N.Y.E.

by Jessica Gadziala

  He'd said he'd meet me out front.

  Not inside.

  So I did a little dance to keep the blood flowing, and waited.

  It was six-forty when I heard his voice from behind me.

  "Why the hell are you waiting outside?"

  "You said you would meet me outside at six."

  "And when I didn't show by six-fifteen, you didn't think to go inside?"

  "I didn't think you'd be so inconsiderate as to be just a moment or two longer." That was an outright lie. He was every bit that inconsiderate, clearly. But I wanted him to feel shitty.

  "I wasn't expecting you again today. I had meetings. They sometimes run over."

  Well, so much for him feeling crummy.

  I should have known better.

  "I figured you would want to get this over with so you can get back to your very busy life," I drawled, annoyed that he was slowly draining the self-satisfaction I had been feeling for the last few hours.

  "Let's go," he barked, turning and walking toward the back of the building, leaving me to jog behind to keep up with his long-legged pace.

  I was never so thankful for heat in my life, making a mental note to buy a handful of blankets at a discount store by my apartment to hand off to the handful of homeless men and women who lived on my street. I could barely tolerate an hour of it; I couldn't imagine it endlessly.

  I sat there, feeling my skin prickling as it warmed, tiny swarms of stings over every cold inch of me, lost in my own little relief from misery, completely unaware of Grant's eyes on me until he looked away, the motion catching my attention.

  "Are you going to give me an address? Or am I supposed to guess?"

  Anger was warm too and it heated me from the inside out as I rattled off the address, waiting for some snarky comment about it, but found myself surprised instead when he said nothing, just turned the car into traffic and took us there.

  "This is a club," he told me as the car idled out front, his brows furrowed.

  "Was."

  "Excuse me?"

  "It was a club. Until two weeks ago when they shuttered the doors. The owner is going to go bankrupt. He couldn't afford to keep the lights on. But, it's not on the market. Not just yet."

  Grant's lips twitched, something hinting at a smile that never actually formed as his gaze slid to my face. "And if a hefty chunk of the party budget suddenly landed in his lap..."

  "Precisely," I agreed, smiling because, well, I was proud of myself, damnit. And why shouldn't I be? It had been a brilliant idea.

  "We can view it?" he asked, likely taking in the darkness of it.

  "The owner brought some camping lights to set up so we can check out the place. He should be here now. Hopefully. We are late."

  "Money speaks, Miss Walters. He will be here."

  Never having had much of it to do any kind of talking, I couldn't agree or disagree with him as we climbed out of the car and knocked on the front doors.

  The owner, Cal, was of Eastern European stock, tall, well built, his dark hair cut perfectly, his Rolex catching the light as he set up the lanterns around.

  "I was glad to get a call from your Miss Walters," Cal said, addressing Grant as though I was no longer a part of the equation.

  It took a lot of self-control not to say that I was not his anything.

  The next five minutes was business talk, figures and legalese, things that I figured Grant was better at than I was, so I took one of the lanterns, moving around the massive space by myself.

  It was a two-level building - as most clubs were, the upper level overlooking the more open bottom one, complete with a stage and a full bar as well as a few private booths in the corners.

  I made my way up the stairs, finding two narrow, standing room only areas on the sides that led to two larger areas on the ends with smaller bars and large seating areas.

  Luckily, Cal hadn't gotten around to selling the furniture yet. And it was all new enough that we wouldn't have to worry about replacing anything because of wear and tear.

  Opening a door to the far right, I moved into a small space no more than eight-by-eight with a long couch, coffee table, and a wall of monitors.

  A place to see everything going on without being a part of it.

  A place where I would likely be spending a lot of New Year's Eve this year.

  And I was trying to convince myself that that wasn't depressing at all even if it absolutely was. Everyone else would be reaching for someone at midnight, sealing their lips over theirs, welcoming in a fresh start. I would be watching it alone in a room without even a drink to ease the sting.

  Then again, it wasn't any less depressing than the last few ones I had had anyway.

  My first year in business after hiring Evan, I had joined him at a gay club, thinking it would be fun and easy going. I even ended up with a peck on the cheek from about three dozen drunk, gay men. But I hadn't been able to join in on the joy around me, so when Ev tried to drag me the next year, I stayed home. And then the same the year after, eating freezer pizzas and drinking red Moscato out of a coffee mug.

  I hadn't ever had a New Year's that looked like it did on TV, in the movies. With a sweetheart to kiss. With happy memories.

  In fact, New Year's Eve was my least favorite holiday of the year. And that was saying something because Easter and the Fourth of July were big busts for me as well.

  I didn't know what it was, but I always found myself sad, wrapped up in this cocoon of missed opportunities, another year passing without meeting my goals, without anything new to show for it, and without much but the same old, same old to look forward to in the coming months.

  "This is convenient," Grant's voice said, jolting me out of my winding, depressing thoughts, making me wonder how I hadn't heard him approaching when the building was so silent.

  And not only had he approached, he had moved in right behind me.

  Even as that thought formed, I became aware of all of him at once.

  His arms were lifted, holding each side of the doorframe, trapping me within. His front was a whisper from my back, the warmth of his body heat cutting through my layers of clothes, warming me once again. His head must have been ducked down a bit, because I could feel his breath just above my ear, making my hair dance with each exhale. And at his full height, his mouth and nose would never have been that low, that close.

  "What is?" I asked, wondering a bit fleetingly why my voice sounded different. Airy, almost.

  "This room," he clarified, and this time, his breath danced over my ear, making a shiver work its way up my spine.

  "How so?"

  "I can be here. Without actually having to be a part of it."

  My brows furrowed at that. "You don't want to be a part of your own party?"

  "You know as well as I, Miss Walters, that this is not my party. This isn't for me."

  "Why do it then?"

  "Employee morale is important. Or so my human resources department keeps reminding me. And since I would rather cut off my balls than do the corporate trust-building retreat they suggested, I decided to do this instead."

  "Well," I said, finding I had to swallow hard, my mouth oddly dry. "I think your employees would prefer this over a trust-building retreat anyway. That just sounds like more work. Having to pretend like you like coworkers even if all they do is make your life miserable ninety-eight-percent of the time."

  "That's cynical."

  "It's honest."

  "Fair enough."

  "Why wouldn't you want to be a part of it, though? It will be a big party."

  "I spend eighty-percent of my life with these people already. It's enough. I will be here because I have to be, but I would much rather be somewhere else."

  I found myself wanting to ask where. Or with whom.

  Why? I wasn't sure. Since I genuinely disliked the man. Maybe it was just because - for a short moment here in this private space - he was being more human.

  "Did you have any big plans before this c
ame up?"

  "No."

  "Really? That's surprising," he said, and I would swear his mouth was even closer to my ear. And this time, I was pretty sure the shiver was not just on the inside.

  In fact, it only took about two seconds for me to realize that I wasn't the only one who felt the shiver.

  Oh, no.

  Grant freaking Calgary was close enough to feel it as well.

  And he wasn't going to be gentlemanly enough to pretend like he didn't feel it, let me keep my dignity intact.

  Nope.

  Not him.

  The word gentleman had never been attached to this man.

  A low, deep, rumbling chuckle moved through him, vibrating into my system, making me suddenly very aware of a tightening in my core.

  Wait, no.

  Not my core.

  That wasn't possible.

  At least not because of a man I loathed.

  And not about a man I just met.

  I mean, I just didn't really work that way. I was a substance-over-looks kind of person. In fact, if you asked Evan, the last three guys I had even tried to date had been - in his words - threes, maybe three-and-a-halves in good light. But they'd - I thought, at least - been intelligent, driven, interested in a wide variety of topics. And the physical side of attraction only came after a few dates, after I got to know them a bit.

  It had never been instantaneous, for a practical stranger, for someone I disliked entirely.

  "Guess you..." he started, only to be cut off by the searching voice of Cal.

  "Where'd you go?" he called, making my body shock forward. The cool air hitting my back seeming to shake whatever weird spell the closeness, the warmth had cast on me, making my cheeks heat at the way I had responded to him. Openly. Clearly enough that he knew all too well about it.

  "Just checking out this security room," Grant called back as Cal's feet jogged up the stairs, coming toward us.

  "That. That was my room." Cal explained, moving into the space. I had never been more thankful for an interruption in my life. "You know how it is. Night in and night out. The same thing. The women and the men puffing their chests. This," he said, waving an arm out. "This allowed me to keep an eye, maybe bring a lady in for a private party, but get away from all that sweat and desperation."

  "What about the back of the house? Is there a kitchen?" I asked, wanting to get out of the small space with not enough air, get back to work, put some distance between us.

  "Yes. There's a kitchen. We didn't use it, but the owner before, he did the finger foods. There's a full kitchen. Everything state-of-the-art. You want to come see?"

  "Yes, that'd be great," I said at almost the same exact time that Grant claimed it wouldn't be necessary. Cal looked between us, uncertain. "We'd like to see the kitchen," I told him, voice a little more firm. "We need to make sure it will be usable. We will be needing it for the event."

  "Whatever the lady wants, yes?" Cal asked, looking at Grant for confirmation, something I pretended didn't offend me.

  Grant's dark eyes went to me, holding for a long moment, making me suddenly wish they were more readable, that I could see what he was thinking just this once. His gaze was still on me when he answered Cal.

  "Yes. Whatever the lady wants."

  Half an hour later, I was cutting the line at Evan's work, having gotten close with the doorman who Evan claimed was third in his rotation, as if that was a thing, squeezing my body through the crush of the crowd, dropping down in an empty seat, wincing a bit at the thumping, ear-splitting club music.

  "Uh oh. What happened?" Evan asked, moving in front of me, producing a rocks glass with ice, pouring in two fingers of tequila before adding a finger of Grenadine and a splash of ginger ale - something he always made me and seemingly only me even though I told him when we first met that I didn't even like tequila - and pushing it across the bar toward me.

  I didn't even care about the taste, the burn, the guaranteed headache I'd have in an hour or two, I lifted it and drained the contents.

  "Yeah, I see you baby!" he called across the bar, waving at someone who had called his name. Then, voice lower so only I could hear, "And if you rub your teeny baby cock up on me again tonight, bitch might chop that little thing right off. Yes, honey, one moment!" he called, louder, voice set in a perpetual curtesy-cheery voice that was not natural to him in the least, but he made it seem so.

  For the tips, baby, it's all for the tips he once told me when I called him on it one night.

  "I found a venue," I told him, pushing the cup toward him for a refill as he pulled a ten off the bar top, slipping it under the counter on his side.

  "Yeah, I look like someone ground my eyeshadow palettes all up when I make the impossible happen too."

  "It's a nightclub that is about a month from going up for auction. It's perfect."

  "I'm still waiting for the bad part. Heeeey, handsome! What? You got sick of that down-low guy? Ready to get your flirt on, huh?"

  Talking to Evan at work was like having a conversation with a high school cheerleader who had the attention span of a goldfish. But he always got back to me eventually. And after a few of his special drinks, I was feeling tingly and slow-brained enough not to be bothered by it.

  "Alright, so what is the bad part."

  "There was a little room," I told him, exhaling hard. "I was looking at it. And he came up behind me and-"

  "Giiirl, did he get up in it?" he asked, pressing a hand to his chest. Up this close, I could see his expertly applied eyelashes, the way that made his eyes even more gorgeous than they already were. He'd tried to teach me how to do mine, spending a whole afternoon trying to get me to figure it out before declaring that I was hopeless.

  "No," I snorted, shaking my head. "He just... stood behind me and talked to me."

  "The monster," he said with an eye roll.

  "And then he said something. And I shivered."

  "On the outside?" Evan clarified.

  "Yep."

  "And I'm assuming he noticed."

  "He noticed. And he chuckled."

  "Alright... so you shivered. What's the big deal?"

  "The big deal is I can't stand him and now he thinks I'm attracted to him."

  "Honey, you'd have to be a full-on les - and even that might not do it - not to be attracted to that man. I'm sure he's used to it."

  "That's not the point. I have to work with him now. Side by side. For a month."

  "Oh, hush. Find your lady balls, would you? You're an embarrassment to your kind."

  "My kind?" I asked, giving him a small smile.

  "Your foresisters in the sixties didn't like burn their bras and demand birth control and sexual lib and shit so you could piss and moan about a shiver. Go home. Get some sleep. Wake up. Have a good vibe sesh. And move the fuck on. Act like nothing happened."

  "And if he brings it up?"

  "He's probably already forgotten all about it."

  For some reason, that actually stung a bit.

  But that was ridiculous, so I squashed it down.

  "He's probably made a dozen girls shiver since then."

  "Exactly," he agreed, patting my hand. "No go grab a cab. No, don't object," he said, reaching under the counter to pass me a twenty. "It's on me. It's late. Get a cab. Go home. Sleep. Get up. Don't forget Mr. Good Vibrations. Then just... pretend like nothing happened. Because, angel face, nothing happened."

  With that, I did as he said.

  Well, except for the vibrator thing.

  It wasn't until it was too late that I realized it was maybe the most vital piece of advice he had given me.

  But I simply hadn't known it at the time.

  THREE

  - Battling

  Things a woman does when she is dealing with a situation she is uncomfortable with, but is unable to control:

  Color her hair.

  Get bangs.

  Empty the fridge and clean the already clean shelves.

  I looked washed out
when anything other than brunette.

  Bangs made my face look as round as a dinner plate.

  So, you guessed it, I was on my knees with my shirtsleeves jacked up, scrubbing shelves that genuinely didn't actually need to be cleaned.

  I tried to convince myself that I was simply more creatively inspired when my mind was on something else. And that was based in truth. I always got the most innovative ideas while my mind was on something else. When I was stirring sauce on the stove. When I worked out on the elliptical with old early two-thousands pop-rap music blasting. When I was trying to get my new internet security to download.

  But the fact of the matter was, I didn't need a stroke of creative genius. I knew full-well where my planning was going. New Year's Eve had, essentially, two traditional sets of colors - black & silver or black & gold - for a reason. Because they were traditional. And there was nothing wrong with traditional.

  Well, with the exception of hideous bridesmaids dresses that didn't flatter the coloring or figures of the women who had to wear them just because the planner claimed mustard or teal or grass green was the in color of the season.

  So the party was going to be black & gold. The subtle gold, not the brassy sort.

  It took four hours of looking at swatches for Grant to choose the original swatches I showed him that I told him would be perfect.

  That, of course, was the actual problem.

  Not my creativity.

  The person who seemed bent on questioning it.

  None other than the arrogant, condescending, overbearing executive Grant Calgary.

  I had thought he was just going to be particular about the venue.

  Oh, how adorably, innocently, idiotically naive I had been, as it turned out.

  No.

  See, I didn't even get much time after nursing just the tiniest of hangovers - thank you, Tequila - to fret about the shiver incident, about how we might be adults and talk about it, lay it on the table, get it out and over with - or maybe ignore it entirely. Because before my morning coffee finished dripping, my phone had started blowing up like crazy.