by Cat Carmine
It’s an attitude I’ve worked hard to cultivate in myself too. You can’t get anywhere in real estate — or anywhere, really — by being a soft touch. Ten years in the business have taught me that. I haven’t mastered Levi’s level of detachment, but I’m getting there.
Levi brushes an invisible piece of lint off his suit jacket.
“Your relationship won’t be an issue, will it?” he asks, as if he can see through my lie-by-omission.
I roll my eyes, shutting my laptop so that Rori’s smiling face won’t be staring at me anymore.
“Relationships are never an issue for me. You know that.”
He squints at me as if assessing something — risk or opportunity? — and nods. “Great. This is a big one, Wes. It’ll be the biggest deal we’ve ever inked.”
“Preaching to the choir, buddy,” I assure him. “I got this.”
After Levi and I finish up the rest of our business, he exits my office and I crack my laptop open again. As soon as the screen comes to life, Rori’s face greets me. A rush of memories flood over me but I force them back where they came from, into the deep recesses of my mind, locked away once more.
This isn’t about the past. It’s about the future — one in which I’m about to become a very wealthy man.
I stare up at the sign for the U-Coin Laundromat, then down at my phone again. This is the address listed on Marigold’s website, but this place hardly looks like the chic little boutique firm I envisioned.
I think about calling, but I don’t want to give her a chance to refuse to see me. Which she’d be well within her rights to do. I suppose it’s unfair of me to steamroll her by showing up out of the blue like this — but I’m going to do it anyway. I can’t explain it. It’s just something I have to do. And not only because I need her help. Ever since Levi and I hatched this plan, seeing Rori again has been all I can think about.
I try to peer inside, but the glass in the door is too opaque to see much. For a second I think the glass is frosted, but then I realize it’s just years of wear and tear on the old door. The red vinyl letters are peeling away and underneath, the glass is yellowed but clear.
With my phone back in the pocket of my suit jacket, I pull open the heavy door.
Once inside, I’m walloped with a wave of heat. The room is long and narrow, with washers lining one side and a row of dryers on the other. In the middle are a few scattered tables and two large counter-height stands where people are folding fresh clean laundry. The whole place smells like a strange mix of laundry detergent, mildew, and bleach.
Everyone in the room watches me as I stride through the space, towards the service counter at the back. I’m sure I look out of place here, in my custom-tailored suit. Christ, my shoes alone probably cost more than most of these people’s entire wardrobes.
It’s a mixed crowd in the laundromat. There are young moms with little ones clinging to their legs, and bored college kids pouring over text books and clutching their giant Starbucks take-away cups, and one squirrelly-looking guy with a neck tattoo. They all watch me suspiciously, and for a second I wonder if they think I might be the tax man. Some suit from the government, here to give them a hard time just for existing.
I get it. Twenty years ago, my mom would have been the same way. I never thought I’d grow up to be that guy in the suit. Sometimes I still wake up expecting to be in that old twin bed, shivering under worn blankets.
At the service counter in the back, a petite Asian woman greets me without looking up.
“How many you need?” she asks, punching open an aging cash register.
“I’m sorry?” I have to shout over the din of the machines.
“Quarters. How many you need?”
“Oh. I don’t need any quarters.”
Now she looks at me. She eyes my suit, squinting.
“We don’t do dry-cleaning. Half a block up. Milanos.”
“I don’t need dry-cleaning.”
Now she stares at me. There are fine lines around her mouth and I realize she’s older than I’d initially assumed. Her dark eyes rake over me, as suspicious of me as everyone else. I pull my phone back out of my jacket pocket and jab open the browser.
“I’m looking for this place,” I say, pointing to the screen. “Marigold. This is the address on the site.”
“Marigold is upstairs.” She points to the front door. “Back outside, next door over. Up the staircase.”
I thank her and make my way towards the exit, ignoring the eyes that follow me. By now, I’m used to commanding attention wherever I go — it comes with the territory when you’re one of the most successful and wealthiest real estate developers in the city — but there’s something about being in this dingy little laundromat that’s bringing me back to a time in my life when that wasn’t the case. When I would have blended in with everyone here. When I could have been one of those little kids, clinging to my mom while she pet my hair with one hand and tried to fold her work uniforms with the other.
I push open the door and take a deep and grateful gulp of fresh air. Well, fresh being a relative term, of course. This is still New York City, after all. The din of the washers and dryers is replaced by the sounds of traffic, of a cab driver leaning on his horn, of the distant sound of a barking dog. The chemical heat becomes smoggy humidity.
I turn my attention back to the building, looking for this mysterious second door. This time, I spot it right away. It’s painted a dull brown, the same color as the exterior of the building. No wonder my eyes passed right over it earlier.
I try the handle and am surprised to find it opens easily. I enter into a narrow stairwell. The type of narrow that makes me glad I don’t suffer from claustrophobia. It’s hot in here too, and I can hear the distant strains of hip-hop and laughter coming from upstairs.
For a second, I hesitate. Am I making a mistake? I haven’t seen Rori in twelve years. Not since high school. Not since …
I straighten my tie. Stop being ridiculous, I command myself. This is the perfect plan, and you know it. It’s what needs to be done.
I take the stairs two at a time, infusing my movements with a confidence I only partially feel. Fake it till you make it has been a mantra that’s served me well my whole life, and I have no doubt it applies here too.
The temperature seems to raise by another fifteen degrees by the time I get to the top of the stairwell. It’s fucking stifling. The music is louder now too, and the laughter has reached a fevered pitch. I turn the corner and find a door propped open with a half-empty case of Diet Coke.
And inside the small room beyond that door?
Rori and another girl, holding shirts up over their heads, bras exposed, holding small black fans and dancing around.
I feel guilty about looking at the other girl, but I can’t force myself to take my eyes off Rori. Even with her shirt pulled up, hiding most of her face, everything about her is so familiar. The auburn hair piled on top of her head. The creamy skin of her soft stomach. Even her damn terrible dance moves haven’t changed since high school. I’m pretty sure she’s doing her signature funky chicken right now.
The only change at all is the voluptuous way she fills out that lacy pink bra. Jesus. Despite the oddness of this moment I walked in on, a rush of blood heads straight to my cock. Rori’s always had that effect on me, and that’s another thing that hasn’t changed.
It’s the other girl who notices me first. She stops dancing, her mouth hanging open in shock. She yanks her shirt into place and clears her throat, trying to get Rori’s attention. Rori’s lost in her own world though, and she completely ignores her friend, instead shaking her ass in time to the music. My dick betrays me once again, stiffening further at the sight of her perfect ass, hugged by a pair of tight yoga pants.
“Rori,” the other girl says, and it’s only then that Rori turns and sees me. She freezes, not even bothering to cover herself.
“Rori, your shirt,” her friend hisses, taking the fan from her. Rori finally move
s, robotically tugging at the hem of her tank top, her eyes never leaving mine. My heart is thudding in time to the music, my eyes locked with Rori’s.
“Hello, Rori,” I say, breaking the silence. She’s still staring at me, her mouth open in shock.
“Son of a … Buttercup,” she whispers.
Three
I lick my lips, unable to tear my eyes away from the man standing in front of me. I can’t believe it’s him. After all these years. Him. A flurry of memories windmill through me, stunning me with their sudden intensity, buckling my knees.
Kyla elbows me, forcing me back into the present. I shake my head, trying to clear it.
“Nice to see you,” I force myself to say, though my throat feels thick. “Um. This is my business partner, Kyla Zhang. Kyla, this is Wes Lake. We … went to high school together.”
There’s more to the story than that, of course, but I leave it at that. Wes seems untroubled by this oversimplified characterization of our relationship because he reaches out and shakes Kyla’s hand. As he turns his attention to her, I use the opportunity to scrutinize his face. The light crow’s feet that have started to form along the corners of his eyes. The neat scruff that covers his jaw. The deep blue of his eyes, which hasn’t dimmed at all. He seems taller now, though, and more filled out, and for one red hot second I let myself imagine the cut body that’s lurking beneath that suit. I swallow.
“Wes is a partner at GoldLake Developments,” I tell Kyla, wondering if she’ll recognize the name. I can tell when her eyes widen that she does. GoldLake is one of the pre-eminent real estate development companies in the city. In fact, I’m pretty sure Wes owns, or has at least invested in, half the city’s new builds over the last few years. He is the new Manhattan.
“You’ve been keeping up with me,” Wes says, a note of genuine surprise in his voice.
“Alumni newsletter,” I say casually, even though the truth is more like occasional drunken social media stalking.
“Ah, right.”
I fold my arms. The action reminds me that just a few minutes ago, Wes caught me with my chest hanging out. I flush at the thought.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, trying to keep my tone professional, if not curt.
Instead of answering, Wes takes a few more steps into the office. He looks around, and for the first time, I view the office from his eyes. From the eyes of the real estate king.
The walls are all white, except one, where Kyla has painted a huge mural of a field of marigolds. The floor is black-and-white checkered laminate tile, the only thing we could afford after we ripped out all the mildewy old carpet. Our desks are mismatched hand-me-downs from Kyla’s parents, and our chairs are cheap vinyl, 70s chic in harvest gold. Wes stops in front of our poker-slash-conference table, absently fingering the groove from the bullet hole. I cringe in embarrassment. Wes Lake is one of the wealthiest men in this city — I can only imagine what he thinks of our dinky little start-up.
But when he turns around to face me, he’s grinning. “Cute place you got here, Roar.”
Roar. My stomach clenches. No one has called me that since high school. Actually, no one has called me that since Wes. It was his little nickname for me. He used to say I was like a lion when it came to the people I loved and the causes I believed in. I force myself to swallow and put on a polite smile.
“Thanks. We like it.”
His hand goes to the knot of his tie and he wriggles it, adjusting it even though it was perfectly straight.
“Is it always so hot in here, though?” His eyes are teasing.
“Yes.” I purse my lips, trying not to smile.
“And so noisy?”
“Yes.”
“And so … Summer Breeze Fresh?”
“One of the few perks of working here,” I tell him, my lips twisting up. “The smell of clean laundry.”
“Could be worse, I suppose.”
“We looked at a place out in Jersey that was above a taxidermy shop.”
He nods solemnly. “That would be worse, yes.”
Silence descends over us, and Kyla squints at me. I try to tell her with my eyes that her guess is as good as mine right now. That I have no idea why Wes is here. That he’s the absolute last person I ever expected to see walk through the door of our office. I’m pretty sure my efforts at telepathy fail, though, because she’s still squinting at me when I turn back to Wes.
“So, Wes, what can I do for you?” I repeat. He owes me an explanation, at least.
For a second I think he’s going to avoid the question, but then he looks me square in the face. His blue eyes pierce straight through me.
“You’re in marketing, right? Well, I find myself in need of some marketing assistance.”
That is definitely not the answer I was expecting. GoldLake is a full-service development firm. They no doubt have their own in-house PR specialists, and when they do big media pushes they use huge global agencies. I can’t believe a tiny little firm like Marigold would even be on his radar.
“I’m not sure we can help you,” I say, pressing my lips together.
“Well, now, let’s not be hasty,” Kyla interjects. I shoot her a look and she widens her eyes, as if to say why are you turning down work? She doesn’t know Wes the way I do, though.
“Yes, Rori, let’s not be hasty.” Wes grins. “Why not hear me out?”
I refuse to let him get the upper hand here. “You should have called,” I tell him. “Make an appointment and maybe we can talk.”
“I know I should have.” He actually seems a tad contrite, or as contrite as a man like Wes can be. “But I’m here now. Let’s go for coffee, and I’ll fill you in.”
“It’s too hot for coffee.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how childish and petulant they sound. But Wes keeps grinning.
“Fine. Iced coffee. Smoothie. Juice. Beer. Just let me give you my pitch.”
I look at Kyla for support, but she’s nodding at me. I turn back to Wes, feeling helpless in his presence.
“Fine,” I say, as I throw my hands up in the air. “But I make no promises beyond hearing you out.”
“That’s all I ask,” he says, but he wears the smug smile of someone who knows they’ve already won.
Ten minutes later we find ourselves down the street at Zing Juices. It’s a tiny little juice bar with lime green walls and baristas in brightly-colored beanies. I order a fruity blend, while Wes asks for a Spinach Supreme and a shot of wheatgrass on the side. He grins when he sees me wrinkle my nose.
“It’s good for virility,” he says with a wink.
My cheeks flush. Wes smirks and I realize he was trying to get a rise out of me. I force my lips into a straight line. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his presence affects me. In any way. This meeting is strictly professional.
Even if my insides are buzzing like a swarm of cicadas.
When our juices are ready, we take them over to one of the small round tables near the window.
I take a sip of my Freesia Fruit Cocktail and wait for Wes to speak first. Instead, he grabs the small glass of wheatgrass juice and throws back the shot of green sludge. I watch his throat bob as he swallows, then for a second I let my eyes travel down to his broad shoulders, his well-muscled arms, his perfect masculine hands. How many times did I feel those same hands caress my skin, push my hair away from my face, cup my chin, tilting my lips up to kiss …
I shake my head. Jesus, Rori, keep it together here. I take another sip of my juice. I still refuse to be the first to speak, but this waiting game is killing me, one silent second at a time.
Wes, on the other hand, looks completely unfazed as he sets his shot glass down and turns to his spinach concoction.
I frown at him, hoping he’ll take the hint and hurry up, but he remains irritatingly, devastatingly composed.
I’ve sucked back almost my entire drink by the time the silence finally wears down my last nerve.
“I don’t h
ave all day, you know,” I spit. “What do you want?”
Wes smiles, and I curse myself for letting him win. I know he was waiting for me to speak first, for my curiosity to get the better of me. I try to comfort myself with the fact that negotiating is what Wes does for a living — how can I compete with that?
“I’m so glad you asked that, Rori,” he says, as I choke back a silent scream of frustration. “As you know, at GoldLake, we’re always looking for ways to give back to the community.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. GoldLake is not known for their community efforts. In fact, if anything, they’re known for going in and bulldozing over existing communities. Both literally and figuratively. But I’ve committed to hearing him out, so I just raise my eyebrows and let him continue.
“We’re in the process of launching a bold new hiring initiative that will provide opportunities for immigrant women and women living in poverty. The right candidates will have an opportunity to work at GoldLake, on cutting edge projects, and be mentored by some of the brightest minds in the business.”
I squint at Wes. His face gives nothing away. I have to admit, it sounds like a good program — too good. And Wes’s words are too practiced.
“What’s the catch?”
He chuckles. “No catch.”
“Let me guess — they have to work for free?”
He shakes his head. “All the women we end up hiring will be paid fair salaries. Above industry average. Health benefits and everything.”
“Huh.” In what is becoming a theme today, I’m shocked into silence. “It sounds … great.”
He grins. “I’m glad you think so. Because we want you to run the publicity for it.”
My jaw drops. “Me?”
“Marigold,” he says. “I’ve looked into your work in the non-profit and charitable sector, and I think you — your company — would be perfect for the job.”
