“Ah. Are you looking for a hooker this time, or just sex toys?”
“Very funny.”
“Can you hop into the Broken Halo for me? Pick something up.”
“Gross.”
“Not because I want it. So that you can talk to Liz.”
I roll my eyes. I’ve had my eye on Liz for a while, but she’s not an easy get even though she works at a sex shop in Tiny Amsterdam. I know her from Bridget’s circles and don’t really want to see the girl in her native element. There might be something percolating between us, but it only happens when alcohol’s flowing. Liz and I might finally hook up when the next wave comes, then that will be the end of whatever friendship we have, of course, but that’s okay. Bridget thinks Liz and I might be good for more than a night, but Bridget thinks dumb shit like that, about me, more than she should.
“What do you need, Bridget?” I sigh.
“I need you to pull over.”
“No. I mean, why did you call?”
“I’ll tell you once you’ve pulled over.”
I consider protesting and pointing out that everyone in the world talks on cell phones while driving. I also consider lying — either telling Bridget that I have stopped or that I bought one of those hands-free headset things. But instead, I pull up beside a parking meter and kill the engine, because to not do so seems disrespectful. Maybe people drive safely every day while on cell phones, but try saying that while looking into the eyes of someone whose second set of foster parents died in a crash. And that was the set who didn’t hit her.
“Okay. I’m pulled over. What’s up?”
Bridget hesitates. It’s only three seconds or so, but it slows my breath. Bridget doesn’t hesitate. To Bridget, life is a game, and you win by punching your opponent in the crotch and taking their pieces while they’re planning their next move. She doesn’t flinch, or back down. Not since Keith, anyway.
“I need money.”
“Shit, Bridge. For what?” I don’t protest. She doesn’t like to ask for things, so she must be desperate.
“Don’t make me beg. If I weren’t waiting for Archive’s fucking quarterlies, which should actually be good this time around, I’d never even consider — ”
“I’m not prying. I just want to know if I can help.”
“Yes. You can help by loaning me eight hundred bucks.”
“Eight hundred!”
“Jesus, Brandon. I feel bad enough. Don’t make me — ”
“Stop being so defensive. You don’t want to tell me, fine.” I don’t go on because I’ve already put her on speaker and am trying to reach my bank’s website. Give her the illusion that I can help for at least a little while longer.
“I’ve got nodules,” she blurts.
I don’t understand that sentence.
“Nodules. On my vocal cords. Look. It’s not a big deal, but they can take them off right now, but only if I can give them a deposit ahead of time because I’m still paying off my last thing.”
Bridget’s “last thing” was a fracture in her femur that hopefully represented the last of Keith’s handiwork. It had been latent since their big incident then suddenly decided to flare up ten months ago and give her a limp. She tried to play it off jokingly as her pirate walk, but I made her get it fixed. She insisted on paying every cent. My protests that I was at fault for Keith fell on deaf ears.
“Are they … I don’t know … dangerous?”
“They’re nodules.”
I also don’t understand that sentence. Is it a yes or a no?
“I don’t know what the fuck nodules are, Bridget.”
“Like bumps.”
“And?”
She seems exasperated. Not by me; by herself. I’ve known Bridget since we were twelve, back when the foster care system first made us siblings. I know how painful this is for her — not the nodules, but the request for help.
“I’ll have to have them removed eventually, or they’ll affect my moneymaker.”
She means her voice. Bridget makes her living as a voice-over actor and an audiobook narrator. Her friends keep saying she should do phone sex, and I’m not sure if it’s a joke, and certainly don’t want to ask.
“It doesn’t have to be right now,” she says, “but I guess it’s a three- to five-week recovery period, and during that time I can’t work.”
“Will you be able to speak enough to meddle in my business?”
“Ha fucking ha. Look. I’m waiting on final edits of Sensation right now, and supposedly that’s at least five weeks. If I get it done now — like right now — I can be back in speaking shape by the time the script comes in. But if I wait, I’ll have a forced three-week break when I can least afford it.”
She’s right. We had this discussion the other night. She was all excited. Sensation has two sequels, Temptation and Reformation, and the trilogy already has enough gas in print and ebook that her best client, Archive Audiobooks, is ready to pay handsomely. But only if Bridget can keep their time frame … and maybe finally get the tiny break she desperately needs and badly deserves.
I nod to nobody. I’ve pulled up my bank account, and it looks like my entire net worth has topped out at $791.43. I made it to four digits once. That was a banner day. I supersized my Value Meal. I make decent money with Life of Riley, but it isn’t great. And holy shit, my debt has had children.
“Eight hundred bucks?” I try to sound casual. Just for kicks, I look inside my wallet, where I keep a twenty folded small for emergencies. Room to spare.
“I’ll pay you back, I swear.”
I’d laugh if I thought it wouldn’t insult her. Loaning money to Bridget is like making a Kiva loan. Her repayment rate is stellar, considering what most people would think of the recipient. Secure as Fort Knox. She’ll probably insist on paying interest. She hates imposing that much.
“I know you will. It’s not a problem.”
And it’s not. I’ve got a credit card. I’ll be paid again before the bill is due, and I can make the minimum payment as always. Rent is taken care of. I’m just on the goddamned edge, which is where I always seem to be. As a hammer-swinging grunt, I lived at redline. As a foreman, I lived at redline. As team leader, I still live at redline. On paper, I do well. It’s only unexpected, random events that knock me off kilter, and I’d be fine if those unexpected punches would stop coming. Too bad they seem to be nearly as reliable as rent and electric.
Now, if I could get the promotion? I’d move into six figures for sure. And if a hundred grand per year isn’t enough to sustain my shitty little life, there’s something wrong with the world.
“So … ?” Bridget says.
“I’ll bring you a check tonight. No problem.” A check because it’ll look official, like I’m Rockefeller and can spare it easily. Although come to think of it, I’d need to deposit my twenty to write her a check. So it’ll probably be a cashier’s check. Even more official.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“You said that.”
“You’re sure you can afford it?”
“Of course. No worries.”
I hear this little stirring on the phone’s other end, and I can picture Bridget warring with an appropriate response. Right now, her dignity wants her to reexplain how she has the money coming and this is just bad timing. But the bigger part of her knows she should be grateful first, defensive later.
“Thanks,” she says. Then we hang up.
It’ll be fine. I get paid soon. I have my credit card, and the debt can keep on waiting. I’ve paid 18 percent interest for years; it can keep on building. What do I care?
I need this promotion. Mason likes me. It’s hard to believe that with one side of my brain, but the other side thinks I’ve got a good shot. If I could move up to vice president, I’d make enough money to get out of debt. To leave the Regency and move into Old Town proper — or maybe Cherry Hill, in time. And it’d be another chance to prove myself. Land deals drive Life of Riley’s profit. The better I do, th
e more grateful Mason will be, and the more I’ll make.
Maybe the long road can finally be over. For me, and for Bridget.
I need to keep being impressive. Keep doing my job as well as I can.
I slip my wallet back into my pocket. The smooth leather sliding on my palm for some reason reminds me of the touch of the company’s namesake — Miss Riley James herself.
I shake the thought from my head. I make myself stop picturing the boss’s daughter, start my truck’s engine, and pull back out onto Rum.
I go home to change. Because for now, I’m still not the kind of man who wears a suit and has money … or resides in developments like I spend my day’s building, living the life of Riley.
CHAPTER 6
Riley
The waitress startles me nearly enough to tip my coffee all over the table — I’m sure it’s an odd breed of college homesickness working its way through my system.
I told Dad I could take care of myself now — or, more accurately, that I want to take care of myself. I’m twenty-two. I never had to struggle like my friends. Phoebe, who should be here any second, grew up poor and managed to never resent me for having more money by the year while her family stayed where it was. She didn’t get her first job at Key Notes for “something to do” or “to teach me responsibility” like I got mine. And she isn’t a clerk at Très Chic because she loves clothing, though she does. For Phoebe — as for pretty much everyone other than me — working is survival.
While waiting for Phoebe, I started thinking about my forthcoming independence. About whether it was sensible or bizarre to insist on getting my own place when I already have one with doors I can lock for free. Whether it was grown-up or merely stubborn to demand a job at my father’s company rather than working with Phoebe at Très Chic.
A boutique job belongs to a kid, whereas a job at a real estate development company is something a proper adult might strive for. But then again, the development job was at my daddy’s company. Would I hold a token job with no true purpose or responsibility … or was I doing what I told myself I was doing, working my way up from the bottom, climbing rungs in a business I’d love to own once upon a someday?
Was I taking a chance and working hard … or merely the beneficiary of obvious nepotism?
That’s what I was thinking when I first sat in the booth, alone, looking out across the full tables at the trendy Nosh Pit — a place that didn’t exist when I left for school. So much of Inferno keeps changing. The town used to be home, but not exciting. Now it’s a hot spot.
I was thinking about how I’d find an apartment, then pay for it with my own money.
I was thinking about tomorrow, about the job my father would find for me, and whether it was best to accept whatever it was or jockey for something better. Or maybe it would be too good, and I’d have to ask if I could start with something worse.
I got to thinking about advancement. About working my way up from the bottom.
And where was the bottom in Life of Riley? You could say it was a position like receptionist, but the real ground floor is in construction. I don’t know all the logistics — yet — but I’m pretty sure Dad used to subcontract then moved construction in house when he realized how much he was blowing on middlemen. Compliance and union issues had been a real pain; I’d been hearing about them on and off when calling or visiting home.
If I really wanted to start at the bottom, I’d come to work with a hammer.
I’m not planning to do that, but that man I met today? Brandon Grant? He started in construction. So it’s possible. It does my heart good to see that my legacy is a true meritocracy. Do good work at Life of Riley, and you can rise to vice president. Bearded or not.
For some reason, Dad’s question about that beard snags in my mind. He was joking, of course. Brandon, if he gets the position, really should at least trim his beard, though. It looked a little overly … well … construction guy-ish. It’d help his chances. I don’t think he needs to shave it. I don’t normally like beards, but on him, it works. He has those soft blue eyes topped by eyebrows that aren’t bushy, or timid. A thoughtful brow, really. Like he was, as Dad said, used to being quiet and absorbing what others said then pondering his way to decision. Short brown hair. A way of behaving that’s not quite shy, but not at all forceful. Strong and silent, judging by my scant moments of exposure.
“Top you off?”
I’m so lost in thought that the sudden snap to reality causes me to slap my coffee cup with my hand. I jump a bit in my seat, then turn to see a red-haired waitress standing beside me.
The waitress seems rattled. She’s holding a coffee pot in one hand and has placed the other across her heart. Other than the coffee pot, she might be someone out for a stroll down the aisle. The Nosh Pit’s trendiness extends to the waitress uniforms: knee-length and pretty-enough-to-pass-for-real dresses, almost formal. They comes with slim black belts, and her no-skid restaurant shoes actually have an open toe and a small heel. The heel must be optional because I also see women in flats, and the waiters are in pressed shirts and what look like shoes worthy of a street side polish stand.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
I smile. It comes naturally. Many of Dad’s friends treat restaurant staff like shit, but several of my friends have served. And besides, this girl is probably just a few years older than me. If I’m going to stay in this town and make a proper name for myself, she and I might one day orbit the same circles. Everyone works their way up, and from what I understand, the Nosh Pit is far from the bottom.
“It’s no problem,” I say. “Just off in the clouds, I guess.”
“Would you like more coffee?”
I nod. While she’s filling my cup, I notice a name stitched into the dress. It should look terrible, but the designers managed to make the stitching look almost like a monogram.
“Abigail,” I say.
She looks up.
“Do you go by Abby?”
“I like Abigail better.”
I’m just about to say I admire when people use their full names rather than shortening them when Phoebe shows up. She isn’t delicate, and nearly sideswipes the server, as if she thought Abigail was about to steal her seat.
The server blinks. Her red hair is straight and understated. She has a spray of subtle freckles, and it almost looks like she’s tried to cover them in makeup that’s mostly worn off during her shift. Her nose is tiny and porcelain; the freckles lie across them in a delicate blanket. Normally, I’d never want red hair or freckles for myself, but they look stunning on Abigail, and I’m momentarily jealous. I’m all white teeth and blonde hair. Put me outside on a sunny day, and I swear, I’ll vanish.
“Hi,” she says to Phoebe. “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee.”
Abigail hangs around for a baffled moment then turns to go. I’m left facing Phoebe, who’s perusing the menu even though I know she won’t order a thing. She told me to meet her at the upscale diner despite having eaten dinner at home. When I suggested we meet at a Starbucks instead, she laughed in a pitying way that suggested I was too uncool to know better.
“Hi,” I say, making a point to stare her down.
Phoebe looks up with just her eyes then folds the menu and sticks it off to the side, in the rack with the salt, pepper, and sweeteners. She looks properly up at me then crosses her arms on the table. Phoebe has intense, deep-set brown eyes and a deceptively stylish mop of brown hair. It looks like a mess but is carefully choreographed.
“So,” she counters.
I always get the feeling I’m keeping Phoebe from something. It’s easy to forget that she was the one who called me last week, demanding to know when I’d be home so we could hang out again. It’s easy, now, to forget that she called me again today, before I was half-unpacked, and demanded I meet her here the minute I finished.
“So yourself,” I say.
Phoebe’s mouth cocks then she’s
sliding her tongue into the corner as if thinking, or cleaning her teeth. The impasse breaks, and she sits back.
“What you been up to?”
“Oh, just four years of college. You?”
“Selling clothes.” Her eyes tick toward the red-headed waitress, who’s neared the kitchen. I really do like her uniform. I’d wait tables if I could wear that. “You met Abigail?”
“You know her?”
“Of course I know her. I know everyone in town.”
“No, you don’t,” I counter. Phoebe has always been antisocial. Or, more accurately, she’s antisocial with anyone who doesn’t seem especially hip, which is most people. “You’re an asshole.”
Her demeanor breaks, and she laughs. “I’m on the upswing. I started taking this course with a life coach online.”
“What kind of course?”
“On how to be a life coach.”
That sounds like a pyramid scheme, but I keep the thought to myself. The idea of Phoebe as a coach, life or not, gives me chills. But she’s always into something, always searching.
“Anyway, I’ve learned to open up. Network. You know?”
This is even harder to believe. My father’s employees network, not Phoebe. I try to imagine her handing out business cards and suggesting lunch. Maybe that’s what we’re doing now. Have I been networked?
“Sure.”
“I know all the players.”
“And the waitresses here. They’re players?”
“Servers know everyone. They hear all sorts of juicy shit.”
I sit forward. “Okay. Then tell me some ‘juicy shit’ you’ve learned from networking here.”
“Abigail walked out on rich parents and a full ride at Princeton. Oh, and an asshole boyfriend who was apparently sticking it in everything.”
“Telling me gossip about the person who told you the gossip doesn’t count.”
“Okay,” says Phoebe. “See that girl over there?”
I look where she’s not terribly subtly nodding. There’s another waitress at the diner’s far end, past the stylized chrome stools lining the counter. This waitress also has red hair, but it’s far redder. I wonder if there’s some sort of a dress code for hair, but the only other female server I can see is tall and thin, sharp but gorgeous features and dark-brown hair, her uniform adjusted for maximum tit exposure. On second look, it turns out the waiters and even the cooks all seem beautiful. It’s like eating at a modeling convention. Only the toad-like owner isn’t worthy of a glossy cover.
The Boss's Daughter Page 3
