by Roxie Noir
He can fucking try whatever he wants, because even hungover as shit I can kick his skinny ass from here to Georgia. I just need my fucking blue Gatorade and then I’ll fucking get out of here.
I’m about to give up, the fridge almost empty, when I finally see them. Bright electric blue, a color no fruit has ever been or ever will be, huddled together like the final two survivors in the very back of the bottom shelf.
I grab them both, open one and chug a third of it. I don’t give a damn that I haven’t paid for it, because even thinking about any other color of Gatorade just makes me more nauseous.
Blue Gatorade. It’s the one true hangover cure.
Damned if I know why, but it is. I chug another third of the bottle, still kneeling on the dirty tile floor, then finally put everything else back and stand. Already I feel a tiny bit better, like maybe I’ve got a chance of rescuing this stupid fucking day from being the shitshow it’s looking like right now.
Bottles in one arm, I grab a couple energy bars from the shelf behind me. I think about getting just a little something to take the edge off, hair of the dog and all that, but the thought turns my stomach so I head to the register instead.
There’s a short line: a man paying for something in a paper bag, and a blonde woman with a toddler holding one hand, a pint bottle of vodka in the other, wearing a frumpy jean skirt and a sweater that’s a couple sizes too big.
And yet, I still fucking stare. I’ve got no goddamn idea what it is about her, but for a moment I stop in my tracks, eyes glued to her denim-tented ass, the lumps of her sweater over where her waist ought to be. Call it a sixth sense for smoking-hot women — god knows I’ve seen more than enough of them that by now I can just tell, even if they’re wearing a cardboard box.
Even if I’ve more or less taken a vow of celibacy for the next couple of months.
“Beebee!” the toddler shouts excitedly. “Guess what I am now!”
He didn’t call her Mom, I think, and the woman turns to watch him, his arms held out stiffly as he starts spinning. There’s a display of Fireball whiskey behind him, and it makes me a little nervous, but he’s still a couple of feet away.
I was right about the woman. A space suit can’t hide that kind of hot — curves to make a man curse his own mother, paired with sharp cheekbones, wicked green eyes, and plush lips just begging to be bitten.
“A bat?” she says, nervously tapping the vodka bottle against her leg, and even though she’s crazy hot, a bad feeling starts to gather in the pit of my stomach. A woman with a toddler — hers or not — buying a single bottle of vodka at eight in the morning?
No women for a couple of months, remember? It doesn’t matter whether she’s a hot alcoholic or not.
“Wrong!” the kid says, laughing.
“A bumblebee,” she guesses again.
“NO!” the kid shouts, nearly in hysterics.
“Are you an airplane?”
The kid just squeals, spinning faster.
“Beebee!” he yelps. “I’m a—”
And he careens into a corner of the whiskey display, clipping a bottle and toppling it from the shelf.
I don’t think, I just drop the energy bar I’m holding, leap forward, and catch the bottle before it falls. My stomach lurches with the sudden movement, but I put the whiskey back on the shelf, gritting my teeth and swallowing hard.
Don’t save a bottle of whiskey just to puke on the floor. Keep it the fuck together, Kane.
When I finally turn, all four people — three adults and the kid — exhale in unison, all looking at me.
But I’m looking at the woman again, because it’s like she reflects all the light in this shitty liquor store, somehow fucking gorgeous despite her clothes, the setting, the vodka, everything. There may as well not be anyone else here.
And she’s got this almost-ethereal thing going on, like the dinginess of this shitty liquor store isn’t touching her. Despite myself I think: if I could get that ugly sweater off, underneath she’d be all curves and dimples and fluttering eyelashes.
Meek in the streets and a freak in the sheets. Like she’d rake her nails down my back and leave me with scars I’d be proud of later.
A shiver travels my spine. Like fingernails, only I’m in this shitty store and staring at a girl I don’t know, who might be this kid’s mom. No wedding ring, though.
What’s my fucking problem? I turned down both those girls last night, no big deal, and that was a sure thing if I’d wanted it.
“Isaac,” she says.
The kid looks at me, his wide eyes nervous.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s all right,” I tell him.
“Thank you for catching that bottle,” she says to me.
We make eye contact. Another thrill goes through me, hangover notwithstanding.
“No problem,” I say.
The man at the counter turns back and continues counting out change, and I walk back to the line, standing next to the blonde woman.
“Rough day ahead?” I ask her, giving her my best charming, cocky smile.
I’m not hitting on her, because I’m fucking celibate, but I can’t help turning on the charm around a beautiful woman. It’s second nature.
She tilts her head slightly and gives me a slow, considering look, her green eyes studying my face intently. I suddenly feel like there are lasers going through my skull.
I’m too fucking hungover for this.
“Not rougher than your night was,” she finally says, a smile teasing at the corner of her eyes.
“My night was pretty good,” I tell her, raising one eyebrow. “It’s this morning that’s the rough part, but I’ll get over it.”
The guy at the counter finally takes his paper-bag-wrapped booze and leaves. The blonde puts her vodka on the counter and pulls out her wallet, glancing down at the kid next to her.
“Celebrating?” she finally asks me as she pays.
“Last night of freedom,” I say.
She takes her change and glances at me again, her green eyes cool.
“Well, I hope your wedding isn’t until tonight,” she says, giving me a quick up-and-down. “Looks like you could use some more recovery time.”
I just laugh.
“It’s a new job, not a wedding,” I tell her. “And it’s going to be a full-time months-long fucking nightmare, so I had a last hurrah. But I’m single as hell, sweetheart.”
Her back straightens, and I can tell I got to her, just a little. I don’t know why, but I like it.
She takes her change from the cashier and sticks the vodka in her purse, then glances at me again, eyes flashing for just a split second.
“Good luck with that,” she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “And thanks for catching that whiskey. Isaac, come on.”
And with that, she walks out the door and back onto the street, the toddler running, skipping, and jumping after her. For a moment I think about leaving the Gatorade and snacks there, following her, and at least getting her number, but I don’t.
It’s been one damn week, I tell myself. At least give yourself a chance before you fuck everything in this town, too.
Women are why you’re here in the first place, in this shitty town with this shitty job.
Well, more specifically, one woman.
And no, she wasn’t worth it. Not even close.
Chapter Three
Ruby
At ten-fifty-five, I’m in the waiting room to my father’s office. When the house was built I think it was some sort of sitting room, where the ladies would go and sew after dinner while the men drank and smoked cigars and enjoyed themselves, but now it’s where Mason sits, his spine ramrod-straight, as he taps away on a keyboard and tries not to act uncomfortable about being alone in a room with a woman.
Though alone is a strong word. The door to the hallway is open, meaning that any of my family members could walk in at any second, not to mention that my father and my new bodyguard are ri
ght next door. But it’s not very hard to make Mason uncomfortable if you’ve got breasts, no matter how well-hidden.
Even his girlfriend Lilah, who’s quiet and demure and almost painfully sweet, seems to make him a little nervous every time he remembers she’s female.
So it’s really easy for me, the family harlot, to make the poor kid sweat. If I’m being honest, I kind of enjoy it. I couldn’t be less interested in him, but it’s nice to know that I’ve got some kind of power over someone here, no matter how small and insignificant.
The intercom on his desk beeps at five after eleven. Mason clears his throat.
“Yes, Senator?” he asks, his voice a little higher-pitched than normal.
I force myself not to smile.
“Please send my daughter in,” the voice says.
“Yes, sir,” he responds, and stands. He straightens the cuffs on his Oxford shirt, not making eye contact with me, steps out from behind his desk, and holds the door into my father’s office open.
“Thank you,” I say, and repress the urge to wink at him, just to see what he’d do.
“You’re welcome,” he squeaks, and then the door shuts behind me.
And I stop dead in my tracks.
The hungover whiskey-catcher from this morning is sitting in one of the leather chairs opposite my father’s desk.
He’s wearing a suit and tie, looking confident and cocky as fuck, like this is his house and the two of us just happen to be in it.
It’s a good look on him. If I’m being totally honest, hungover wasn’t a bad look on him, because even though he was practically gray this morning he still had those intense blue eyes, the dimple in his chin, the superhero-comic jawline, and muscles.
Lord help me, the muscles. Even in a suit, the muscles.
I look away first, glancing at my father. I don’t think Gabriel knew who I was this morning, but what if he did? What if he’s just spent the past hour telling my father that he saw his eldest daughter buying vodka at eight in the morning while caring for a toddler?
I’d never see the light of day again, that’s what. At best, I’d be in the basement until the election was over and he could quietly toss me out onto the street. At worst, he’d send me to one of our church’s re-education camps for wayward women.
Neither of us says a word.
“Mr. Kane, this is my eldest daughter Ruby,” my father says, holding out one hand in my direction, addressing Gabriel first. “Ruby, this is Gabriel Kane, your new security detail.”
Gabriel stands. I fold my hands in front of myself, smile as sweetly as I can, and walk toward him. We shake hands and I break eye contact first, looking demurely at the floor as his big, rough hand envelops mine.
It’s the hand of someone who knows how to use them, who does things with his hands. For all my father’s talk of a return to traditional values, his talk of men who are men and women who are women, all the men I know have soft hands and gentle handshakes.
But not Gabriel. When I shake his hand, there’s a weird twinge, deep down inside me.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Burgess,” he says politely. There’s a hint of a twang there, and I wonder where he’s from.
“Thank you so much for coming all this way, Mr. Kane,” I say softly. “And please, it’s Ruby.”
“Likewise, I’m Gabriel,” he says.
We sit. I keep my back straight, knees clenched together so tightly it would take heavy machinery to pry them apart.
Please don’t tell my father, I think, over and over again. I’m thinking it so loud that I’m not even listening to what they’re saying, just politely watching the conversation, a sweet, innocent smile on my face.
That, at least — smiling sweetly while everything inside me is going straight to hell — I’ve mastered. I’ve had plenty of practice, after all.
Gradually, my heart stops pounding. They’re talking about security detail stuff: entrances and exits to the property, my schedule, how he’ll interface with other security at my father’s campaign events. Gabriel’s not telling my father oh, by the way I saw her buying hard liquor this morning with a toddler in tow. At least, not yet he isn’t.
We’ll see how this all shakes out.
The worst part is, I knew it was stupid and I did it anyway. I was helping my younger sister Grace run some errands in town, and she asked if I’d go return a book to the library for her. She had her baby, Emma, with her, so I offered to take Isaac with me to keep him out of her hair.
Grabbing the vodka was an impulse. My father’s got a campaign rally the day after tomorrow, my attendance is mandatory, and in the past few months I’ve discovered that they’re considerably easier to get through with a little liquid help.
But my biggest fear was that Isaac, who’s almost two and mostly talks about his favorite kind of bear and whether there are sharks in any given body of water, would somehow tell his parents all about our side trip with crystal-clear recollection.
Grace wouldn’t be happy about it. We’d get into a huge fight, that’s for sure. If her husband Tim found out, he might go to my father, but Grace wouldn’t. Even though she’s the perfect daughter, the happily-married stay-at-home mother with two children at age twenty-four, she wouldn’t tell my father.
Gabriel’s a wild card, though. Just because he hasn’t yet doesn’t mean he won’t. He might still think that his job is actually security and not surveillance, because my father’s a smart man and won’t come right out and say I’ve hired you to keep close tabs on my daughter and chaperone her everywhere.
The voters wouldn’t like that. They’re traditional and conservative, but not that traditional.
“You’ll be living in the carriage house,” my father is telling Gabriel, whose expression hasn’t changed. “I’ve taken the liberty of having some aides unload your car and unpack your suitcases, so please, make yourself at home. It’s not a large dwelling, but I think you’ll find it adequate.”
His face stays perfectly blank, even through the revelation that my father’s employees have gone through his things. I’m impressed.
“Thank you, sir,” he says. “That’s very kind.”
My father stands, signaling that the meeting is drawing to a close. Gabriel and I stand as well, and he buttons a button on his suit jacket. I glance over. Even though the air conditioning is on, I can see a bead of sweat trickle into his collar.
And then I imagine things: that single droplet, running down the skin of his shoulder and his back, coursing over the thick muscles, making its way downward. I imagine him without his suit and tie on, shirtless, sweaty, outside in the yard lifting something heavy —
“Ruby will give you a quick tour of the main house, and you two can become acquainted,” my father says.
I swallow and force myself to stop thinking about Gabriel shirtless. I have no idea what’s gotten into me, because as strange as it sounds, I’ve never done that before.
“That sounds wonderful, sir,” Gabriel says.
“Of course, father,” I chime in, the sweet smile still frozen on my face.
“Excellent,” he says, and shakes Gabriel’s hand again. “Looking forward to working with you, and God bless.”
We turn and leave. Gabriel holds the heavy door for me, and I duck my head as I walk through, the perfect sweet, innocent, meek daughter. When it shuts behind us we’re alone in the hall for a split second, but then there’s a noise from the other end and one of my younger brothers, Zeke, walks in.
I introduce them. Zeke is only eighteen, gangly and lanky, and though he’s the tallest man in the family at nearly six feet, Gabriel’s still got a couple of inches on him.
I also like Zeke. He’s the only other one who’s ever stood up to my parents, and though it’s only been about inconsequential stuff so far — being allowed to wear shorts outside when it’s hot, quitting piano lessons because he hated them — it makes me feel like I’ve got some kind of ally, even if it’s my dumb little brother.
He walks
off, and then we’re alone again, in the hallway outside my father’s office, and Gabriel looks down at me, half a knowing smile on his face.
“All right, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts.
“You should be sure to keep your voice down in the house,” I say, looking up at him with my sweetest, most innocent face. “Sound travels in strange ways because it’s so old, so it’s easy to disturb others unintentionally.”
I wait to see if he’s picked up on what I’m saying. After a moment, his eyes narrow. He nods.
“Of course,” he says, his voice quiet and just a little gravelly. “My apologies.”
“Come on,” I say, my smile frozen in place as relief trickles through me. “I’ll give you the tour.”
The tour comes with a history of both the house and the Burgess family, who have owned it since it was built back before the Civil War. Back then, this was the townhouse, where the family only spent a few months of the year — most of the time, they were out on their plantation, several miles away.
They sold the plantation during the depression. The building is still there, but it’s now a corporate retreat center, surrounded by a massive soybean farm.
“It must be nice to have roots that go back so far,” Gabriel says as we walk down a massive staircase, into the entry hall. It’s not quite like Gone With the Wind, since this is only the townhouse and not the plantation, but it’s still impressive.
“Yes,” I agree. “It’s really wonderful to feel so strongly a part of my home, with all its history, culture, and my family.”
It’s a rehearsed response.
“This is the main entry way,” I say, gesturing at the massive front doors. “It was built to impress guests, so right now, we mostly use it when my father is hosting events in the home. The family and staff use the kitchen and side doors much more frequently, since they’re a little less onerous.”
The front doors are each at least ten feet tall, and getting them open is a task.
