The Boss's Daughter

by Aubrey Parker

  The engine starts.

  I hop down to see what’s next, but by the time I make it to where they were working, my eyes averted, the truck is pulling away with Brandon at the wheel.

  I find myself facing Bridget. Her car is behind her, still running.

  “Come on,” she whispers, her voice husky, barely audible beneath the sound of an idling engine and Brandon’s departure, “I’ll take you home.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Brandon

  As morning dawns and I speed back toward Inferno Falls, the passing nothingness and quiet, dark road lull me into a distant kind of highway hypnosis. My mind wants to wander. I can barely feel my hands and feet, which are doing the automatic job of piloting me as faithfully as those self-driving cars everyone talks about.

  I’ve reset the clock to keep my eye on the time.

  I see the road. But even more I see Riley.

  That wasn’t supposed to happen. Nobody can know it did, and when I can bring myself to talk to her again, I need to make sure she doesn’t tell anyone. Not her friends, and of course not her father. Then I need to make sure she understands how our relationship, such as it is, needs to proceed going forward.

  Meaning: We have no relationship. We don’t even really know each other. We interact as little as possible at work, assuming she doesn’t get me fired over this. Which she may. She didn’t look happy back there, and that made me feel guilty, like maybe I should do something to assuage it. There were two of us in that truck bed last night, and two of us came away not wanting to talk to the other. Even making sure she understood just how much I didn’t want to talk would have been better than what I did, which was to turn my head.

  But from here on out, I’ll be unable to even hear my company’s name without thinking of the person behind the moniker. I’ll be unable to imagine her face. Because if I do, it’s a slippery slope to seeing the curve of her neck and shoulders, the swell of her breasts. I know things about Riley James that few people do. I know she has two small beauty marks below her bikini line. I know how she sounds, inches from my ear, when she comes.

  I don’t want to think about it, but with the dark street ahead, my mind won’t leave it alone.

  After a few minutes, my preoccupation thickens with something like panic. As much as I’d like to pretend I can avoid Riley, I can’t. I don’t have to work closely with her, but I’ll definitely have to see her. And right now, it’s hard to imagine seeing her without remembering the beautiful lines of her body. It’s hard to imagine I’ll be able to look at her wide, white smile without recalling the way she used those same teeth to leave bites on my neck.

  My hand trails upward, feeling the indentations.

  I want more.

  God help me, I want more.

  There’s so much we didn’t do. It was too fast to savor. I eventually yanked her dress up enough to see her breasts, for visual stimulation, but it all happened so fast. I didn’t get to undress her and appreciate every detail. She was never on top, and as I drive, I can’t stop picturing how that would look and how much I want to see it, to feel her taking control … then losing it.

  I grip the wheel harder. The sensation anchors me, and the feeling like panic comes storming back.

  I’ve had sex with plenty of women. When things get bad, I have a predictable pattern: drink hard then make the rounds. I’ve never had trouble scoring; hooking up has always been as simple as leaving my apartment. But not once, afterward, have I felt this sense of unmitigated pull. Once I’m done, I’m done. But with Riley, it’s as if we never hooked up at all. I’m still in the yearning phase, before we’ve popped the cork, while all my focus is still on trying to get her naked. It’s impossible to believe we’ve already had sex, that it’s already over.

  It seems so unfair. If I’ve ruined everything for her, I should at least feel satisfied. But I don’t. As far as satisfaction goes, we might as well be courting like an Amish couple.

  She’s like chocolate. Having some apparently doesn’t scratch the itch. Having some apparently makes me want more.

  What if it stays like this? What if I feel like this every time I see her from now on?

  But that’s ridiculous. I only feel this way because it was so intense and is still so recent. This doesn’t even count as a new day. There’s no new day until I get a decent night’s sleep. No wonder I’m still preoccupied.

  It’ll pass.

  It always passes.

  I’ve been with other women whom I’ve thought about afterward. For sure. Riley will be like them. Tomorrow, I won’t care. And if I’m still thinking about her then — if the hunger still remains unquenched — then I can go out and find someone to preoccupy me.

  Anyone but Mason’s daughter. Anyone who, for a normal person, there’d be the chance of a future with. That’s never been the way I’ve approached these things, no matter what Bridget thinks I should do, but it’s the right framework.

  I can never be with Riley again. The best thing to do is forget. For me, and for her.

  I reach this decision and feel better.

  Then I blink up and realize that my scheming hands and feet have failed me, and I’ve driven in the wrong direction.

  CHAPTER 27

  Brandon

  Shit.

  I’ve never been good at managing time. It feels so malleable. On the rare occasion that I’m running early for something, I never just go and allow myself to be early. Instead, I find something else to do with the extra imagined minutes then end up rushing.

  When I woke up, it wasn’t yet 5 a.m. That seemed so far from 7 a.m., it was a joke.

  But then I had to text Bridget.

  I had to drive home, to shower and change, and given that I needed to cross Old Town to get there, it wasn’t as close as I’d figured.

  Then I drove the wrong direction and ended up way the hell over past Hudson. It wasn’t a long detour to get my ass back on track and headed toward the edge of Tiny Amsterdam, but it cost me a good ten minutes.

  It all seemed fine. I even checked my dashboard clock a few times, knowing I was okay. But then my terrible sense of time intervened, and it’s like I became incapable of making simple calculations.

  By the time I pull into the Regency lot, it’s 6:21. What’s more, I’m pretty sure that clock is a few minutes slow, though I’m afraid to check my phone to be sure.

  And still I just stare at the display so I can waste another thirty seconds.

  Cherry Hill, where Life of Riley is located, is a good half hour away. That’s if I don’t get caught in traffic. And technically, it’s Cherry Hill and Old Town that are thirty minutes apart, and I’m past Old Town. But one crisis at a time.

  And it’s not like I can turn around now, without going in, and haul ass to Cherry Hill. I’d make it in time, sure. But I’d also arrive in last night’s clothes, which are rumpled and a little greasy from the crap in the back of my truck. I’d also arrive with Riley’s lipstick on my collar. And, if Mason is observant, with her light perfume all over me.

  Not the impression I want to give. It’s unprofessional, what with that whole screwed-the-boss’s-daughter vibe.

  My paralysis breaks. I don’t know how I’ll manage to turn around in under five minutes, but there’s a chance, and I can make up some time on the road if I drive fast. I just know that sitting where I am won’t help.

  I leave the truck running just in case the battery decides to die. In this neighborhood, I’d give it a 50/50 chance of being stolen that way, so I make sure to lock the doors and hang onto the key. Then I haul ass upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, knowing that sprinting instead of waiting calmly for the elevator isn’t going to do things for my post-shower perspiration.

  Once inside the apartment, I make an executive decision: Coffee will be required. I can’t imagine I look remotely rested, and when I’m overly tired, I get raccoon eyes. Definitely not pro. I pop a cup in the Keurig, which of course no longer has water in the reservoir. I handle that whi
le turning on the shower, shaving a few seconds by filling the reservoir right from the showerhead. Then it’s back to the kitchen, and the shower, clothes flying off like prom night.

  I take the world’s shortest shower, keeping the water cold in an attempt to forestall more sweating from all this rushing. Having a beard helps a lot with shaving, but I still get serious shadow around the edges and on my neck. I don’t usually bother to shave when I go to a job site, but today is the office. For a very important meeting that I now have …

  I look at my phone, which I’ve left on the sink.

  … Twenty-eight minutes to get to. I lather up, keeping it light and fast, and manage to nick my neck really good with the blade. There’s no time to treat it, but I’ll be wearing a white shirt and … and FUCK, I already returned Shaun’s suit coat, so I hope a shirt and tie is enough. To make sure no blood gets on the shirt, I wrap a long line of toilet paper all the way around my neck several times like a scarf. Better safe than sorry.

  Hair gelled and combed.

  Deodorant on.

  Pants, shirt, tie.

  I fuck up the tie knot twice before deciding to take it with me and tie it later, at a stop light or something. I can’t really do it with my Charmin neck wrap right now, anyway. Blood has bloomed on the toilet paper like a fashion accent, and I remind myself that when I remove the thing, I’ll need to make sure there’s not a big splotch on my skin.

  Socks. Shoes. Briefcase of Life of Riley stuff, mainly to look the part.

  I manage to remember both coffee and my keys, then descend the stairs as quickly as I came up. Already I can feel a sheen of sweat sticking the shirt to my back, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.

  I get to the truck then realize I took the door key off my chain. I’ve got my apartment keys, but I can’t get into my running truck.

  There are three good seconds wherein I seriously consider breaking the window with a brick instead of going back up; that’s how rushed I feel. What stops me isn’t thoughts of broken glass or expense. It’s the fact that without a closed window, I know the wind will whip my wet hair into some sort of a pompadour.

  Back up to the apartment. Grab the keys. Back down the stairs, practically sliding down the railings on stiff arms.

  I hop into the truck and peel away. Behind me, something hits the pavement and I realize it’s my coffee, which I’d left on the roof before running up. So much for looking like less than a daughter-fucking zombie.

  I spend the first traffic light trying to calm myself. Whenever I arrive, I’m not going to impress anyone if I smell like adrenaline and sweat.

  I spend the second traffic light removing my toilet paper scarf. I buy the cheapest toilet paper known to man, like pre-Iron-Curtain-Russia, stand-in-line-for-eight-hours-to-get-it cheap. So it doesn’t come off clean. There are five thousand tiny white puffs that ended up plastered to my neck, because it had been wet, and I’ve been sweating since.

  I spend the third red light swatting off the TP dust then mopping dried blood from my neck in the visor mirror.

  I spend the fourth light tying my tie, somehow getting it right for once.

  I spend the fifth light angry that there is a fifth light. It’s six-fucking-forty-five in the morning, and this isn’t an early-rising town other than the bakery and kids delivering papers. I have no idea why someone should have to stop this often, for this long.

  By the time I clear Old Town and hit the sticks, my phone says I have twelve minutes to make a thirty-minute trip. I’ve never been great at math, but I’m sure that won’t add up. I figure I can put the hammer down, drive a bit over twice as fast as normal (So, maybe 150 miles per hour? Seems reasonable) and make it in time, or I can accept that I’m going to be late and look like an asshole.

  I settle in at eighty, which is about as fast as my rat-trap truck can reasonably go without falling apart.

  The minutes pass, maddeningly slow. I try to make peace with the fact that I’m going to be late. That Mason will likely be angry. That I won’t look executive or professional or responsible. It’s a unique breed of torture. I can’t just give up, but even the best-case scenario has me arriving fifteen minutes late, once I park and get up to the office. But I still have all that time to wait, knowing that what I’m waiting for is likely to be unpleasant.

  Goddammit. Damn me, and yes … damn Riley. I knew better. She knew better, too. I knew better all night long and kept reminding myself about it. But I kept making excuses. We were just hanging out. I liked her company. She was a fun, cool chick. I did notice early on that I got hard just looking at her, but I thought — silly me — that I was master of my own dick. I’ve been around plenty of hot women before without having sex. I even hear it’s kind of the default, that most people who sit near each other at a restaurant don’t end up interlocking parts in a truck bed while stalled at a corn stand. But not me. Nope. Somehow, my dumb ass did it anyway, despite knowing I shouldn’t. Despite knowing it’d be the end of me.

  And now look what happened. Even if Mason doesn’t somehow find out, hooking up with his daughter has managed to screw everything I’ve ever wanted.

  It’s not fair. I’m a smart, responsible, hard-working man. I’ve always done the right things. I’ve always come out on top, despite how hard life seems to have tried to knock me down. I came from nothing then lapped my bosses with their college degrees. I deserve this. I just made one mistake. It could happen to anyone.

  But I don’t know why this happened. I don’t know why I couldn’t stay away from Riley. Yes, she’s cute. Yes, I’m definitely attracted to her. And yes, I knew for sure that she wasn’t worth trading everything for — not more than any other cute girl I’ve met in a bar somewhere, anyway.

  It bothers me that I feel less sure of that right now. It’s the most absurd thought in the world, but there’s this small voice inside me that says if I get fired, it’s not all bad. Because then the taboo will be gone, and maybe I could have Riley again, if she wants me as much as I seem intent on wanting her.

  I try to relax. Maybe this will be fine.

  It’s just fifteen minutes. I can keep myself to fifteen minutes late. I’ll look like an asshole, and I’ll have to work my way back into Mason’s good graces. But I’m magnifying it in my head because I know why I’m late, whereas that’s not public knowledge. The way I left things with Riley wasn’t exactly friendly, so it’s possible she’ll fink on me, but she’d be finking on herself, too.

  Chances are, I’ll go in, and everyone will see an irresponsible young man who missed his alarm.

  The idea that they’ll look at me and see me plowing the girl whose name is on the company stationery? That’s my imagination.

  I nudge the truck to go faster. I will my heartbeat to pound slower.

  Twelve minutes. With a bit more speed, I can show up twelve minutes late instead of fifteen. Enough to round down, and call it ten.

  I can fix this. It’ll be fine.

  But of course I hit construction.

  Of course, I end up twenty-five minutes late instead of twelve or fifteen.

  And when I show up, panting, sweating a little, Margo tells me they got tired of waiting.

  I had no idea we were only meeting at the office, then heading off site for our discussions and negotiations.

  They’re gone. I tell Margo, with nothing else to say, that I’m sorry.

  And she says, “I’m sorry, too.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Riley

  I can tell by my father’s footsteps, when he comes through the door, that he’s angry. Usually, he has a purposeful tread. Mason James doesn’t just slap his feet anywhere. In business, he’s always done well because he moves slowly, taking his time to see what other people don’t. The same is true in his walk. It’s all slow paces interspersed with pauses. But this is nothing like that.

  By the time Bridget brought me home, he was already gone. That’s another Mason James thing: He works every day and goes in early, even on w
eekends. I think that’s the reason he sets these meetings when he does, at 7 a.m. on a Saturday. It’s a test. He wants the meeting, of course. But it’s more about seeing how dedicated the people in it are to making the deal.

  There’s only one reason I’d hear what I’m hearing: the meeting wasn’t good.

  I’m suddenly certain he knows about me and Brandon. Maybe Brandon told him, in the spirit of confession, figuring he’d be caught in time and choosing to broker with honesty. And that pacing I’m hearing — it’s not just anger at Brandon; it’s anger at me, too. I’m twenty-two, but feel fifteen. Dad will never stop being my father, and I’ll never stop worrying that some day, I’ll disappoint him enough that he’ll stop loving me.

  But when he stalks into the living room and I peek up from my book, he’s not glaring at me. He’s not going to demand my side of the story. He’s stomping toward the kitchen, angry about something that has nothing to do with me.

  Or at least, something he thinks has nothing to do with me.

  I want to hide, somehow still sure he must know. I force myself to speak first.

  “Morning, Daddy.”

  “Hey, Kid.”

  He’s stopped at the end table where he was looking through some paperwork yesterday morning. He’s flipping through it now, but I know nervous energy when I see it. He doesn’t care about whatever’s in those documents; he’s trying to give his hands and eyes something to do until this wave passes.

  Another question I don’t want to ask, but feel a need to rip off the Band-Aid: “How was your meeting?”

  “Terrible.”

  I sit up and set my book aside. “What happened?”

  “Brandon happened.”

  A shiver runs through me. I’m glad he’s still looking at the papers because my face is surely betraying my emotions.

  “What about him?”