Desk Jockey Jam

by Ainslie Paton

  Her laugh was a soft huff, but she took the hint, turning to Rowan on her right and joining in a conversation about the exorbitant cost of parking in the city. He studied the menu and tried not to get caught out watching her in his peripheral vision. How the fuck had she managed to tongue-tie him with nothing more than a couple of friendly smiles and a laugh that made him think of bellbirds calling?

  As the dinner progressed and the alcohol flowed, he noticed she’d drunk nothing but the mineral water.

  “Not drinking, Bree?”

  “Huh?”

  She bloody well mimicked him. Ant looked at the remains of his chargrilled lamb chops and shook his head. “Yeah, okay. I deserved that. Can we start again?”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  He looked up and met her eyes, full of mischief. If he said the beginning, he’d only cop some other sarcasm from her. “Where would you like to start?” This was ridiculous; his wit had totally deserted him, because a woman he’d once detested was teasing him.

  She took a last bite of her fish. He followed the movement of her fork to her mouth, of her lips to the metal, of her jaw and slender throat as she chewed and swallowed. There was a kind of tension in waiting for her to respond that warmed a spot in his chest. She put her cutlery down, properly, the knife and folk aligned to show she’d finished eating.

  “You surf?”

  “Ah, yeah.” Everyone on the team knew that about him. “Have done since I was a kid.”

  “You said you might have to give up your morning surf. Have you?”

  He didn’t remember telling her that. Shit, what else had he told her and paid no attention to. “I’ve cut back. But with all the sitting behind a desk crap I get stir crazy if I don’t get out there.” He leaned a little her way, “I’d have skipped tonight to hit the water, but I didn’t think that would go down too well.”

  “I had to skip training tonight. I know what you mean.”

  “What...?”

  Doug tapping a knife against his wine glass stopped his question, blocked his easy way to find out what sport she played. He’d speculated endlessly at night, watching the ceiling fan above his bed. It wasn’t the usual suspects: netball or cricket. It wasn’t the right season for touch footy or soccer. He’d figured it was hockey. Arabella had done a term of indoor hockey at school and hated it because it was fast and rough.

  Doug was going on about the competition. How it was an annual tradition in the firm, how it was designed to be both fun and a test of skills. Doug was boring the stuffing out of him. Ant wanted him to spit it out so he could get back to talking with Bree.

  “This year it was very close. But two of you were neck and neck until six weeks ago,” said Doug.

  “Out with it. You’re costing us money parking,” said Rowan and the group laughed, because a few drinks shouted by someone else could make anything more amusing.

  Ant sat up a little taller and paid attention. He’d only had the one beer. That was his rule. Drinking and work were sworn enemies. Drinking and the weekend—mad passionate affair. This was the real reason he’d dumped on a surf and braved the Friday night frenzy. He had no intention of missing this. He’d been refining his investment strategy, had made big money on a few risky moves, gambling on a take-over announcement that had gone from market rumour to fact only two days ago. He had to have this in the bag. He could almost taste the victory, like more beer, and the relief, like a free meal, at having proven he belonged here once again.

  Doug said, “And the winner is...”

  Ant got ready to be loud about it. Some chest beating was in order.

  “It’s Bree. She nailed it.”

  Fucking hell! He looked at Bree, laughing as Rowan backslapped her. Doug was going on about how comprehensively she’d womped them all. Ant came second to her, but second wasn’t winning. He curled his hands around the bottom of his chair. He needed to do something to stop from stomping off in a fit of temper. She’d beaten him again.

  “Ripped off, Ant,” said Mal, sitting on his other side.

  He turned to him. “What do you mean?”

  Mal laughed. “Oh come on, Mr Play to Win, gotta sting losing to a chick.”

  The silence that hit the table was awkward, but not as awkward as Ant was about to make it. He’d heard the subtle put down in Mal’s comment and it gave his anger direction. “You know what, Mal. That’s fucking offensive.”

  All eyes went to hands, the tablecloth and laps. Beside him Bree tensed.

  “Ease up, Ant,” said Mal.

  Not a chance. Yeah, it stung, but the hurt wasn’t any different than it would’ve been had anyone on the team beat him, but Mal was implying Bree’s win was a lesser thing because she was a chick and so Ant’s loss was somehow more shameful.

  “Bree creamed me. Fair and square. Can’t say I’m happy about it, but it’s got nothing to do with the fact she wears a skirt.”

  Mal laughed nervously. “I wasn’t saying—”

  Ant cut him off, “Yeah, you were.” He stood to make his point all the more effective “You think it’s a fluke Bree won. Like its office politics she’s the senior analyst. I know that’s what you’re thinking, because that’s what I thought. It’s wrong. Bree’s the best of us and she’s just proven it again.”

  Christine clapped her hands, bouncing in her seat. Doug tried to smooth things over by loudly asking if people wanted dessert. Ant turned to Bree and shoved his hand out. She swivelled in her chair and took it, looking up at him with a frown. “Congratulations, Bree.” He kept her hand and looked across at Doug, said “Thanks for dinner,” then returned his eyes to Bree, but addressed the table. “Enjoy your sugar fix. I’m taking my sore loser self off to wallow.”

  Laughter broke out, most of it nervously filling the awkwardness until Doug started a discussion on gelato flavours and sugar consumption was the new focus.

  Bree blinked at him, looking confused, but all of his confusion had vanished. Bree was brilliant. She worked harder than any of them and she’d outsmarted him. She deserved to win and he felt okay, about coming second to her. He smiled at her and stepped away, but she held his hand a moment longer than necessary and he turned back to look at her.

  She said, “I’m coming with you.”

  9: Epiphany

  Ant kept hold of her hand the whole way through the crowded bar and out onto George Street. Bree could’ve pulled out of his grip, but she’d started this by leaving her hand in his when he’d gone to walk away and now instead of being towed behind him like a useless weight she felt like she was sailing smoothing through the rough sea of rowdy drinkers. Ant was acting like the world’s best blocker and pivot combined. He kept glancing back to see if she was okay and instead of resenting his interference, she accepted it for the genuinely chivalrous gesture it was. If only he knew how little trouble crowds gave her when there was a flat track and she was wearing skates not lime green stilettos.

  Once they hit the sudden bright of street lights and the blare of passing traffic Bree let go his hand. This was the real world and there was no longer a reason to touch.

  Ant stopped and turn back. He looked annoyed. “Why’d you come with me?”

  She looked down at his shoes. She liked this pair. Italian leather, they had interesting double stitching. “Did you mean what you said?”

  She’d made a statement by leaving with him and he’d probably only done it for show, making her an idiot for abandoning a dinner set up to honour her win. She looked up to see him frown. He pulled his tie down and out from his collar, unknotted it, shoved it in his pocket and undid a couple of shirt buttons. He took his suit coat off and flung it over his shoulder. He was stripping his corporate self away while half of Sydney on the prowl for the next drink manoeuvred around them. “Surprised the hell out of me, but yeah. I mean it. And I need a drink. You coming?”

  Wow.

  She should go home. All around her was the noise and activity of a Friday night in the city: doof-doof musi
c from an illegally parked car, groups of people shouting and laughing, couples clogging up the footpath by holding hands, or stopping to argue, someone talking loudly on a mobile. She should go home because she had a bout tomorrow and that would be sensible, like not combining work and alcohol, like not combining a big, terrifyingly attractive, grumpy man with her ridiculous need to believe he meant what he said.

  When had it started to matter what Ant Gambese thought so long as he stayed out of her business? Somewhere in between, him saying, “God, this lift is an all stations”, “Here I got you a coffee anyway”, or “There were dolphins out there this morning”, she’d started to think about him differently.

  He held a hand out. She could take it again, or she could be smart, sensible, her usual guarded self around Ant.

  “It’s just a drink,” he said, but ‘just a drink’ didn’t hold hands. And she didn’t need to hold hands with Ant, with anyone but the Trick’s team member who was giving her a whip.

  Seconds before he dropped his hand and turned aside, she took it. What the hell. It was Friday night. She’d beaten him in the comp. He’d gone all caveman and defended her honour. He was gorgeous. It was just a drink. It was just a hand so they didn’t get separated in the crowd. Practical.

  His eyes went down to their hands, then bounced back to her face. A smile leapt over his strong jaw and danced in his dark eyes behind their thicket of black lashes. She smiled back. She felt squirmy good.

  Sensible was so overrated.

  Ant took them up the street a short way, not saying a word. He kept her close to his side and well away from big groups and staggering drunks. If she’d had skates on she’d have found it patronising. In her good for the office, too silly for the street shoes, she was grateful. She was also unaccountably excited. It was only a drink with a colleague. A colleague who’d just validated her skills and seniority in front everyone who mattered in her work world. A colleague whose hand around hers ignited feelings she’d forgotten she enjoyed.

  He found them lounge seats inside Crowbar. Funky furniture and acid jazz, cocktails and wait staff wearing 1970s jumpsuits with flared legs and platform shoes, which should’ve looked awful and looked amazing instead.

  Bree waited till they’d ordered drinks and faced each other across a low table. “What just happened, Ant?”

  He kicked back in a single bright orange lounge chair, spreading his arms over its sides, an expansive gesture. Then he smiled again and everything about that smile said ‘trust me, I’m not a bad guy’.

  “Epiphany.”

  She smiled back at him. “You mean like a religious experience?”

  “More like a life skills one. I get it now.”

  She laughed. “You’re a strange man, Ant Gambese.”

  “You called me superior.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  He sat forward, forearms on thighs. “No kidding. According to my sister I’m just your average bloke.”

  “So that was your average scene you made back there?”

  There was a low table between them. It wasn’t much of a barrier. “I didn’t get this equal opportunity, positive discrimination thing. I thought it was bullshit, HR bloody twaddle, but then I would, right. I’m not the one who needs it.”

  Bree pressed back into the lounge she sat on. Ant’s words weighted like an anchor, dragging her mood down. He’d only been grandstanding. He didn’t get it at all. She turned her head to look back towards the bar. She was an idiot for letting his sunshine and salt on stormy seas aura get to her, for going all girly.

  “God, just when I thought there was hope for you.”

  His hand shot out across the table and his fingers grazed her knee. “Shit. I said that badly.” She refocussed on him. He scrunched up his face. “I find this confusing.” He slumped back in the seat. “On one hand I know you’re the pinball wizard, the best in the team, so you deserved the promotion, and it makes sense you’re the one to beat in competition. So you win on merit. And that’s how it should be, right? Best man for the job.”

  “But when the man wears a skirt?”

  He grinned. “Hey, let’s not even go there. That’s a whole other puddle of clear as mud.” He sat forward again. “And I know you didn’t mean that literally. The thing is, there’s just you and Chris and all of us blokes, so I get that there needs to be a rule giving chicks a chance to be allowed into the game in the first place. After that you’re on your own.”

  She sat forward too. That’s how she felt about it. That’s why she’d made the choices she’d made and built herself a less ordinary life. “Maybe there is hope for you.”

  He shifted suddenly, leaving his chair to sit beside her on the lounge. His knee bumped hers and he put his hand briefly on her the bare skin where her hem ended, smoothing it. “Sorry.” Then he settled. “I have two sisters. I hate the idea some dickhead bloke like me or Mal might try to keep them down and not understand that’s what they were doing.”

  Bree searched Ant’s face for any sign of this being a joke, or his move with her knee being some kind of come-on. He wore the same expression he’d wear discussing forward iron ore contracts. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He leaned into her space. “How about I’m sorry?”

  She shifted back a little. “What?” He’d lost the ‘I’m seriously interested in iron ore prices’ expression and looked more like he’d discovered a rare vein of gold and was drafting the press release about the untold millions he’d made.

  “I lost a bet on you tonight.”

  “You bet on me?”

  “Yeah. I bet you’d come off second best to me.”

  “Arrogant, egotistical, big-headed—”

  He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’m all that. I’m also a sore loser, a slow learner, and an overbearing bastard. And poorer.”

  “How much? What was it worth to you?” She didn’t like the idea she was some chess piece to him, but she hoped it had hurt his hip pocket.

  “Ah, it’s not the cash; it’s the mortal blow to my ego.”

  She scoffed, “That I’d like to see.”

  “You will. That’s the point.”

  “Do I even care about this?” She folded her arm. “I’m not happy about being the person you bet would lose.”

  He laughed and she felt his low rumble of amusement in her chest and saw it shine in his eyes, and egotistical started to look annoyingly charming on him.

  “You care because it makes me a loser,” he hung his head in mock dismay, “and I rarely ever lose, though the last time,” he shook his head at a memory and looked up, “the last time cost me big too. But this time, because I have shitheads for best mates, I have to have my nose rubbed in it. I have to ask you to a dinner I have to pay for with said shithead mates and their girls, and formally apologise for doubting you could womp my arse.”

  “Oh!” She was still annoyed with him, but that was funny. “Was that you asking me to dinner?”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I guess it was.”

  She pulled a bright floral cushion that’d been between them onto her lap and hugged it. “So very elegant. I’m flattered. I’ll be sure to cancel everything to be available.”

  His laughter was a shout that made heads turn their way. “Your earlier descriptions of me were more accurate. I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting anything to do with me, or the night out. You can’t be that desperate for a free feed.”

  She studied him across beyond the cabbage roses on the cushion. They really were having their longest conversation without the rancour of their earlier dislike for each other. “Why is winning so important to you?”

  He picked up his designer beer. “That’s like asking why fish swim.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s not. Everyone wanted to win. You wanted it hardest and we all knew it.”

  He groaned. “So you can add bad poker player after big-headed.”

  “Are you a bad poker pla
yer?”

  “Shocking. I get too emotionally involved. Can’t help myself. I’m no good with secrets either. Don’t tell me anything you want kept quiet.”

  She batted him with the cushion. “You’re an analyst. You deal in market sensitive information every day. How’s that going to work?”

  He sipped the beer. “That’s different. I’m not the job. I can separate myself from work.”

  Bree broke eye contact, what was that telling her? Mostly that she could trust him to take a corporate secret to the grave, that he’d never be jailed for insider trading, but if he found out about Kitty Caruso it’d be front page news. Good to know. “Answer the question. Why did you want to win so badly?”

  He hid behind another long pull on the beer. She took her jacket off while she waited on him. He forgot beer existed. His eyes went straight to her bare arms. She might bruise easy but they faded quickly. There wasn’t a mark on her skin. Though there would be after tomorrow’s bout.

  He said, “Okay,” and she wasn’t sure if he meant the state of her arms or it was the beginning of his response. “You look good.”

  She sighed. She’d have left the blasted jacket on if he was going to get personal. Especially if she’d known she was going to like it. Like the hand holding and the knee touching and the eye contact that held and was so much more engaging than shoes.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. You’re beautiful.”

  She started, her back straightening. He interpreted that as annoyance. He didn’t know, couldn’t know, how much trouble she was in after hearing that.

  His hand came up, a stop gesture to hold back the protest he expected her to make. “I know I’m not supposed to notice because you’re one of the boys and it’s work, but it’s nice to see you looking,” he hesitated; he’d done enough damage by calling her beautiful, she held her breath, “healthy.”

  He grinned at her over the top of his bottle and she forgave him. He’d called her beautiful, so in this moment she’d forgive him almost anything—almost. “Answer the question.”