India says thank you regularly and brings me coffee for my secret stash whenever she visits Cris in Kona, which is often. I don’t know exactly how their marriage works with them living in two separate places a plane ride away, but it’s not my business. Especially if it makes India happy, which it seems to. Even if it weren’t for those things, JVA—and now BCG—would be a pretty decent place to work. I always get paid on time, I’ve never been asked to do anything illegal, and no one’s ever grabbed my butt. Which is more than I can say for the other places I’d been an assistant. Maybe my bar is low, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
I swallow the defense of my boss. It’s not completely wrong to let my mom think India’s a tyrant. She certainly can be, and it’s nice to have an ear when all I want to do is complain. Not that my parents didn’t raise me to work hard, but they get back-breaking effort when it applies to the dairy farm, not so much when it comes to “pushing papers.” Which is apparently what I do.
“I have some bad news. I’m not going to be able to make it home for Christmas this year.”
There’s a pause that makes me cringe, and then my mom’s voice comes over the line, that saccharine tone that always means she’s going to say something that makes me feel crappy about myself. “Well, of course not. It was only a matter of time. We all know what a hard worker you are. Not that your brothers don’t work hard, but they’re so focused on family. We shouldn’t have let you watch Working Girl so many times when you were little. I just hope you’ll get something out of this—a promotion maybe? We’ll miss your help with the cookies and decorating the tree, but there’s always Easter. Maybe you’ll have more time for us then.”
I try super hard not to roll my eyes. Yes, please do make me feel bad about being your only child who moved away from home, the only one who hasn’t given you grandchildren. And all I have to show for it is being a secretary. I try to remind myself that she loves me, but after so many years of her saying the same thing a hundred different ways, all I can hear is that I’m not like the rest of the family, and that she wishes I were.
*
Evans
“No, really, it’s fine. You know I’m Jewish, right?”
India’s features draw together in a thoughtful pucker. “I didn’t. I guess Hanukkah is almost over anyhow.”
I have no freaking idea. We might be Jewish, but we’re pretty far from observant. I didn’t even have a bar mitzvah. “Uh, sure. But my family doesn’t celebrate much.”
Aside from an excuse to make latkes and play with a dreidel when we were kids, Hanukkah passed much like any other week. Other religious holidays fared even less well. One perk of being so profoundly secular is that my mother won’t be any more annoyed than usual when I call to tell her I won’t be around much for the next week or so.
India’s piercing eyes narrow at me. “I still feel bad. Are you going to pass up the chance for an India Burke apology?”
Occasionally, India can be funny. “No, ma’am. They only come along once in a blue moon.”
She rolls her eyes, but it seems affectionate, not entirely exasperated. It makes me feel good. India trusts me enough to verge on silly, and I might be the only one in the office who makes her feel that way. The others might think she’s not buddy-buddy with them because she’s too driven and bitchy, but there’s something else going on there. She’s like a Tootsie Roll pop, my boss. Crunchy and hard on the outside, squishy on the inside.
Since I witnessed her squishiness a few years ago in the form of a panic attack in an airport bathroom, she’s let her guard down with me some and I won’t betray that confidence, what little of it there is.
“It’s strictly the A-Team on this because I don’t want it getting fucked up yet again, so it’s me, you, and Lucy. I know it would lighten the load to involve more people but—”
“No, I understand. It won’t be less work if you have to fix it again after someone else is done. I appreciate your confidence.”
“Don’t appreciate it, just earn it. Now I’ve got some people to fire.”
I suck air between my teeth because that’s harsh, but on the other hand, my sympathy is limited by the realization that people are losing holidays over this. Like Lucy. I can’t deny my heart had double-beat when India said it would be the three of us. I like Lucy a lot, and it’s a treat to get to spend so much time with her. Or even near her.
It’s too bad Lucy’s going to miss Christmas with her family, though. She always goes home and seems to look forward to it. From what I know, it seems like she grew up in a painting of the Midwest: small town, big family, cows.
So, yeah, I can totally see how India’s rationalizing giving Ellington and Travers the boot. While it wouldn’t be the choice I’d make, it’s India’s ship to steer and I have to admit she’s done a bang-up job since Jack’s untimely departure. She’s pulled this firm out of the fire, and I’m not going to argue with how she’s doing it.
After she turns on her heel and stalks out of my office, I pull up the shared drive and start poring over the files for this project. We are going to become intimately acquainted over the next week.
Chapter Two
‡
December 18th
Lucy
I drop my head into my hands. I’m never going to be able to figure this out. Spreadsheets and I are not friends. It’s times like this I wish my boss thought I was as dumb as everyone else does. When I look up again, the numbers are swimming in a sea of tears. Dammit.
“Uh, Lucy?”
My gaze snaps to the source of the voice. Evans. What the hell is he doing here? I’d thought I was alone.
“Yeah?” I don’t mean for my voice to sound so curt, but if I say any more, I’ll probably cry.
The corner of his mouth rises. Not quite a smile. Maybe like if concern was trying to put on a happy face. Evans looks as rumpled as I feel. His tie is not only loose, but crooked and his shirtsleeves are rolled up, one higher than the other. And his hair—well, he always looks a bit disheveled. He’s one of the few people here who doesn’t intimidate me. And he’s clearly never quite learned how to use an iron.
“I was going to go across the street and get some coffee. Do you want anything?”
My nose wrinkles reflexively. “No, thanks. And why are you getting coffee from there? It’s gross. You’d be better off using the coffeemaker here.”
“I don’t, uh…I don’t actually know how to use a coffeemaker.”
“You don’t?” Evans is smart. Like, really smart. Probably the smartest person here besides India. And he doesn’t know how to use a simple piece of kitchen equipment?
“No, I…” Huh. He’s blushing. It’s cute. “I never learned how.”
I sigh. I don’t have time for this, but maybe a few minutes away from my desk wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe calling it a night would be even better. I won’t be able to get any work done if I’m this close to tears, and they’re still lingering in my eyes.
“Give me a minute to get my stuff together and I’ll show you on my way out.”
“Thanks, Lucy. That’s nice of you.”
Yes, that’s me. Sweet Lucy, nice Lucy, not-very-bright Lucy. Everybody’s best friend Lucy. That’s what I’ve been since I moved to California. It’s partly the whole Midwest, growing-up-on-a-farm thing, but it’s also the shyness thing. Not to mention anyone who works alongside India basically looks like a baby bunny rabbit compared to her tigress claws. So yeah, that’s me, sugar-coated Lucy.
Quite a change from at home where I was temptation-incarnate Lucy. That’s what Pastor Elijah used to say. Not directly of course, because that would’ve been wildly inappropriate, but in smaller ways. Like, how I should dress more carefully for church because he knew I didn’t mean to, but showing too much skin would distract the boys from listening to the word of God. Really could’ve done without that.
I close the documents I’ve been working on, shut down my computer, gather up my things into my purse, and go across the hall
, with Evans trailing behind me. The coffee machine sits on the counter, illuminated only by the low, perma-on fluorescents lining the ceiling. I start the familiar process—one I must go through a dozen times a day—of taking down the filters. When I reach up for the grounds, I almost grab the regular coffee I use when I’m making a pot for the office, but instead my fingers float to the bag of the good stuff I keep tucked toward the back. Evans is working late; he deserves a treat.
Just as I’m about to show him how to put the filter in, a crash comes from the hallway and then a stream of curses. I grab Evans by his arm and, without totally understanding why, pull us both to the floor. Underneath his wrinkled sleeve, Evans’s arm is surprisingly muscular. We’re not doing anything wrong, but it feels safer to crouch in the kitchen than to confront the very angry India who’s stormed into the office. Why is she back?
“How the fuck could I have forgotten that fucking file? God-fucking-dammit all to hell.”
Oh dear. I let go of Evans’s arm and am about to stand and offer to help find whatever she’s looking for, but Evans wraps his fingers around my forearm and holds me still. He shakes his head. He’s right. I don’t want to get involved. I want to leave as soon as possible, and I won’t be able to if I get caught up in Tropical Storm India.
We stay stock still like kids who don’t want to get caught during hide-and-seek. Seconds later, she’s stomping by, looking like maybe she’d been in bed, wearing yoga pants and a hoodie that’s way too big. Maybe not stomping. It’s hard to stomp in flip-flops. Lights illuminate her office. When Jack left four months ago, she’d had the solid wall knocked down and replaced with glass. From here, it’s like a diorama. I can see her shoving things around her desk, picking up piles, and generally making a mess.
The stream of curses hasn’t stopped. Does she always talk to herself? I’ve never noticed that before. But when another body, backlit by the bright lights of her office passes by, I realize she’s not.
“Hey, mili. Calm down and tell me what you’re looking for, then I can help.”
“It’s a file folder. A plain old, manila fucking file folder. Just like the ten thousand other ones I have.”
I cringe. I’m used to India going on the occasional rampage, but I don’t like hearing her talk that way to her husband. Cris is nice. And easygoing. And handsome. I don’t understand why he likes her. I mean, she’s beautiful and smart, but she can be so mean. I guess you can get away with that if you look like her and have brains like she does. I could never pull off half the stuff she does. Not that I would want to because engaging in any kind of conflict, never mind causing it, would make me queasy, but still.
She’s crashing around her office like a wrecking ball, curse words still flying from her mouth. Cris, on the other hand, picks up a stack of folders from the counter behind her desk and leafs through them as if he’s got all the time in the world. How is he not a nervous wreck? I hate it when she yells. Maybe she does it so often he’s used to it. To be fair, I’ve learned to take it less personally, and this definitely isn’t about him. After a couple of minutes, he draws out a folder and holds it up.
“It’s the PRA bond thing you’re looking for, right?”
She turns on him, looking for all the world as though she might fell him; a lioness hunting a wildebeest. “Yes. Is that it?”
“Maybe.”
The scowl on her face is downright terrifying, but he’s standing there cool as a cucumber. Practice must make perfect.
“Give me the fucking file, Crispin.”
“On one condition.”
“No. No goddamn conditions. Hand it over.” She stalks toward him and grabs for it, but he holds it out of her reach. I’d thought he must be crazy to marry her, but apparently the man has a death wish. A wish India looks completely willing to fulfill.
“You just have to answer a question, that’s it.”
“Fucking hell. I don’t have time for this. Give it to me now.”
“No.”
She takes an audible inhale, and when she speaks, it’s through her teeth. “Fine. One question. And then you’re giving me that file and driving me home.”
Cris nods his agreement and then wraps an arm around her waist. Though she lays her hands on his chest, she doesn’t resist his embrace.
“What is this about?”
I don’t catch the words she mumbles. His response is to shake her gently.
“No, it’s not. Tell me.”
That’s when she crumples against him. He tosses the folder onto her desk and wraps his arm around her, holding her tight. I’ve never seen India look so vulnerable. So small. So fragile. She’s always hell-on-wheels, and seeing her like this makes me uncomfortable.
“This deal is important.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You say that, but you don’t understand. I knew when Jack retired some of his clients wouldn’t stay. I was counting on it because I can’t handle that volume of work by myself. But I hadn’t anticipated this many of them not renewing their contracts. And those fuckers in Springfield put out an RFP this morning.”
Cris lays his cheek on the top of her head and rubs her back. It’s so sweet I almost can’t bear it.
“We’re okay, but if this keeps up… I have a responsibility to these people. Other people’s livelihoods are depending on me. Solace is going to have her baby any day, Tudor’s youngest is finishing her first semester at Swarthmore, Benson just bought a house—”
She runs down a list of each person in the office. I can’t believe she knows that much about every single last person who works for her. Evans and I exchange glances, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing. She’s always so brusque and dismissive. We didn’t know…
“And Evans… I don’t know what he spends his money on because it’s certainly not clothes and he drives a car that could be mistaken for a roller skate, so it must be going somewhere important. And Lucy… Crispin, if I have to tell Lucy she doesn’t have a job anymore because I failed—”
Her voice cracks on a sob. Somehow, my fingers have become entwined with Evans’s, and the squeeze from his hand echoes the one in my heart. I know deep down India cares about me, but it’s easy to forget with how demanding she can be. Seeing her almost in tears because she doesn’t want to let me down…it almost makes me want to give her a hug myself. I can’t imagine that would be welcome, though, so I’ll let Cris do it for me.
“You’re not going to fail.”
“But—”
“You’re not going to fail, India. I know this is stressful and scary and I’m not trying to tell you not to feel that way. But it’s going to be okay. You’re going to kill this project, like you do everything else, and BCG is going to be fine.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, I promise.”
They stand there for minutes, and I’m regretting my decision to kneel on the floor. My knees have started to hurt, but I don’t dare move. India would be mortified if she knew I’d seen her like this.
Cris murmurs something to her, and she snorts. He wraps a hand into her hair and pulls, separating them.
She scowls and I think it’s because he pulled her hair, but she doesn’t object. “Are you honestly trying to tell me your job is harder than mine?”
“No. My job is easy, but my extracurricular activities more than make up for it. Who do you think is harder to manage? BCG’s thirty employees or you?”
India giggles. My hard-as-nails, hell-spawn boss actually giggles. The unfamiliar sound comes to an abrupt stop when Cris wrenches her hair and she falls to her knees. Her voice is breathy and weird when she says, “Me, sir.”
What in the hell—
I look to Evans, confident we’ll be exchanging incredulous glances, but his eyes are glued to the scene happening in front of us. Nor does he look surprised. How is he not surprised?
The sound of Cris’s voice draws me back to where he’s still gripping my boss’s hair in one hand and stroking his sc
ruffy jaw with the other. “You know, I’ve always wanted to fuck you at your office.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you’re such a harsh task mistress whenever I come to pick you up, there’s always someone still here, and when I drop you off, you’re so raring to work you’d bite my head off if I suggested it.”
“There’s no one here now, sir.”
Yes, there is. There so is.
I cut off the squeak rising in my throat. Oh my god. My boss and her husband are totally going to do it right in front of me. But what the heck is with all the yes, sir, no, sir stuff? If anyone wears the pants in that marriage, it’s—
That’s when Cris lets go of her hair to undo his belt and slip it out of the loops. “Over the desk, bad girl.”
My eyes bug so wide I feel like they might drop onto the linoleum. This has got to be a joke, right?
India stands and leans over her desk, the shallow pile of folders shifting under her torso as she lays her hands by her head.
“Pull down your pants. Panties too.”
I watch as India obeys him, and my cheeks must be flushing scarlet. I don’t have, like, a problem with sex. I’ve worked damn hard not to after how I grew up. Total thumbs up for the sex, even whatever the heck kind of kinky sex they appear to be into, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch. I make to get up, but Evans holds me fast and leans over to whisper in my ear.
“If we leave right now, they’ll see us. Close your eyes and plug your ears if you want to, but they can’t know we’re here.”
He makes a lot of sense. India would probably be so humiliated she’d fire us on the spot or make us so miserable we’d leave of our own volition. Well, no, I don’t think she’d do that on purpose, but if your boss can’t look you in the face, you’re not of much good to her, are you? Also there’s a feeling buried underneath the mortification that I don’t want to think about too closely.
Due South (The Compass series Book 5) Page 2
