by Vivien Vale
I sit down in my chair and sink my head into my hands. The anger is replaced by something like dread and despair.
What the hell am I going to do, now? I worked as hard as I did throughout college to get somewhere that would pay the bills, that would allow me a comfortable life. I didn’t want to end up like my mother who had nothing because some man left her with half a life that she had to build herself.
I wanted to be more. I got that scholarship and everything.
And now? Now I’ve been fired, and I have living expenses and a student loan for my master’s degree to still pay off.
And I have nothing to show for all my hard work except a poorly concealed scandal and a job on my résumé that has the word “fired” in big red letters stamped across it so that I won’t be able to apply for a new position anywhere else without this horrible situation following me around.
I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to go back in time and change things. But, of course, there’s nothing I can do about what’s happened, and I must deal with the consequences. I must man up and accept my fate.
I can’t help but think it’s Wes’s fault. It’s my fault, too, but I blame him. What do I blame him for? For being so handsome. For being so damn good in bed.
For being irresistible and too comfortable about what we were doing, too confident that we wouldn’t get caught.
I blame him for everything I don’t want to blame myself for this situation. I’m trying to find an excuse or reason to say this wasn’t my fault, that I’m not the one that messed up.
But I know I did, and that’s a fact.
When I’m done packing up, I look around the office one more time. I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. It’s going to be horrible walking out of here. I have been a part of RidgeCo for many years. The promotion was new, working in this department was new, but I was a receptionist for a long time, and I knew everyone that walked through the doors, knew this building like the back of my hand.
I guess all good things must come to an end. And who would have thought that in the end I’d look back on my time at RidgeCo as a good thing? I harbored such anger for so long. But it really wasn’t founded in the end. That makes everything all the more bitter.
I stand up from my desk and pick up the apple box I used to clear out all my stuff. With the years here accumulated into one tiny little box, I head toward the elevator.
I balance the box with one hand while I push the button. I want for the doors to slide open.
When the doors ping and slide open, Wes is already in the elevator. I freeze when I see him. My stomach turns, and it’s like my body doesn’t know what to feel. I want to get excited that it’s him, but the anger overrides everything, and it squashes any positive feelings I have for him.
He’s carrying a box, too. I assume he’s heading out of the building the same way I am, but he doesn’t have nearly enough things in the box. Maybe he has to come back and clear out his office with a moving van. I only consider waiting for the next elevator for a second before I step in next to Wes and turn to face the door the same way he is.
The atmosphere in the elevator is strained. Usually, we’re so close to each other we can fit into the smallest spaces together without blinking. Usually, we can’t keep our hands off each other, can’t resist touching or kissing or fucking.
Now, the elevator is too small for the two of us and tension hangs between us so thick I can run my fingers through it.
I’m getting angrier and angrier. I know it’s my fault, but being angry is better than the alternative, which includes me having a meltdown and crying. I’m not going to do that in front of Wes, and certainly not anywhere anyone can see me when I walk out of the building. No, the anger is welcome. It keeps the rest of my emotions at bay.
I can feel him looking at me, his eyes burning on my skin. Not even two hours ago, I would have reacted differently to that. I would have looked back at him. I would have wanted him to do more than stare at me.
Now, I want him to get away from me as far as he can. I don’t turn my head and look back at him. I ignore him as if there’s no one else in the elevator but me.
“Kylie,” he says after a minute, “why are you being like this?”
I turn my head to him and blink. “Being like what?” I ask him.
“Why are you pushing me away?”
I can’t believe he’s asking me this.
“Because I lost my job because of what we’ve done. Which is exactly what I was afraid of. I don’t have all sorts of trust funds to fall back on.”
He frowns. “That’s not fair. This is horrible for me, too.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure. I can imagine how difficult it will be for you to find your feet and get into a new position again. Or live at home for however long you want because you have the cash for that kind of thing.”
“That’s not fair,” he says.
I shrug. I know it’s not fair but I’m furious, and I want to hold onto the anger for as long as I can because it holds all the other emotions from overwhelming me.
“Let’s just call it what it is, Wesley,” I say, and he flinches when I use his full name. “We messed up, we got fired, and now we’re leaving the building, going our separate ways.
“That can’t be what you want?” he asks.
I turn my head and look at him. His green eyes are dark and hurt. His face is serious. He looks as distraught and upset as I feel. His hair is a mess like he spent a lot of time pushing his hand into it in the last hour.
But I don’t care. I have to look out for myself now. I can’t get distracted looking out for someone else, or by his good looks. He will always be the most attractive man I have ever seen.
The elevator pings and the door slide open into the lobby.
“It’s exactly what I want,” I say and step out of the elevator. I walk away from him, clutching onto my box like it’s a lifeline, and I don’t look back.
Wes
I don’t know what to do. I’ve lost my job. I’ve lost the job that was waiting there for me since I graduated from high school. My dad lined up this job for me, and I worked my way through college knowing that I would do this for the rest of my life, that I didn’t need to worry about job applications because I was set.
And now, I have nothing.
Not only that, but I also caused Kylie to lose her job. Judging by the anger that crackled around her in the elevator earlier and the way she obviously wants nothing to do with me, she’s not taking it very well. And, why should she? She’s right.
Everything she said to me hurts, but it’s true.
I have a lot of financial stability and a positive future to fall back on, despite this hiccup. Kylie, on the other hand, didn’t have much to start off with and now – thanks to me – she has even less.
I have to phone Hendricks. I need to see him and speak to him about this. Even if it does nothing for me, though, it might help Kylie get a leg up in life again. Maybe he can pull some strings for her. It’s the least he could do at this point.
Every time I think about Kylie and her being fired, I feel sick to my stomach. I feel guilty that she lost her job. I feel hurt that she doesn’t want anything to do with me, but I feel terrible that her life is falling apart because of me.
Why couldn’t I just keep it in my pants? I’m so used to getting what I want I insist on it, now. I’m a spoiled brat, and I know it.
And now Kylie is in a bad place and unwilling to see me or speak to me properly. God, what a mess.
When I get home, I walk to the wet bar in the corner of my living room and pour myself three fingers of whiskey. I don’t like drinking as a rule, but this is a special occasion. I throw the amber liquid back, and it burns down my throat. I pour another three fingers, but this time I sip it, slowly.
The alcohol makes me feel light and airy, but the sick feeling in my stomach doesn’t go away. Why would it?
I close my eyes and flash on Kylie’s face. She looked so hurt when
she heard she was fired, so broken. The look on her face was such a stark contrast from the other expressions I’ve seen her have – lust, orgasms, shyness, smiles, bliss. I don’t like that I was partly the cause of that look on her face. Of course, she was to blame for what happened, too. I didn’t hold a gun to her head and tell her to fuck me.
Still, I know I was a lot more comfortable than she was, and she was the one that was right to be so cautious.
Damn hindsight.
When my second glass of whiskey is finished, I pick up my phone and look for Charles Hendrick’s number in my contacts list. I take a deep breath, ignore the knot in my stomach that didn’t get any smaller with the addition of the alcohol in my system, and ring the number.
It takes a long time for Hendricks to answer, so long I expect to be sent to his voicemail when he answers gruffly.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Hendricks, it’s Wes Wagner speaking.”
“Yes, son, what is it?” he asks. He sounds like he’s in a hurry.
“I won’t talk long, I hear you’re busy. Could I meet with you? There are a few things I would like to discuss.”
Hendricks sighs heavily. “I’m in the middle of a media frenzy now, Wesley. When something happens within the company, it comes right back to me, and I have to deal with it.”
I swallow hard. Of course, he knows everything that’s happening. I don’t know how he feels about it. He sounds blunt, but it could be that he’s busy just as much as it could mean that I’m his least favorite person right now.
“Let me get this sorted out,” he says again. “I’ll give you a call later in the week, and we can make some time to talk.”
When he hangs up, I’m a little more positive. Hendricks is a tough old man with business savvy, and he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. The combination makes him invincible. If he’s willing to see me – no matter how upset he is with what I’ve done and what’s happening to his company – it can’t be that bad, can it? Besides, he’s one to talk about fraternizing.
Maybe I will be able to make things right, get Kylie her job back, do something good for a change. I don’t know if Hendricks will remember to call me back or if he will be in the mood to do so once the media frenzy, as he calls it, dies down. I honestly hope so.
I really need to be able to call in all the favors I have access to because of my position and my class.
Kylie was right when she said I had money to fall back on and I will use it to my advantage in this situation if I can.
When I walk back to the bar to pour more whiskey my stomach turns, and I feel even sicker than before. I’m worried Hendricks won’t be able to help me. I know that I might not be able to get my own job back. I don’t even want to know what my dad will say to me when he catches wind of this.
Wesley Wagner Senior is a piece of work. He’s hard as nails, and I’ve had a tough time stepping up to his expectation of me. I know I’m going to get more than an earful about all of this when I see him again.
Honestly, I don’t care. All I care about is making everything right for Kylie again. Even if she decides that she doesn’t want to see me again, I want her to be okay. She means something to me. In the short time, I’ve gotten to know her a little bit, and we’ve gotten as close as we were because of us fucking so often, I’ve become attached to her.
I want her to succeed. I want her to be happy. And I feel terrible that she’s not getting either of those things because of me. I don’t want that for her. I want her to have a good life. So, I will do anything I can to make this right.
I realize I miss her. I just saw her and not nearly enough time has passed to make it rational, but I miss her. I want to see her again. I want to be with her again. She’s the kind of woman I want to spend my time with, even if we don’t end up in bed together.
She’s the kind of woman that would make a man very happy. And I want that. I don’t want someone else to have her. I want her to myself.
But that doesn’t make sense, does it? I can’t be the one to walk this road again, to feel like this about a woman. After what Marisa did.
But Kylie isn’t Marisa. And she’s isn’t any other women, either. She’s Kylie, and that’s all she needs to be for me to… I pause mid-pour. For me to what? For me to be in love with her?
When the realization hits me, I nearly stagger.
I’m in love with her.
Oh, my God.
Kylie
I feel miserable. I have done nothing the whole week but lie in bed feeling sorry for myself. By Thursday I smell because I haven’t been in the shower for three days. My hair is a tangled mess, and I have no trace of makeup left because I’ve cried so much it’s been more cleansing than any makeup remover.
What am I crying about? My job, mostly. My job, and Wes. That I’m crying this much over a man I shouldn’t care about tells me how far I’ve fallen.
I haven’t told my mom about what happened. I can’t bring myself to admit to her what a failure I am, how badly I messed up. When I got the scholarship, she was so proud of me.
“You’re going to make something fantastic of yourself,” she kept saying. I got the student loan to study for my MBA, and she was just as proud of me, then. “You fight the right battles to get where you need to be.” Her words of encouragement were what got me through my degree, through my MBA.
When I was hired as a receptionist instead of anything noteworthy, she told me that everything starts small. Rome wasn’t built in a day. It’s her favorite saying no matter how cliché. And I held onto that hope. I got promoted to project manager and I was so proud to tell her she was right, to tell her that I was finally building the life I always dreamed of.
And now? Now, in less than a month, I’ve been fired from the job I’ve been working toward my whole life and my career is over. With a black mark on my résumé like that, I don’t know what I’m going to do, where I’m going to end up.
My phone rings, and it’s Paris. I think about not answering, but I do, and I hold the phone against my ear.
“We’re going out for lunch,” she says.
“I don’t think I’m up to it,” I say. “I feel sick.”
“It wasn’t a question. Shower and get dressed. I’m coming to your place in an hour. If you’re not out of bed and ready for me by the time I get there, I’ll drag you out of bed and put you in the shower myself.”
She hangs up. I shake my head at the phone and groan. Paris is the only person that knows what happened. She knew about Wes, so it was easy to explain, and she’s my best friend.
I get out of bed because I know she’s not joking about dragging me out of bed if I don’t do it myself. Paris might fool around a lot when it comes to big life decisions, but she’s the most loyal friend I have. If the same thing happened to her, the roles would be reversed, and I would be the one threatening her on the phone.
An hour later, I’m dressed and ready for her. My hair is still damp, but I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a cartoon print on it and ballet flats. I’m not wearing makeup – that’s pushing it – but I open the door, and she smiles.
“Come on,” she says. “You look like you haven’t slept in a year.”
I know I have dark circles under my eyes. I don’t know why, because it feels like sleeping is all I’ve been doing.
We go out to Brenda’s Meat and Three, a very casual restaurant with southern food. When we arrive, a waitress leads us to the back of the dining area, and we sit down in a booth. I slide into the black leather seat. Paris sits opposite me.
“So, tell me,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “It’s such bullshit,” I say. “What did I do to deserve this?” I sigh. “I guess it’s my fault, too, because I did sleep with him and I wasn’t as careful as I should have been. But still, this can’t be the end for me. It’s not fair. And Wes, God.” I’m getting angrier as I speak. “He will just bounce back from this. It’s so typical. He’ll probably be able to shrug it off while I have n
othing left.” I bury my face in my hands. “Is this what I get for conspiring against the company?”
Paris shakes her head. “So, you move on. You’ll figure something out, I know you.”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t know how I can fix this.”
“You’ll find a way. You know what we need? Beignets.”
I laugh. “I haven’t even eaten food yet.”
“So?” Paris says. “You’re eating your emotions. Might as well make it worth your while.”
I chuckle, and Paris orders us two coffees and beignets.
“So, I’m assuming you’re not talking to him, anymore?” Paris asks when the waitress leaves. I shake my head.
“What would I talk to him for? He’s the reason I lost my job.”
Paris stays quiet and lets me speak.
“Besides, it was never going to work, anyway. It’s not like we would fit into each other’s lives. The only thing we had in common was RidgeCo, and now that’s gone. I’ll probably never see him again. He was so good to me, too, when I just started, making sure I was set. He taught me a couple of things, and he stuck up for me.”
I take a deep breath and blow it out with a shudder. “Maybe that’s what made me think he’s a nice guy. I never should have abandoned my original plan.” It doesn’t come out very convincing, even to my own ears.
Paris frowns at me. “He does sound like a nice guy,” she says.
“And hot. God, if you could see this guy. But he’s out of the picture now, and good riddance.” A little bit of the anger returns and I embrace it. I prefer it over all the other things I’m feeling. Anger makes me feel like I can handle everything.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m not going to see him again, that’s for sure.”
Paris smiles. “I meant about a job.”
I sigh and shrug my shoulders. Our coffee arrives and we stop talking while the waitress puts our cups in front of us. When she’s gone I pour sugar and milk into my coffee and stir it.
“Maybe I apply as a receptionist somewhere else.”
“With your MBA?” Paris asks. “I’m sure you deserve more than that. Hell, I don’t even have a job or a qualification or anything and I think I deserve more than that.”
