Текст книги "The Boss's Daughter"

Автор книги: Aubrey Parker

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

“Sounds like a pain.”

“Maybe an Uber,” he suggests.

“Also sounds like a pain,” I say.

And now I’m having to backtrack. Now I’m clearly the one keeping us here, given the way I’m rebutting all departure options. But he is too, and has been from the start; we could easily have taken our food to go and called two separate cabs (or Uber cars) straightaway. I’m not sure what kept us eating after Dad’s departure. Maybe it was a sense of obligation to get our money’s worth on my father’s generosity. Or maybe it was something else – something that held our silence long enough for a few glasses of liquid courage to loosen our tongues.

“Okay,” he says, that smile changing on his face. “I have an idea.”

Brandon raises his hand. The waiter, watching us, comes over. He has the coffee pot – a froufrou French press thingy – but Brandon puts his hand over my cup before the man can pour.

“We’ll take the check. Never mind the coffee.”

“And never mind the Bollocks either,” I say.

Brandon gives me a look as the waiter leaves. There’s a heavy moment between us.

Okay, maybe two and a half large glasses of wine is too much for a seldom-drinking girl like me. And consequently, maybe I shouldn’t play along with whatever Brandon has in mind.

But I’m young. It’s still early. And I find myself wanting to play.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Brandon

BRIDGET KNOWS BETTER THAN TO text me again. Her interference in my life and livelihood, this time, is unforgivably past the line. Not only did she maroon me at the table and steal my truck, she also duped Mason with what I presume was a decoy message left by one of her friends. She disturbed the dinner at which I might have received my promotion, all because of some misguided impression that I like this girl and need a shove for my own good.

I’m teetering on whether or not to strike back at Bridget. Only the fact that I’m actually not mad keeps me from hurling the first stone.

I get up from the table, knowing I should use my phone to get a couple of Uber cars sent this way: one for me and another for Riley. She needs to get home, and I should brush up on some stuff before our 7 a.m. meeting tomorrow. The meeting is surely the final test. If I impress the investors – who will be surprised when Mason approaches them tonight bearing Bridget’s manufactured bad news – then I’ll be home free. At that point, nothing could stop me from getting the vice presidency and everything I want out of life.

Nothing except for something catastrophic that makes Mason change his mind about me.

I’d have to … I don’t know … sleep with his daughter or something.

The thought occurs to me, but I laugh it off without letting the humor touch my lips. Because the idea of sleeping with Mason’s daughter, once whispered inside me, is delicious but absurd. I’d never do something so stupid. At the same time, I have to admit that she’s impossible not to look at.

She’s not my type. I wasn’t lying about that. She’s too bubbly. Too perky. Too full of sunshine and seeming naiveté. Doesn’t matter that she does krav maga. Doesn’t matter that she’s into (and I verified this on my phone when I ran to the bathroom) a lot of the same music as me. Doesn’t matter that the sunshine and naiveté, based on what LiveLyfe has to say, is blended with something darkly intriguing. She lists Salvador Dali as an interest. She’s liked a bunch of Tarantino films. I’d have imagined her as someone who likes roller skating, wine coolers, and … little else. But no. She was in a Young Entrepreneurs club. Looks like she even won an award, or a contest, or something.

But now, because that’s all a bit too obtuse to generate this warmth I feel inside watching her, my mind wants to focus it into physical stuff. Her body is too small for me, but suddenly it feels like the thing that’s been missing from my bed. Her hair isn’t just pretty; now it seems elegant. The way she walks isn’t just sexy. To me, with all these confused thoughts running rampant through my mind, even her gently swaying rear is fascinating.

Even the joke – the certainty that I’d never sleep with this girl if she’d let me, if she’d beg me – forces my heart to beat harder. It makes my face flush, shortens my breath, and causes my words to consider a stutter. It makes thoughts run through my mind – all sorts of do not images that nonetheless make me hard. Everything my brain carefully outlines as forbidden and stupid and of-course-you-can’t-do-that, another part of me watches with a salivating tongue.

I’m thinking this as I hand the house jacket back to the maître d’, careful to slip Mason’s credit card into my pants pocket.

I’m thinking it as we exit the restaurant, with me in the lead … lagging back to open doors so I can watch the way she moves and hope she’ll accidentally brush against me as she passes.

I’m thinking all of this as we step into the cool night. If I were still wearing a jacket, I’d offer it to her for the short walk. It’s not that I think she’s cold. I want to give her something for a reason that feels primal. I want to protect her whether she wants protection or not. Even those wants feel wrong, but I allow them to happen.

Riley stands outside the restaurant’s entrance, three feet from me, mostly looking out at the lights of Old Town, half-turned. Her little red dress is modest enough, but still I can only think of how it’s pressed tight against her naked skin. I don’t even think she’s wearing a bra because I can’t see lines. Her hand is just a bit away from her body, and it’s as if she wants me to take it. But in this little farce, we’re two people marooned together, nothing more. I wouldn’t take Mason’s hand, so of course I wouldn’t take hers.

“Where to?” she asks.

I nod forward and walk, not yet indicating our destination. She follows a half step behind then catches up. She’s on the roadside, so I switch around so she’s nearer to the buildings. Putting myself between a woman and the road is either chivalrous or chauvinistic, and I’m not sure which applies. I guess it depends on the woman. I look over to see, but really I want to watch her for the seconds it takes to notice my stare.

This is a mistake.

Or is it? We’re killing some time together. No big deal.

But I can tell, watching my own responses as if from the outside, that this is what I’d do if I wanted to take a girl home. If Riley were a date, I’d prolong our evening, play to our mutual interests. I’d work hard to find common ground while not being too analytical about it all. I’d try to read her cues, like I’m reading them now. I’d banter. I’d see where things went.

There’s no reason to kill time with Riley. Dinner was supposed to be between me and Mason, not us. She’s an add-on. She didn’t even participate in the business parts of the discussion – though to be fair, Mason never gave her a chance. She was almost as mute as Bridget. When he left, it was my job to be polite, finish up, and see his daughter home.

There’s nothing between me and Riley.

There can’t be anything between me and Riley.

I’m thinking this while we walk, listening to the click of her low heels, enjoying the feeling of Riley beside me, and the surety that other men seeing us together will think she’s mine.

Before we get to where we’re going, I’m thinking it’s objectively smarter for me to end the evening.

And yet something keeps me walking. Something keeps my lips closed. Something keeps whispering that this is all for fun, that I’d do the same if Mason had a son instead of a daughter – a lie I allow myself to believe.

We arrive at a set of big wooden doors. Riley walks a few steps past before realizing I’ve stopped. She turns around to look at me with genuine surprise. Her blue-green eyes follow my white-sleeved arm to its end, settling on the hand I’ve used to grasp the big brass door handle.

“We can’t go in there,” she says.

I knock.

There’s a click from inside, and the door opens.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Riley

IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT, BUT THE Overlook has been closed for the past few weekends for renovations. I read about it in the town paper, which Dad had left on the coffee table. The guy who runs the place, Danny, is a town renegade. He must have deep pockets because the loss of profits doesn’t seem to bother him, and the hall has always done things in unusual ways. That’s why the musicians love it. Because it’s not a typical concert hall and doesn’t obey the usual music scene standards. Which, for some, means they can get away with whatever they care to try.

The small bar and concert hall is on a corner, bright yellow, and kind of offensive-looking if you aren’t from Inferno Falls and didn’t grow up getting used to its garish appearance. There’s a tiny patio out front with a low fence separating it from the sidewalk, but during renovations the outside chairs seem to have been stacked in a pile to the door’s left. I haven’t been back long enough to have seen it this way as more than pictures in the paper, but reading the article, I got a distinct Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory vibe. Danny is eccentric and reclusive (when he’s not in club mode, at which point he becomes almost obnoxiously outgoing), and the place was an institution when I left for school. With the doors shuttered and nobody in the outside chairs, I imagined it feeling quiet but rebuilding inside. And here we are, at the big wooden door at the odd building’s corner, apparently holding a Golden Ticket and waiting for Oompa Loompas to show.

But the door isn’t opened by an Oompa Loompa. Instead, I find myself facing a middle-aged man not much taller than I am. He has a tiny mustache, distinctly unfashionable, and is wearing glasses that are even less so. The man has short, brushy brown-going-slightly-gray hair and is wearing a white tee.

“What do you want?” he asks, peeking through the crack. “The place is closed until next Friday.”

“Richard,” Brandon says.

The small man looks over, opening the door wide enough to see my companion. His face instantly changes. The door flies open, and the man rushes forward in a bustling, busy manner to clap Brandon’s back in welcome.

“Brandon! Where the hell have you been?” His manner is half-companionable and half-chiding. I suppose guys would call it “ball-busting,” like Brandon had neglected something by being away for too long.

“I was here last week.”

“Not when I was here.”

“I’ll be sure to check with your secretary next time.”

Richard, whoever he is, puts his hands on his hips and looks Brandon over. He glances at me again, but it’s a bit reserved, almost suspicious. To Brandon he says, “So, what’s up?”

“Anyone fiddling tonight?”

Very businesslike: “What, literally? No. No fiddles.”

“Not literally playing fiddles, Richard.” Brandon rolls his eyes. “I just meant playing a bit. Trying their sets.”

“Dimebag was trying some shit earlier.”

“But he’s done.”

“He’s done,” Richard agrees. There’s a moment where they both kind of nod to each other with unspoken understanding. I get the feeling of a tragedy barely avoided. Whatever “Dimebag” is, we definitely dodged a bullet by missing it.

“What about Chloe. Is Chloe around?”

“No. No Chloe. I haven’t seen her.” Again, I get distinct businesslike impression from Richard, as if this is all quite serious. From context, I gather that Chloe, Dimebag, and fiddling all refer to musical acts that may or may not be trying out material in rehearsal mode even while the club is closed – presumably in preparation for next Friday night – but I can’t tell where Richard falls in the grand scheme. He doesn’t look like a musician or even much of a fan. Danny owns the place on his own, so Richard isn’t a partner. He has the manner of a screener – someone placed at the door to intercept and evaluate all comings and goings.

“Who’s here then?”

“Gavin and Freddy.”

“Gavin’s here?”

“Gavin and Freddy,” Richard repeats.

“Can we come in?”

Richard looks at me. He starts high, goes low, then slowly moves his eyes high again. The once-over isn’t lecherous. I get the feeling I’m being scanned, as if for weapons or evil motives.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says and steps aside.

Richard closes the door and stays behind us. I glance back to see if he has a stool where he awaits visitors, but he walks away. We either got lucky that he was there to answer Brandon’s knock or Richard was surveilling somehow, even though I get the impression that surveilling isn’t his job, if he even has one.

“Richard Spencer,” Brandon explains, watching my gaze. “He wouldn’t have been here when you were here last, I guess.”

I decide not to comment on the fact that Brandon shouldn’t know when I was here last, or that I used to come here at all. It’s not hard to figure out, but it’s also not the kind of thing you don’t know if you’re not interested enough to look.

“No. I don’t know him.”

“Everyone thinks he’s an undercover cop or something.”

We’re walking a dim hallway between the door and the main part of the bar, toward the stage. When I look over, I can’t catch Brandon’s expression or get him to notice mine.

“How can he be undercover if everyone knows?”

“They don’t know. They think. It’s possible he’s just a nut. He seems to have shown up in town two or three years ago and immediately failed to be inconspicuous. I will say that if he is undercover law enforcement, he’s terrible at his job.”

“And he hangs out at a closed bar?”

“Danny gave him some token job because he thinks he’s interesting. Not the first time Danny’s hired someone based on a wild hair or a soft spot.”

Brandon slightly pauses around “soft spot” and I get the impression there’s a deeper story there, but I don’t ask. It’s strange to think that I’ve never met Brandon before last week, given that I used to see bands and hang out at the Overlook at the sub-twenty-one nights and shows. But maybe he didn’t have the beard back then. I look up, trying to imagine what he’d look like shaved. Those eyes make me wonder. His face seems like it should be soft, whereas the beard only adds an unnecessary edge and distance. It’s like he – not Richard Spencer – is the one trying to hide.

We walk into the main room, which takes me back. Whatever renovations Danny is having done, they haven’t changed the place’s appearance on the inside any more than things have changed on the outside. There’s still the same small-and-intimate stage to one end, occupied by a man who’s milling about with a guitar. The stage looks strange to me because when someone is on it, the house lights have always been down. But the bar is bright right now, a set of multicolored Christmas lights surrounding a sprawling back-bar mirror. Bottles are lined up around it, all polished-looking and somehow dust free, their silver siphons sparkling in the overhead lights.

I know this room. I’ve heard so much great music here. I didn’t drink because I was too young, but I spent many late evenings steeped in the setting, making my father nervous, in the few years before I went away. I was always with a group of mixed-gender friends, always safe, never walking the streets in this good part of town alone after dark. But Dad was still probably overly permissive to let me out that late so often – just one of a few ways he may have spoiled me without meaning to, because I was his little girl and he couldn’t help it, because I didn’t have a mother and he wanted me to be happy.

I look over at Brandon.

“You have a meeting tomorrow, don’t you?”

He nods.

“Do you have time for this?” Meaning being here. With me.

“It’s only ten.”

Yes. And the club is closed, so it’s not like we can get carried away in the momentum of the evening and stay all night.

Unless we get carried away in the momentum of the evening. And stay together all night.

“Watch,” he says.

I think he’s drawing my attention to the man onstage, but I jump a little when I feel his hands on me – not on my hand or shoulders, but actually right on my hips. I glance where he’s looking and see a broken bottle on the floor. I wonder how it got there if the club isn’t open.

Brandon steers me around it, his manner casual, as if we’re supposed to be together – as if he guides me like this all the time. It’s forward of him to touch me like this, but once I feel his hands I don’t want it to stop. I let him guide me to safety, five seconds away. And when the hands leave, I still feel them.

I want them back. My head is buzzing, but not from the wine.

Brandon pulls a chair from one of the empty tables, which were usually cleared to widen the dance floor. He’s holding it out for me, so I sit. But he takes my arm when I do, as if I’m frail and need support. I don’t. But I take his help anyway.

Brandon sits beside, rather than across from me. The table is small, and my bare upper arm is practically brushing his starched dress shirt. He’s rolled his sleeves up sometime during the walk, and while his eyes are elsewhere, my arm seems to move on its own, and now they’re touching. His forearm is slightly tan, and I can see the muscles move as he taps a finger on the table. It’s a working man’s arm on a future executive’s body, as if he hasn’t outgrown his roots.

Eventually, the man on the stage sees us, not quite front and center but a row of tables back. He was pulling a stool into place in the stage’s middle with quiet confidence, but now he looks a bit taken off guard.

“Look who’s here,” the man says, smiling slightly. He looks somewhere around our age, maybe right in the middle. He has a curiously handsome look – a mix of sculpted bones, fine lips, and heavy, masculine brows. But there’s more on his face than beauty. I can almost see a cloud above him.

“Were you going to play?” Brandon asks.

“I was.”

“Don’t let us stop you.”

“It’s just an acoustic version of something I’m trying out.”

“Try it on us.”

“It’s not ready.”

“Gavin,” Brandon says, his voice both knowing and firm.

I don’t really understand what passes between the two men, but Brandon’s simple statement of the performer’s apparent name carries obvious weight that I can’t see or hear. I get the feeling of an old argument or at least an ongoing one, in which Brandon thinks he knows best – and Gavin, against his will, reluctantly agrees. It’s the way Dad used to tell me I needed to study when I wanted to go out, and being a good girl deep down, I had to admit he was right.

So Gavin, onstage, takes the stool and lays a beautiful blond-wood guitar across his lap. The house lights don’t dim, and the stage lights don’t change to give him a quiet spotlight. There aren’t any amps, not even a mic. It’s just us and Gavin.

The song is beautiful. I’ve never heard it before, but it shifts something deep inside me. The lyrics aren’t especially sad, but still I find myself tearing up. I brush moisture from my eyes, minding my makeup, halfway through. Brandon looks over and gives me a knowing smile. There’s something he’s saying to me, but about Gavin and his song as well.

I listen until the final note then sit there somehow wounded. I don’t understand my reaction. But when people say you can hear an artist’s soul in his music? Yeah. That’s what Gavin’s song does to me.

He sets down the guitar then approaches our table. Brandon introduces us. Gavin doesn’t sit, and I get the distinct impression it’s because he’s embarrassed.

“Amazing, Gavin,” Brandon says.

“It’s just an adaptation.”

“It’s a good adaptation. Tell me you’re rehearsing so you can play it when the place reopens.”

“I can’t. It’s one of Grace’s.”

“Doesn’t make it not worth playing. In fact, that makes it more worth playing.”

I look from one man to the other. The air still has that curious feeling of empty. I feel unseated. My heart is yearning for something, but it doesn’t know what. Something vague and ephemeral maybe, like the emotion I heard inside the song. I look at Brandon to snap me out of it, but the feeling only grows stronger.

“Not yet,” Gavin says.

“She wouldn’t want this,” Brandon tells Gavin. “This. Here. What you keep doing to yourself.”

“I know.”

But there’s not much more to say, apparently, because Gavin makes vague little motions as if he needs to get back to pressing business. Finally, Brandon decides to grant mercy and tells Gavin thanks, he’ll see him later. I also thank Gavin, feeling more deeply than I maybe should, and shake his hand. He gives another of those sad smiles and leaves, not even retrieving his guitar from the stage.

“That man,” Brandon says, shaking his head.

“What about him?” I ask. “What’s his story?”

I feel something. I look down. Brandon’s finger just brushed mine by accident. Because I’m the girl and can get away with such things, I put my hand over his, feeling the roughness of a hard life under my palm. It’s supposed to be a gesture of reassurance, but we both know it’s not. My heart hammers hard enough in my chest to make me almost dizzy, and I fight the urge to make a telltale swallow.

“What is it, Brandon?”

Instead of answering, he leans in. Just a little.

I lean in too. Then I feel his other hand on my leg. It’s not too much, just enough. At any point we could back off, laugh, and pretend this is all nothing.

“What is it?” I ask again, my voice quieter.

His hand, on the table, turns over and squeezes mine. We move closer, and there’s nobody in the closed club’s main room to see.

Brandon’s phone vibrates. He breaks contact and straightens, and I’m left feeling naked, my breath too short.

He turns the phone to show me the screen.

“From Bridget. She and a friend returned my truck to the lot.” A friendly, no-big-deal smile, as if we hadn’t just been inches from kissing. “Isn’t that nice of her?”

“Peachy,” I say.

“I guess I’d better get you home.”

I straighten the rest of the way up as Brandon rises, the moment gone. But my body missed the message, and I can still feel my pulse everywhere at once.

“Come on,” he says, leading the way.

I follow, hot and bothered, unsure whether I’ve just been saved from something foolish or denied something wonderful.