by Megan Derr
The piles of unexpected debt his parents had left.
Two young siblings who needed him, whom he could not bear to see go to strangers.
Giving up Four Butterflies, his dreams of music, to get a job to pay for all the things that had become his sole responsibility overnight.
Trapped in a shitty job with an evil fucking boss, who knew he was desperate, knew he could lose his only family, knew he had no choice—and so had made him do so much, too much, because if he was fired for even a day, they'd take his siblings, and they'd both known it.
Working days, nights, weekends, helping his siblings get through school, his sister into college, listening to the music of his dreams fade and fade, until it was at last gone, and all he had left was singing along with the radio and the odd night of karaoke in the city two hours away.
It had seemed like too much at times, but he'd never had a choice. Not that he blamed anyone, and it could have all gone so much worse, but he was turning twenty-seven in three weeks, and he felt much older than that. And now… now he had a new job, a chance to at least go to school himself, and he didn't want to lose it.
On top of all of that, because that wasn't enough, he also seemed to have an awful crush on his new boss. He'd gone from hating and being terrified of his last boss, to lusting after and being terrified of his new one. It would give him a headache, if he had the energy left for one.
But Malcolm definitely didn't want to hear all that. He wouldn't care, why should he? He just wanted a happy employee, because happy workers meant the business ran more smoothly.
"I'm—my last job was hell," he finally said, going with what truth he could tell. "I’m not used to a place like this. Uh—usually when the—my last boss called me into her office, it was not for any good reason."
"Ah," Malcolm said and smiled at him. "Well, I'll just have to call you in here often, for all kinds of good reasons, until you relax."
Cassidy just knew he was red-faced now, and he hoped to god it wasn't obvious what kind of dirty spin he was putting on those words. This whole crush thing really needed to stop. Wasn't twenty six too old for crushing? Wasn't that a kid thing? Damn it.
"On that note," Malcolm continued, "I did in fact call you in here for a good reason, though by now I hope you've figured that out. As I've already said, you're doing splendidly. You've also hit your three month mark, which means that your pay will increase seven percent. You have a great deal of potential and promise, so I think if you keep working hard you will go quite far. Reaching three months also means you can enroll for full benefits now; I'll email you all that you need for that."
Cassidy blinked. "Oh. That's—that's wonderful to hear. Uh, thank you."
Malcolm chuckled. "Thank you for doing so well. Certain you've no questions or concerns? I saw you're still interested in taking classes. If you need any help in that respect, do not hesitate to ask."
"Sure," Cassidy replied. "Thanks."
"No problem. Your raise will be reflected on your next paycheck, and started three days ago."
Muttering more thanks you, all but falling over in relief, Cass fled the office.
Back safe and sound in his own cube, he stared blindly at his monitor, work forgotten as it all began slowly to sink in.
A raise—and seven percent! That was enough to work with, definitely. Real benefits. Oh, man, the things he could do with the extra money. He hadn't really ever believed he would make, or get much of, a raise. He had no degree, no real office experience. He knew what he did because The Ogre at his only other job had made him do damn near all her work, including the accounting.
Maybe he could set the extra aside to save up for a new computer. Or maybe a new mattress, and finally get rid of the lumpy thing he'd been putting up with forever.
He smiled hesitantly, then more solidly, as it all began to really seem… well, real.
Still smiling, he forced himself to get back to work, eager now for his lunch break so he could call Lindsay and Denny to tell them the good news. Maybe they could go out to dinner tonight, celebrate a little bit. It was so rare he had a reason to celebrate anything.
Oh, they could try out that Mexican restaurant he'd been eying forever. When had he last enjoyed real Mexican? He couldn't remember. One of his birthdays? If it turned out to be good, they could go back for his birthday this year.
The thoughts widened his smile as he immersed himself in his work, thoughts of Mexican food and more money and new things playing in the back of his mind. He hummed along with Annie's radio, occasionally singing softly when he knew the words.
Until he realized, with a nasty shock, that the office was dead silent. Except for him. The back of his neck prickled, and he jerked his head up—and felt his face go hot as he saw at least six people staring at him from the entrance to his little cubicle.
"Sorry," he muttered, turning and accidently sending his papers spilling off his desk, smacking his arm on his stapler, nearly upsetting his long-forgotten coffee mug. "I didn't mean to be loud," he said in a rush, barely separating the words. Damn it, he was normally smarter about not singing aloud loudly.
"No, no," Annie said. "You have a beautiful voice." She giggled and winked. "You should be a rock star."
"Ha ha," Cassidy muttered, ignoring the pain in his chest that should have stopped hurting by now because it was over and Four Butterflies had long ago turned into just Three and his life was different now and he knew better than to sing, damn it. He glanced at the clock on his computer. "Uh—lunch time—" he said, and bolted through the knot of people still looking at him, ignoring their confusion, amusement, and probably some annoyance.
Safe in the elevator, he covered his face with his hands.
Once, he remembered, he'd been loud and cocky and ready to take on the world. He'd loved attention, loved the limelight, had plans not just to take on the world, but to rule it.
Then everything had gone to hell.
Downstairs in the main lobby, he called Lindsay first. Her phone went straight to voicemail, but she was probably still at her summer job. He left her a message, telling her to text any reply. Then he did the same with Denny, who was probably still asleep and would bother to climb out of bed in a couple more hours.
Now to eat. Damn it, he'd left his lunch upstairs in the break room. And the course stuff and his notes on who he wanted to call today. Cassidy hit his forehead with the heel of one hand. Honestly, some days he was a little too scattered and scared rabbit for his own good.
Sighing, he left the building and turned down the street he knew had a lot of cheaper places to buy food. Like hell he was going back upstairs, not until he had to, after that ridiculous panicked flee.
Mexican, he told himself. Think about the raise and going out for Mexican and other nice things. He raked a hand through his hair with a sigh and glimpsed a bit of the ink on his right arm that his sleeves normally hid. He'd have to be more careful the ink didn't show—on either arm.
He'd gotten his right arm done for his eighteenth birthday. He'd saved up half the money, and per the bargain, his parents had reluctantly given him the other half. They hadn't thought he'd manage the grades, or to save, or to do the five million evil chores, but damn it he'd done it all and done it damned well. In reward, he'd gotten a tattoo from his right shoulder all the way down his arm, stopping three inches from his wrist. That, his parents had insisted upon, so he could still 'look professional.'
Only after they were dead, had he appreciated that insistence.
When he'd turned twenty-one and had completely snapped from the responsibility, the fear, the loneliness, the confusion—when it had finally just all been too much, he'd gotten the second tattoo done, his left arm from shoulder to three inches above the wrist.
The right arm was all butterflies, in honor of his band. Well, then it had been his band. The left was just a mass of Celtic work because he'd always loved the stuff.
He could only imagine how he would appear to all his sharp, sophistic
ated, classy coworkers—and his boss—if they knew he was most comfortable in old jeans, wife-beater, tattoos bared, a fifth of Jack and belting out rock for all he was worth.
It just didn't compute. He knew that—and if he'd dared to be himself, they would have taken his siblings away, declared him unfit.
Christ, could he just stop sulking and dwelling? It had to stop at some point, right? Well, it would mostly get better once his birthday was over and done with. He was always at his most self-pitying right around his birthday.
School, he reminded himself. Soon, he'd start school. And they were definitely doing Mexican, damn it.
Nodding, determined, Cassidy strode into a sandwich place he liked but seldom had cause to visit, and decided he'd order his favorite meatball sub. He had a real job and it looked like he might be keeping it. That totally called for meatball subs. And a cherry soda.
Chapter Two
Cassidy rapped Denny's knuckles hard with the back of his spoon. "Hands off my guacamole."
Denny yelped and shook the wounded hand, scowling. "You are such an asshole when it comes to guacamole."
"Mine," Cassidy repeated, then narrowed his eyes and, just to annoy, asked, "Are you old enough to say 'asshole'?"
"God, shut up," Denny said, but his long-suffering tone was ruined by his grin. "Yes, I can say asshole, asshole. If you're not going to share the guac, then pass the salsa."
Cassidy obligingly passed the salsa, then went back to decimating his tortilla chips and guacamole. Mmm, they were so coming back here for his birthday. He paused in the devouring only to drain the last of his beer.
Lindsay looked at them both, laughed, and flagged down their waitress for more of everything. "I know the two of you don't go hungry, so why do you always eat like you've been starving for days?"
Not bothering to try and answer that, Cassidy simply thanked the man that brought his fresh beer and waited for more food to come. "So, now that we've discussed me to death, how's 'bout the two of you?"
Lindsay smiled. "We're fine, Cass. We're always fine, thanks to you."
"I'd be finer if I could have the car tonight," Denny said. "Promise I'll have it back for you to go to work tomorrow morning."
Cassidy lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "I liked it better when I could make you be home by midnight. Why?"
"I need the car to take care of a few drug deals, rob a bank, drop off a couple of hookers, then set the principal's house on fire," Denny promptly replied. "Then maybe some old-fashioned pillaging, if there's time left over."
"Fine," Cassidy replied, "but don't call me to make your bail."
Denny grinned. "Nah, Linds owes me for that thing with the Chinese prostitute and the cop."
"It wasn't a cop, it was FBI. God, get it right," Lindsay replied.
Cassidy laughed, and absently thanked the waitress as she brought their fresh chips and all.
"Katie, Joe, and I are going to an art exhibit," Denny said after he finished shoveling a few more bites of food. "Katie was going to drive, but her muffler fell off this afternoon."
"It's fine," Cassidy replied. "So long as I get no upsetting phone calls and can get to work in the morning."
"Done and done," Denny replied. "What's for dessert?"
"You're not even done with dinner!" Lindsay said. "You've had like fifty pounds of chips and salsa, not to mention the entrees."
"So?" Cassidy and Denny chorused.
Lindsay threw up her hands in defeat and tried and failed to hide a smile. "Let's go for ice cream."
"Sounds like a plan to me," Denny said.
Cassidy agreed with a nod, and talk then turned to more mundane things—school for each of them, work the house needed, the possibilities of a proper vacation. He knew his siblings were both at the point of total independence—Lindsay well past—and he was secretly happy they did not simply take off and leave him behind. They never would abandon him totally, they were too close for that, he knew, but he dreaded anyway when their lives would eventually focus mostly on other things. What would he have left once they scattered to the winds?
He ate more chips and guacamole, eyes wandering the restaurant aimlessly—and stopped with a chip halfway to his mouth as his gaze landed on a man by the entrance. No, no, and again no.
Why, oh why, was Malcolm Osborne standing in the front of the restaurant? And why did he have to look so goddamn fucking edible? The man had been lethal enough in business dress, all prim and proper. Now… now was so much worse. Stone washed jeans that fit entirely too well, a dark blue t-shirt that fit better still and said Malcolm was no out-of-shape office monkey. Hair tousled, falling more softly around his face, giving Cassidy entirely too much idea of what he'd look like fresh from bed.
"Whoa," Lindsay said, her shocked voice snapping Cassidy from his lust-induced stupor. "I've never seen you undress someone with your eyes before, Cass." She giggled and glanced at Malcolm. "He is hot, though. Pretty as hell."
Cassidy went red and hissed, "I am not undressing him with my eyes or anything else. If he's in my head at all, which he's not, then he definitely has clothes. Plus he's my boss."
"That's your boss?" Lindsay demanded. "What was his last job? Swimsuit model?"
"Shut up," Cassidy replied.
Lindsay only giggled again. "So, does he swing your way or mine?"
"I didn't exactly ask," Cassidy replied. "Seeing as it's none of my business."
"Gay," Denny broke in. "Definitely gay."
"How can you tell?" Lindsay asked.
"I can always tell," Denny said loftily. "Oh, he's looking this way." He smiled mischievously at Cassidy.
Cassidy was going to kill them both.
"Cass," Malcolm greeted, extending a hand. "I didn't know you ate here."
"First time," Cassidy replied, shaking his hand, reluctantly letting go. "Uh—"
"So your Cass' boss?" Lindsay said, before he could get another word in. "He talks about his new job all the time; so different from when he worked for the Ogre. Are you meeting someone? Care to put up with us a bit? It's nice to meet you."
Malcolm laughed. "I just came to pick up my dinner; I usually do a couple three times a week. I doubt your brother wants to put up with his boss off the clock."
"No, please," Cassidy said, managing to sound calm and not totally stare and drool the way he wanted.
Malcolm's smile brightened, and Cassidy wondered at that, but he was distracted from his thoughts when Malcolm half-turned and called out to the host in rapid-fire Spanish.
Some discussion, possibly argument, waged for a good three minutes. Then Malcolm dropped down into the empty fourth seat at their table, smiling again. "You must be siblings of Cass. You all have the same eyes and smiles." He extended his hand to Lindsay and Denny. "Malcolm Osborne."
"Lindsay."
"Denny."
"A pleasure. Are you both students?"
"I start grad school in the summer. Denny starts college then, too. We're celebrating Cassidy's three months."
Malcolm nodded. "A worthy celebration. I'm glad you agree, Cass. I'll buy you another beer, for it."
"No, you don't—"
But even as Cassidy tried to protest, Malcolm had turned away again, once more speaking—shouting—across the room in a spate of Spanish.
"Wow," Lindsay said when he'd finished. "You're, like, totally fluent."
Malcolm looked briefly embarrassed, but then shrugged and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Yeah. My little brother runs the restaurant; he and his wife are working on buying it from her father."
"Brother?" Denny repeated.
"Me," said a smooth, softly accented voice at Cassidy's left. Cassidy looked up, utterly confused to see a man of obviously Spanish decent. Handsome, though privately he thought the man had nothing on Malcolm.
"Carlos," the man introduced himself. "I'm Malcolm's little brother. I run this place and put up with him mooching food because he is too lazy to cook. Mal, man, you did not tell me you had friends c
oming. Would have given him a better table, eh? Hell, I did not even know you had friends. How much you pay them?"
"Screw you," Malcolm replied. "Cassidy there is my new employee. I'm buying him a beer to celebrate surviving the joint three months."
"Oh," Carlos said with a grin. "That one."
Cassidy choked, wondering what the hell that meant.
"Don't be a dick," Malcolm retorted, lobbing a tortilla chip at him. "I haven't seen you in three weeks, and I never talk business. Quit trying to scare him and give us that beer you're still holding."
