by Annie Kelly
“Hey, you—you okay?”
She looks up, then manages a weak smile.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Wendy takes a swig from her diet soda, then scoots her chair back and stands up. “Do you need me?”
“Actually, yeah, if you don’t mind—I need you to come talk to Owen with me.”
She nods. “I figured we’d need to file a report at the very least. You think we need to call CPS, too?”
I cringe. I hate, hate, hate getting Child Protective Services involved—not because they’re bad people or bad at their job. On the contrary, they’re sort of amazing. They’re thorough and no-nonsense and badass. But nine times out of ten, the parents know that we’re the ones who referred them for neglect or abuse or whatever other reason there is to report. And then they’re fucking pissed. They’ll prevent the kids from coming. Sometimes, the kids come in the next day with more bruises. Bruises we caused by proxy.
“I don’t know. I’m going to see what Owen thinks.”
Ordinarily, when Remy was here, I would bound right into his office without even considering knocking. Now, I stand at the door in hesitation. I look at Wendy and she looks back at me. Then she reaches past me and raps her knuckles against the closed door.
“Come in,” is the muffled reply. I swallow hard, then, taking a page from Charlie’s book, square my shoulders and stride inside.
Owen is sitting at his desk with a stack of papers in front of him. I recognize the red budget binder—Remy never had that thing too far from hand. He’s got several open folders with receipts and shipping orders spilling out the sides. His hair is mussed as though he’s been running his hands through it over and over.
I clear my throat, then look back over my shoulder at Wendy, who I’m pretty sure Owen didn’t notice. She raises an eyebrow at me.
“Wendy and I need to run something by you,” I say pointedly, moving to the side so I’m sure Owen sees her. When he does finally look up, he blinks at her, then at me. He puts down his pen.
“Sure. What’s up?”
Wendy grabs the closest chair and drops into it. I lean up against the nearby bookshelf, my arms crossed over my chest.
“Charlie is over in my office with Shannon—she’s had some difficulties at home before, but this is the first time she’s come in with evidence of self-harm.”
Owen leans back in his desk chair. “Define ‘self-harm.’”
I shove a hand back through my messy blond curls. “She has some fairly superficial wounds on her wrists that have been bandaged, but she’s pretty well knocked around. She’s got bruises on her upper body and a cut in her hair. She says it was boys at school. The wrists were just a reactionary result.”
Abruptly, Owen stands up. His eyes are wide. I can tell he’s never dealt with this kind of situation before. The senior citizens probably weren’t nearly as outwardly troubled, at least when it came to their personal identity and their desire for acceptance.
“We need to call someone immediately. There’s a protocol for this.”
I look from him to Wendy and back again. “There is . . . a recommended plan, yes. But Charlie’s special, Owen. We can’t just report her situation and keep her safe at the same time.”
Owen cocks his head, his brow furrowed. He looks back at his desk, then pushes aside a stack of papers, revealing his notebook from our meeting. He starts flipping through his notes.
“Charlie—he’s the transgender teen?”
“She,” I say, trying to keep my tone from being too defensive. Pronouns are hard for the uneducated. “She was assigned male at birth, but she identifies as female. She’s been living as a female for a year, but it’s taken time to find exactly who she is and how she feels. She’s really come into her own in the last few months. I wonder if it might be safer to figure out other alternatives rather than immediately call CPS.”
Owen continues to scan his notebook, then looks up.
“I don’t understand. Why would that be a bad solution?”
I sigh, not sure how to make him understand. “Essentially, CPS isn’t as quick as a pissed-off parent. If she goes home tonight and they find out we reported them, Charlie could pay for it in some really horrible way.”
“Jesus.”
Owen shakes his head, his eyes wide. Clearly this isn’t something that happened on the regular at the senior center. I wait for him to demand that we call anyway, to decide that Charlie will be safe and that following protocol is more important.
And then, instead, he completely blows my mind.
“Can I see her?”
I stare at him. “Charlie?”
“Yeah . . . will she talk to me, do you think?”
I look back at Wendy, who, up to this point, still hasn’t said a word. Now, she stands back up.
“Let me go check and see how she is doing,” she says softly. She smiles at me, then at Owen before walking out the door. Seconds later, the door swings shut behind her. I’m not sure if she meant to close it or not.
“I—um, I know that it’s probably not typical to wing these kinds of situations. I just think that calling CPS is a really bad idea right now,” I say, tugging at the bottom of my shirt. Owen shrugs.
“This is why I want to go to dinner, Rainey. I need to know how to deal with these situations. I’m not so big of an asshole that I think I’m going to be better at this job just because I’m one step higher on the ladder than you.”
I raise a brow. “You’re not going to be an asshole, then?”
He shrugs. “I’m not going to try to, anyway.”
He cracks a smile then—all lips and smirk and sexy. I’m taken aback by the heavy, immediate arousal moving through my core.
You cannot have a crush on your boss. You cannot have a crush on your boss. You cannot have a crush on your boss.
But I know the truth. So does my brain. It spits a snotty mantra right back at me.
Too late. Too late. Too late.
***
Owen Marshall is the last person I ever thought would be filled with undeniable compassion for anyone. He strode in here a few days ago and took over a job from someone I love.
Two days later, I’m almost in tears as he kneels down in front of a beautifully made-up but still shaken Charlie.
“Charlie, I want you to know that I think you’re really brave. I want that to be the first thing you hear me say this afternoon.”
Owen says the words gently while making constant eye contact. Wendy, Shannon, and I watch from other parts of the office, but we can’t turn away. It’s like the opposite of a train wreck. It’s like watching a flower bloom in time lapse. Or fireworks.
“But I want to make sure that letting you walk out of here tonight won’t lead to more bandages. More cutting yourself.” Owen tilts his head and leans closer. “I know you can’t control the acts of others, but you can control how you choose to react.”
Charlie chews on her bottom lip, but she doesn’t say anything at first. Owen glances at me and I make the “keep going” motion. He clears his throat nervously.
“If you can promise me that we don’t have to worry about you hurting yourself, I won’t have to call CPS tonight.”
Charlie immediately brightens. I jump in, holding up a hand.
“That’s true, Charlie, but if we see any further injuries—by you or anyone else—we’ll have no choice but to get CPS involved.”
She nods solemnly, looking back and forth between Owen and me.
“I’ll be careful,” she finally says softly. I swear, every sentence that’s come out of her mouth today has completely slayed me.
“But, there is one thing we have to do,” Owen says, rocking back on his heels. “Well, one thing I have to do and one thing you have to do.”
“Okay . . .”
“You have to talk to a therapist. We’re goi
ng to start bringing in a friend of mine from the city. I will call her and have her meet with you here once a week for free.”
Charlie frowns. She starts to shake her head, but I touch her arm.
“This isn’t a scary thing, I promise.”
I didn’t even know about Owen’s therapy plan, but I completely support it.
“In the meantime,” Owen continues, “I would like to set up a meeting with your mother. Alone. Without your stepfather.”
I can’t take my eyes off Charlie’s face. Partly because I’m terrified she’ll bolt. Or burst into tears. Instead, she looks unbearably sad.
“I don’t know if she’ll do that,” she says quietly. “I don’t know if he’ll let her.”
God, who does this fucking prick think he is? I can feel my rage begin to burst my carefully constructed seams. I’m often pissed at a kid’s parent. Parents are late all the time, leaving their kids to hang out on the street all night. Parents are neglectful. Parents are straight-up assholes. But Charlie’s stepdad is clearly cut from a completely different cloth.
“You know, honey,” Wendy says, coming around the side of the desk to focus on Charlie and hold her gaze, “sometimes talking to another adult is good for adults, too, not just kids. Your mom might be able to use a connection here, just like you.”
Charlie swallows, her throat working over the motion.
“You don’t understand,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. Hastily, I grab a tissue and hand it to her.
“Oh, no—don’t do that,” Shannon says, coming to Charlie’s other side. “Not when you look so damn fierce. You gotta preserve that makeup, girl!”
But Charlie just shakes her head.
“You don’t understand,” she repeats. “Nothing you do or say will make a difference.”
I glance up at Owen, who is frowning.
“What do you mean, Charlie?”
She closes her eyes.
“I can’t report him. I can’t call 911. I can’t get authorities involved. He is the authorities. My stepdad’s a cop for the county,” she whispers. “He’ll always win when it’s him against me.”
She opens her beautiful eyes and looks so childlike in her grief. I can feel my heart sink. In Baltimore, getting help from the authorities is so hit-or-miss already. What are we supposed to do for this girl?
Some days, I start this job feeling like I’m making a difference and end it feeling like I don’t know where to turn for help. Some days, it’s like the kids and I are out on the same buoy, waiting for help. Waiting to be saved.
Chapter Six
“Whew. That was . . .”
Owen trails off, shaking his head. I give a mirthless laugh.
“Brutal?” I offer. He nods.
“Yeah, that’s a good word for it.”
It’s almost nine at night—way after my shift was supposed to be over—and I’m definitely not out with Cyn like I’d expected to be. Once we’d managed to calm Charlie down, the staff powwowed and came up with a temporary plan. Wendy drove her home and talked to her mother, asking if Charlie could start coming to BYC every day after school for an “internship.” We don’t technically have interns, but we all agreed—including, maybe most importantly, Owen—that keeping an eye on Charlie was the best way to keep her safe.
So, now, we’re sitting around the break room—Wendy, Jenn, Owen, and me—chowing down on lo mein and hoping that we’ve made the right choices. When Wendy and Jenn decide to call it a night, I turn to Owen with an apologetic smile.
“About that dinner we’d planned . . .”
He grins and his face immediately relaxes, making him look younger. Making him look adorable with a sexy, frat-boy edge.
“Looks like we had it anyway,” he says, gesturing to the cartons of Chinese food littering the large table. “Besides—I think I learned more about this place and these kids today just from the experience with Charlie than you could have possibly described to me. And honestly? I probably wouldn’t have believed you until I saw it myself.”
I chew and swallow another bite of lo mein. “I know. It’s a hard job in some ways, but so incredibly rewarding in others. It’s why I stay. I have my social work credentials—I graduated last spring—but I love these kids. I don’t think I could be doing any better work than the work I do here.”
“How old are you?” Owen asks, reaching for another egg roll.
“Twenty-five. Why?”
He shrugs. “I was curious. I’m twenty-seven. I didn’t see myself in this field by a long shot. I went to business school.”
I raise a brow. “That is not at all like this job. Wow.”
“I know.” He chuckles. “I sort of fell into it—my roommate worked at the BSC, and he got me the job. I just never left. And then they moved me here.”
It’s a pretty succinct description of what happened in the last three days, but I let it go.
“Honestly, though,” Owen says, looking up thoughtfully, “there’s a lot of business-related concerns when it comes to this place. I’ve spent the last two days buried in the books of budgetary concerns and receipts and shit. I mean—this place bleeds freaking money.”
I snort. “Don’t I know it. That’s the reason I keep applying for grants. Remy’s biggest concern was always about state money and funding and how to make sure we had what we needed.”
Which reminds me of Remy’s request about his receipts.
“Hey, speaking of which, Remy said that he had a stack of receipts in his desk—can I grab them? I don’t want them to get mixed in with the budget stuff.”
Owen frowns. “I don’t remember seeing anything like that—I can certainly look, but I haven’t seen anything.”
“Huh. Weird.” Although, honestly, Remy lost his keys on the regular when he worked here and forgot his badge more days than he remembered it. Maybe he’d taken them home without realizing it.
I watch Owen polish off the egg roll and then practically inhale the rest of his plate of noodles. I shake my head.
“What is it about guys’ metabolisms? I could never eat like that. I’d blow up like a damn balloon.”
Owen scoffs.
“Please. I don’t think you have any trouble in that area. Everything about you is like a college freshman’s wet dream.”
I freeze.
Owen freezes.
Well, everything about him freezes, save his eyes, which widen exponentially.
“Holy shit—I mean—God, Rainey, I’m sorry, I have no idea what made me say that out loud. It was super-inappropriate.”
His face looks panicked—so much so that it’s almost comical. I do the only thing I think I can do, which is wave dismissively and take a sip of my soda.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, laughing, even though I know my cheeks are pink and flushed with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. And maybe pleasure. Just a little bit.
But Owen looks like he just ran over my dog or something. He jumps up and starts gathering all the empty plates and cartons, attempting to pick up too many at once, then losing a few in the process. He shuffles to the trash can, incredibly focused on his task, but I can see his face is red.
Shit. He’s going to make this a thing.
“Owen.”
“Yeah?” He doesn’t look at me, so I clap my hands. He blinks over at me as he bags the rest of the garbage.
“Owen, seriously. It’s not a big deal. You said it, let’s move on.”
He shakes his head. “But, I’m your boss—I never should have . . .”
“But you did,” I say, “and it’s fine. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
I stand up and brush the crumbs off my lap. Owen still looks visibly upset, and I could almost laugh at his discomfort. Instead, I toss out my trash and grab my keys.
“Come on—I’ll show yo
u how to lock up the pool.”
We spend the next half hour going through all the basics of the facility—the pool maintenance (which Jenn mostly takes care of anyway), the locker room cleaning schedules, the preschool Clorox wipe-down. Owen doesn’t take any notes this time—instead, he just watches me. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t ask a bunch of questions. I’m not sure if he’s still mulling over his inappropriate commentary or if he’s just bored. Or both.
Once the facility’s shut down, I glance at my phone—I was supposed to text Cyn almost an hour ago.
“Hey,” I say to Owen as we head out to our cars, “I’m going to grab a drink with a few friends. If you aren’t busy, you’re more than welcome to join us.”
For a long moment, he just stares at me. In the moonlight, the features of his face seem all the more pronounced. His nose is narrow, but not too thin. His chin and its prominent dimple are strong and utterly masculine, much like the tawny five-o’clock shadow that’s bloomed over his cheeks since this afternoon.
If he were a coworker—someone who I considered an equal—I’d make a move. I’d walk a little closer to him and gaze up into his coffee-colored eyes. I’d play with my hair, twisting a lock around one finger in the universal sign of “I am so fucking into you, please take me home.” I’d tilt my head while I talked and I’d laugh and flirt and lick my lips.
Once we were close enough to count individual eyelashes, I’d bite my bottom lip, in the hopes that his eyes would flare wide open with unbridled lust.
Then all bets would be off.
But, instead, my boss, Owen, shakes his head.
“I should really get some sleep.”
I swear to God I hear longing in his voice. Longing for me? Longing for a night out? Or longing for a good eight hours? I guess they’re all options.
“Okay,” I say, feeling slightly unsure. I’m not used to wanting someone I can’t have. Not that I’ve wanted anyone recently. I’m usually pretty good at avoiding that experience as a general rule.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
I blink up at my boss. AT MY BOSS, I try to tell my brain. What is it about this guy that’s giving me goose bumps? I try to remember his bossy attitude. Instead, I’m remembering everything else about him that is driving me crazy. Crazy in a good way—the muscular frame, the flirtatious smile, the flash of humor in his gaze that is always tempered by something hot and sexy and seductive.
