by Penny Wylder
That’s when I hear the door swing shut behind me.
Another woman steps inside. For a moment, I don’t recognize her, the way she’s holding her head—face down, eyes averted, hair falling across her forehead. She’s cute, shorter than me, with a pixie cut and dark eyes. Then she catches my eye in the mirror, and I smile in recognition.
“Hannah, hey, how’s it going?”
I only get a scowl in response, which makes my stomach tighten. Crap, did I get her name wrong? She works in my office, but she’s pretty new and she’s always so quiet. I think back to the last time I saw her, on the day the email with my photo circulated around the building. She’d been glaring at me something awful that day, but then again, who hadn’t?
“Sorry,” I say, when she doesn’t respond. “It is Hannah, right?”
She crosses her arms and stands in the doorway, weight on one hip. “So you remember one thing about someone besides yourself. Congratulations.”
I blink in confusion. “Um…” What the hell did I ever do to her? “Well, it was nice seeing you.” I move toward the door.
She sidesteps to block me. “Great to see you too. Really funny, running into you here of all places.”
“What do you—”
“Here in Central Park. Here where he took me to break up with me on the anniversary of our first date. Did he tell you about that?”
My stomach sinks even farther now, knotting in sudden realization. Oh my god.
No wonder she knew where to find me. No wonder she was able to circulate my image to everyone at work and use our own company servers to do it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, even as I try to ease past her again.
She steps in front of me once more and uncrosses her arms now. When I try to walk around her, she reaches out and shoves me, hard, in the shoulders.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, my voice going loud. Why didn’t Zayne tell me, why didn’t he tell me her name?
“I know all about you, Clove Walker. I know what kind of whore you are. Marketing manager at your big fancy publisher, just another boring New York transplant, another country-bred slut who came to the big city to chase other women’s men.”
Fire flares in my veins. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know what our boss thinks about your performance on that camera.” She smirks.
“That photo wasn’t for anyone else to see. That was private. All of this is private—you need to leave Zayne alone. Let him live his life.”
She rolls her eyes and laughs, a harsh, echoing sound. “Oh sure. Easy for you to say. Now that you’ve brainwashed the poor guy into saying whatever you want him to think. I know you sent him to speak to me, to try and mediate. You think that will work? He’ll see through your bullshit eventually.”
“Hannah, that’s not what’s happening here.”
“You stole my boyfriend.”
“You weren’t together anymore.”
“Only because he’s confused. He doesn’t realize what he needs. He doesn’t realize that I’ll give him more than any woman could. He needs me. You? You’re just the fuck of the minute. He’s had a million sluts like you in his bed. He’ll get bored of you before the week is up.”
“Hannah, let me leave.”
Instead, she squares off in front of the door and spreads her arms wide. “Well I’ve had enough,” she’s saying. “I’m not letting you fuck with him any longer.”
“You’re the one who’s fucking with him,” I counter, my voice rising. “You won’t leave him alone. That’s not normal, Hannah.”
“Of course it’s not normal. He and I were never boring, normal. We were better than that. We are better than that. As soon as sluts like you stop distracting him, he’ll see that. He’ll realize he’s meant to be with me.”
“You have to stop this. Let go of him.”
“Make me,” she snarls. Then, without warning, she launches across the room at me. I manage to catch her wrists in mine, but her momentum sends us both flying backwards. My back cracks against the tile wall and I groan. She takes advantage of the moment to pry one hand free and slaps me across the cheek. I shove her off me and bring up an arm to block her next strike which lands against my forearm. It stings, but not as much as my cheek, which burns where she hit it.
“Hannah, stop.”
“Fucking slut. I’ll ruin you. I’ll make you regret the day you laid eyes on him.”
She lunges at me again, and this time, I’m ready for it. I catch her shoulders with both hands and shove her sideways into the sink. She roars with rage as she crashes against it, and pushes off the sink to grab my hair. I ignore that and punch her straight in the nose, the way my dad always taught me. The way I’ve never had to do before.
But it works. Her eyes start to water, and she shrieks, letting go of my hair.
“Hannah, please—”
“You bitch!” She hits me with both arms now, and I don’t see the other hit coming, don’t have time to block before she’s shoving me against the wall again, hitting my chest hard enough to make me gasp for air.
Dimly, at the back of my mind, I’m aware of the door swinging open, someone else barging in. I hear shouting, voices. I’m too focused on catching my breath, forcing air through my aching throat into my lungs once more.
When I come to focus again, someone has pulled Hannah off of me and is holding her by both arms.
Zayne.
I gape at him, watch him pinning her o the wall as she struggles against his grip. At the same time, someone else, a young woman, pushes through the door and sees the three of us, Hannah kicking at Zayne as he struggles to stop her fighting.
“I’ll call the police,” the woman gasps, disappearing once more. Hannah, for her part, only takes that as a renewed reason to fight. She swings at me with a leg, trying to kick for my arm, but I back out of the way before the kick lands.
“Hannah, please, just stop,” Zayne says, his voice low with anger.
“This slut is corrupting you. Brainwashing you. Don’t you see?”
“All I see is you attacking my girlfriend,” he spits back.
A little thrill sparks in my stomach, even in spite of the circumstances, at hearing him say that. Girlfriend.
“She doesn’t deserve you. She won’t care about you the way I do. She won’t give up everything, sacrifice the world for you. Don’t you see?” Hannah twists in his arms to meet his eye, her face a mask of desperation. “Zayne, this is real. Me and you.”
“No, Hannah. This was never real.” His face, on the other hand, is torn between fury and pity.
“How can you say that? I’ve been here every minute. Watching you, waiting for you. I helped you get rid of those ugly sluts on that dating app—”
“Hacking into my phone without my permission and harassing women I like isn’t helping me.”
“They weren’t good enough for you. Nobody is. Nobody but me because I love you.” She twists in his arms until she’s facing him, and I can see even from here what effort it takes him not to cringe away. “This is real love, Zayne.”
“No. It’s not.” He releases her, carefully though, hands still poised to catch her again if she lunges for me once more. But as he lets go of her, his gaze drifts to me, his eyes dark and serious. “Love is not toxic or controlling. It’s not spying on people and hurting innocent bystanders in the process.” He locks eyes with me. “I know what real love is now.”
My mouth falls open as I look at him, a flurry of sparks setting off in my belly. Does he mean…?
Just then, the door bursts open once more. Zayne steps away from Hannah as the woman who poked her head in before returns, now with a couple of police officers in tow.
“What’s going on here?” the cop asks.
I open my mouth to explain, but I don’t need to because Hannah chooses that moment to lose it again.
She’s been shooting me death rays ever since Zayne looked my way. Even more since he said
those words. Words that haven’t stopped echoing in my head since he said them. I know what real love is now.
“You whore!” Hannah flings herself at me again, and I raise my hands over my face defensively.
The officers catch her before we collide again. It takes both of them to wrestle her into handcuffs, and only when they’ve finally subdued her do they ask us what happened. Zayne takes over, explaining about how Hannah has been following him, hacking into his phone. At that point, I interrupt to explain that my company, which Hannah also works for, is pursuing a lawsuit against her for hacking their equipment. Zayne catches my eye at that, startled. Hannah, for her part, just continues to yell from the corner, calling me a slut and a man-stealing whore until the other cop finally frog-marches her outside to sit down while we finish explaining the situation to his partner.
In the end, they book Hannah. Through it all, though, Zayne keeps hold of my hand, his fingers tight around mine, his touch giving me the strength to see through the end of this nightmare at last.
“I didn’t know she worked at your company,” he murmurs. “I haven’t spoken to her in years. She sends me messages now and again, but I delete them unread—they’re usually too crazy, too upsetting to read.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. It’s over now. Work will figure it out; I’ll explain it all to my boss…”
When the police car lights finally fade in the distance, and we’re left alone at last on the edge of Central Park, the last obstacle in our path finally removed, I collapse against him, relieved and exhausted at once. Zayne wraps his arms around me tightly, strong and reassuring as always, even now. Even after dragging up all of his own personal past shit, and confronting a person he used to care about, a person who has gone off the rails with her abuse.
“Did you mean what you said?” I murmur, tilting my head up to meet his gaze.
He smiles down at me. Plants a soft kiss on my lips. My strong savior, he doesn’t even look ruffled, even after all of that. “What I said when?”
“In the bathroom. When Hannah was yelling at you, you said…” I pause. Shake my head, because my throat has gone tight again just remembering. “You said you know what real love is now…”
“I do.” His eyes stay locked on mine, burning into me, snagging my gaze the way nobody else can. “You taught me that, Clove.” He nudges my chin, tilts my head up further, and leans in to kiss me once more, slower, softer. When our lips part, I sigh, leaning unconsciously closer to him, our bodies pressed together. “I love you, Clove.”
“I love you, Zayne.” I laugh faintly, breathless. “It’s crazy, but—”
“Who cares?” He grins and kisses me again, and that kiss is breathing again after years of drowning. That kiss is finally feeling all the puzzle pieces click into place. “I love you, you crazy beautiful woman.”
“I love you, you crazy handsome doorman.” I smirk, and he laughs and smacks my ass in response. “Do me one favor though?” I add, lifting an eyebrow.
“Anything for you.” He runs a hand through my hair, smoothing it back from my forehead before he plants a soft kiss on my forehead.
“When we’re telling everyone how we met, do not tell them you won me over with a sext message.”
He bursts into laughter then, and sweeps me off my feet into a low dip, planting a kiss on me as he does. I laugh against his mouth, until the kiss turns deep, slow, serious, and our mouths part, his tongue entwining with mine, exploring my mouth. He straightens, draws me back up against him, and slides one hand down to grip my ass, pulling me up against him.
I arch my hips, lean against his strong body, and wrap my arms around his neck.
“I promise nothing of the sort,” he murmurs, just before he dips to kiss along my neck, his mouth searing against my skin in the cool night air.
I sigh and let my head fall back, let him kiss me wherever he wants, touch me any way he wants. “Ah well, nobody’s perfect,” I reply in a whisper as he kisses along my throat now. “I suppose I can live with all of your friends thinking I’m a huge slut.”
“As long as this particular slut is all mine, I’m happy.” He winks.
I laugh and swat his shoulder.
In response, he dips to fling me over one shoulder. I cry out as he stands, and kick my legs in feeble protest. But he’s already walking away from the park, toward our apartment building.
“Now, if you’re my slut, I believe that means I should have my way with you… Again.”
Those words send a spark of desire through me. I’m surprised to find that I’m already getting wet just thinking about what he’ll do to me tonight when we get back to the apartment.
“Promises, promises,” I repeat, and that earns me another spank, which sends shivers through me.
Okay, so one slutty photo may have nearly upended my life. But now that we have our privacy back, I have to admit, being slutty wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, it landed me right in the arms of the hottie I never noticed standing right in front of me…
THE END
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The Pool Boy
The Pool Boy
Copyright © 2016 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
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1
Vera
I read the email again for the third time, the disappointment sinking into my chest and sticking like glue.
Dear Ms. Caldwell,
Thank you very much for giving us the chance to consider you. We have reviewed your application and the supplemental materials you sent, but we are sorry to say that we are not able to offer you a position at this time.
Please feel free to continue checking our website so that you may apply again if another position becomes available.
Best,
The Essex Foundation Recruiting Team
P.S. We very much enjoyed meeting with you this past week. Please give our best to your father.
I don’t understand what’s happening here. I walked out of that interview feeling amazing. I connected with my interviewers, and they seemed genuinely interested in me. They also seemed really intrigued by my insistence on working in low-income areas. Plus, I rocked the test they gave me—hypothetical plans for a neighborhood square. What could have possibly gone wrong?
I guess it doesn’t really matter why. Once someone turns you down, that’s it. I sigh, grabbing a pen and crossing off The Essex Foundation from my list of applications. That’s my twenty third rejection in the last three months. It’s only the fourth time I even got an interview. I try not to take it personally anymore, but it feels personal.
I glance down at my list of outstanding applications. It’s getting thin now. I’ll have to take some time tonight to send some more out because I’m running out of time.
Wandering down to the kitchen, I grab a sleeve of Oreos from the secret stash that our chef Gregory keeps for me. It’s definitely cookie time. I get a glass of milk and a fork and dig in, pushing the fork through the cream and dunking. I watch little air bubble pop up as the cookie absorbs the milk. Whoever thought of this combination should be added to the list of saints.
I’m halfway through the sleeve when my mother comes into the kitchen. “Uh-oh,” she says, “I know that face and I know that snack.” My mother pretends to understand my obsession with Oreos, though she doesn’t. To her, processed food is the devil and all evil springs from it. But she tries not to judge too much. I shove another cookie in my mouth.
“Another rejection?” she asks.
“T
he Essex Foundation.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I know you wanted that one.”
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge whether she’s being sincere. Neither of my parents agrees with my professed choice of career, but just like the Oreos, my mom tries to give me as much support as she can. From the look on her face, she’s actually a bit sad for me. That’s nice.
She pours herself a glass of water and perches on a bar stool across from me. “What happened?”
The last thing I want to do is rehash everything I’ve been thinking about for the last hour, but I know better than to not answer. She’ll just continue to ask me pointed questions until I do. I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know. That was the interview I felt best about. The interviewers and I really had a great conversation, and I thought we connected. I was really confident about the sample materials I sent in. I just…I don’t know.”
“Well,” my father’s voice cuts across the kitchen, “If they didn’t hire you, it’s obviously not the right place for you. Time to move on.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My father is Timothy Caldwell. Yes, that Timothy Caldwell. Architect to the stars, builder of half the celebrity homes and high rises in L.A., and number one on the list of people who disapprove of my life choices. “I am moving on, Dad,” I say, “I thought maybe I’d just take an hour to regroup.” I dunk another Oreo a little too forcefully, causing some milk to spill onto the counter.
Dad comes into the kitchen and stands in front of my mother, who helps him fix his tie automatically. This has been one of their routines for as long as I can remember. Whenever my father goes out to meet a client, my mother gets the final polish. “How much longer?” he asks.
My stomach drops. I know exactly what he’s talking about and I don’t even want to think about it because it makes me nauseous. “A week.”
