude doesn’t take the bill and slip it in his pocket with a quick thanks?
My skin starts to tingle. Something doesn’t make sense here.
As if I’m handing him a piece of raw steak at a vegan restaurant, he takes the five and puts it in his breast pocket, wincing. Wincing! What kind of guy—
Oh. Hmmm. Maybe $5 is an insult in a place like this? No one explains tipping guidelines, so staying in an $800-per-night suite might mean that a $5 valet tip—which would be healthy anywhere else—is like pissing on his shoes.
I reach into my purse and pull out a second $5 bill, handing it to him with a smile. “Thank you so much, Guido. Take good care of her.”
The other valets laugh and Guido takes my bill with confusion clouding those rich chocolate eyes. “You’re giving me more?”
Didn’t expect that. “Yes. Is that okay?”
Finally, one of the other valets comes over and taps him on the shoulder. “Dude. Take the money, thank her, and let’s go park the piece of—”
I snicker. “We call it the Turdmobile.”
Guido laughs, eyes on me the entire time. “You’re funny.”
If he’s flirting, he’s horrible at it. But so am I, so maybe the weirdness is me? I can’t juggle being “on” for work, doing a mystery shop, and figuring out whether the valet is horrified or attracted to me. Too much input. So I do the simplest thing and just walk away. One step, two step, and down I go—
Splat. Riiiiiiip.
I’m showing more ass than J.Lo in a g-string. Guido wasn’t there to catch me this time, and I have one leg stretched out with my skirt split so high you can see where Niagara Falls visited my panties.
