Текст книги "The Job "

Автор книги: Claire Adams

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

I dry myself quickly, mostly just to get the blood running back to my extremities, and I find my clothes neatly folded on the bathroom counter.

Dressed now, I come out of the bathroom and find Jessica standing by the door.

“Would you mind driving?” she asks.

“Not a problem,” I tell her and she tosses me her keys.

At some point, I’m going to have to get back to Alec’s and pick up my truck, but that can wait.

I drive, although you wouldn’t know it by all the input I’m receiving on the way. While I do manage to get us from her place to the store with five minutes to spare, Jessica still insists on speed walking from the parking lot to the front of the store.

Cheryl’s walking up just as we are and Jessica increases her speed even further to meet her.

“Good morning,” Jessica says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a friend to kind of help us both out today.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Cheryl answers, looking at me in a way that’s sure to make this entire experience unbelievably awkward.

“It’s nice to see you again,” I tell her and reach out to shake her hand.

She looks down at the gesture and turns back to Jessica.

“So,” Cheryl says, “you wanted me to remind you to get me a key. Did you remember?”

“Got one right here,” Jessica says and searches through her purse for a protracted amount of time. Finally finding the key, she hands it over to her employee and asks, “Why don’t you open up the store? Once we’re in, I’ll show you how to disarm the alarm.”

“Great,” Cheryl says and we’re off and running.

Once we’re inside and the alarm is safely in the off setting, Jessica turns to me, saying, “Where should we start?”

“Well,” I tell her, “I think it’s a good idea to first outline your new manager’s new role and then, if there are any questions, we can address those.”

Jessica nods and starts telling Cheryl what’s to be expected of her and it’s alternately too much and not enough. It’ll take a little bit of work to get it tweaked just right, but none of what Jessica talks about is too far in either direction.

Cheryl asks some questions, and when Jessica doesn’t have the answers herself, I help in whatever way I can to get them both on the same page.

The process is a little awkward, but I can appreciate that Jessica’s new to this and Cheryl seems to be willing to listen and learn.

It takes a few hours to go over everything on Jessica’s agenda. Once that’s over, she turns to me and asks if I have any further suggestions.

“It might not be a bad idea to do some roleplaying,” I tell her. “Before I took over the company, I used to work in retail, and acting out some likely scenarios was a really great help when I became a manager.”

“Great,” Jessica says, clapping her hands together, and I want to tell her to relax a bit, but I’m not going to do that in front of her employee.

“Where do we start?” Cheryl asks.

I suggest a scenario where Jessica is the cashier and I’m a customer with a dispute.

We do a quick run where Cheryl tries to solve the situation without any guidance and then, after giving her some direction on how she might more effectively resolve the situation, we run through it again.

Cheryl picks everything up remarkably fast, and I’m feeling rather proud about suggesting such an adept woman for the promotion.

Jessica decides that we need another run-through, though, and this time, she takes on the role of the customer.

“Yeah,” Jessica says, miming a pair of shoes, “I got these back home and one of the straps split when I was pulling it out of the box. I need a refund.”

“All right, I’ll be happy to help you with that,” I answer.

Okay, so I’m no Shakespearean actor. What of it?

The scenario goes on, but Jessica doesn’t bring up anything that is conceivably outside a cashier’s ability to handle, so not only does it go on, it goes on and on and on.

Cheryl’s standing there, waiting for any sign that it’s time for her to jump in, but Jessica, despite going through a whole imaginary shopping bag of faulty merchandise, doesn’t provide anything to dispute.

“That was great,” Jessica says out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry,” Cheryl says. “I don’t know what I was supposed to do there.”

“That’s all right,” Jessica says. “Sometimes it’s best to know when not to jump in, and I think you handled that perfectly.”

I turn my head so Jessica doesn’t see my face contorting in numerous unspeakable ways in order to prevent the laugh that’s doing everything it can to come out of me. It’s not the perfect cover, though, because Cheryl sees what’s going on and she’s less successful hiding her own smile.

“Did I miss something?” Jessica asks.

I bite the inside of my cheek to give myself enough self-control to turn back with a straight face and answer, “Not at all. I, for one, am just excited to see Cheryl taking to the training so well.”

Whether it’s my deadpan delivery or the ridiculousness of my explanation doesn’t really matter, because Cheryl is now covering her mouth, her body convulsing with stifled laughter.

“Jessica,” I say, trying to draw attention away from Cheryl, “I was wondering if it might be a good idea to go over the nightly money drop with Cheryl.”

“That’s a good idea,” Jessica says in a stilted professional voice.

The distraction is, thankfully, enough for Cheryl to compose herself, but Jessica is so adorably new to this that it’s difficult for either Cheryl or me to keep a serious expression.

It’s not Jessica’s fault. It’s really not.

Yeah, she probably should have done this a few years ago, but this is new to her as well and the last thing I want to do is make her feel self-conscious about it.

That said, when Jessica tells Cheryl to separate out all the cash and coinage by denomination and then goes on to give the long list of possible bills and coins—including a brief interlude regarding what to do with foreign currency—I have to turn away again to hide my smile.

Sadly, although Jessica can’t see me, Cheryl can and the renewal of my unintentional mirth at Jessica’s micromanaging currency to the point of giving different kinds of bills nicknames by region, Cheryl lets loose with a single burst.

She quickly covers her mouth and manages to stifle anything else and that would probably be that if Jessica hadn’t just turned toward me to see what was so funny and find me biting on my finger to keep my own reaction in check.

“What is going on?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I tell her. “I was just standing here and I kind of lost my balance. I’m sorry. Maybe we should move on to disputes between employees.”

I know I’m busted because there’s a little vein in Jessica’s forehead that becomes not so little when she’s upset. It’s a vein I’ve seen before many times.

Luckily for me, though, Jessica turns back toward Cheryl and we move on.

As we’re talking through what kind of dispute we’re going to have, Jessica asks me, “Okay, I don’t know what’s going on, but could you do me a favor and just be a professional for a little longer?”

“Absolutely,” I tell her.

“Okay,” Jessica says and takes a breath. “Should we cover sexual harassment?”

“I think we better,” I tell her.

“Okay,” she says, “I’ll harass you.”

Without any input from my conscious mind, my eyes go wide, my mouth curls up and I snort.

“What?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s just the way you said that.”

I would go on to tell her that I’m wondering if anyone’s ever actually said that combination of words before, but she’s giving me the evil eye now, so I keep that information to myself.

“All right,” Jessica says. “We’re going to act out one of the more serious things you may face as an assistant store manager: sexual harassment. Let’s do one run where you step in in whatever way you think appropriate and we’ll go over any areas that might need some sort of attention.”

“Sounds good,” Cheryl answers.

“All right,” Jessica says quietly to me. “I’m going to stand here and act like I’m going through inventory. You walk by and I’ll say something to you.”

“You got it, boss,” I answer and I take a few steps back.

“And go,” Jessica says.

I start walking.

As I get close, Jessica looks up at me and then down at my crotch and says, “Hey, man. Nice dick.”

I don’t want to laugh at her. I really don’t.

Jessica’s trying so hard and it is so endearing. She’s new to this, and I know how important this is to her.

That said, I just walked by her and looking at my crotch, she actually said, “Hey man. Nice dick.”

There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s out of my hands.

After all, I’m only human.

I bend forward, gasping for air as I can feel my eyes filling with tears and my face going red.

Cheryl’s hooting somewhere behind me, and I’m trying as hard as I can to get the words, “I’m sorry” out of my mouth, but it’s just not working properly.

When I finally manage to stand upright, Jessica’s smiling, but I can tell it’s at least partially forced.

“I am so sorry,” I tell her. “I was just not prepared for that.”

“That’s okay,” Jessica says, still smiling, though her teeth are tightly gritted. “Let’s just see if we can stay in character and get through this.”

“All right,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to take slow, even breaths. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” I ask.

That was the stupidest response I could have uttered because that only leaves her with one option of what to say next.

“I said you’ve got a nice dick,” she says.

My lips thin, but I manage to remain quiet.

“I wish you wouldn’t say that—”

Yeah, that’s about as much as I can get through before I’m doubled up again.

The worst part, I know, is that Cheryl’s over there cracking up, too.

No, sexual harassment is not funny and this is a very, very important thing for a new manager to know how to deal with, but holy shit.

I right myself as quickly as possible, but the motion gives me a head rush and I have to assume a crouching position to make sure I don’t simply faint.

Cheryl takes this as me being unable to contain myself and so she starts laughing even harder, even though I’m trying to wave her off as I stand back up again.

I clear my throat again and I have to look past the hardly-bridled anger on Jessica’s face so I can calmly respond, “I wish you wouldn’t say that to me. It makes me feel uncomfortable and I’d like you to stop.”

“Oh, quit being such a baby,” Jessica says. “You know you can’t walk around in pants like that and not expect people to notice what you’ve got hanging between your legs.”

I’ve managed to put a lid on my own reactions by this point, but Cheryl’s still having trouble.

To try to diffuse the situation, or at least give Jessica something else to focus on for a moment, I lean forward and ask, “Should we have this be a situation that she observes, or should I approach her with it as a complaint?”

“Approach her with it as a complaint,” Jessica says, at this point just wanting the roleplay to be over.

I feel absolutely terrible, but it’s hard not to smile as I turn to see Cheryl standing there with tears streaming down her red face as her shoulders jerk forward and back.

“Mrs…” I start, but turn back toward Jessica as I don’t know Cheryl’s last name.

“Masters,” Jessica whispers to me.

“Mrs. Masters,” I start again, turning back toward Cheryl. “Something’s been going on and it’s making me very uncomfortable.”

Cheryl takes a deep breath, but can’t quite manage to ditch the smile as she asks, “What’s going on, Mr. Dawson?”

“It’s Jessica,” I tell her, doing everything within my power to portray an air of someone who’s really bothered by the situation as again, this is a very serious thing. “She’s been making inappropriate comments toward me. I’ve asked her to stop, but she won’t listen to me.”

Cheryl leans toward me and asks, “When I call Jessica over to talk, am I supposed to keep you in the room as a witness, or do I talk to her alone?”

“Personally, I’d suggest talking to her alone so the victim’s not on the spot,” I answer. “This sort of thing always requires some sort of action, whether it’s an investigation or firing the offender, so it’s good to talk to both parties alone, especially at first. Depending on how far the investigation goes, you may or may not need to have them in the same room at the same time.”

“What do you mean ‘how far the investigation goes?’” Cheryl asks.

“Sometimes,” I tell her, “it’s immediately apparent that the complaint has merit and, in that case, it may be appropriate to simply fire the offender on the spot. In other cases, it might not be so clear-cut, but you always, always investigate and if you have any trouble getting to the bottom of the situation, don’t be afraid to talk to Jessica—I mean as your store manager, not as her role in this scenario—if you’re not sure how to approach it. With some kinds of harassment, you’ll even need to call the police.”

We go on for a few more minutes until all of Cheryl’s questions are answered, and then we get back into character.

The rest of the scenario plays out and Cheryl does an outstanding job. When Jessica enters Cheryl’s “office,” she’s unrepentant and, the case being cut-and-dried, Cheryl fires the employee.

Despite a rocky start, the next couple of situations go off without a hitch and we finally come to a logical stopping place for the day.

Jessica invites Cheryl to join us for lunch and we all go out and have a pleasant enough time.

That all changes, though, as soon as the store’s locked up, Cheryl’s on her own way and I’m back in the car with Jessica.

“What the fuck was that?” she asks.

“I’m sorry about laughing,” I tell her. “You just really caught me off-guard with the whole ‘Hey man, nice dick’ thing.”

“Do you have any idea how serious sexual harassment is?” she asks. “Of course you don’t, you’re a construction guy with a team of construction workers. Sexual harassment is what your people do.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure that was sexual harassment,” I tell her.

“And I thought we were going to have her run through the thing without any help that first time. You completely undercut my authority all morning,” she accuses.

“Whoa,” I start. “I’m not saying I did a perfect job all around, but I was not trying to undercut your authority at all. She asked me a question—a good question, I might add—and I gave her some direction. As sexual harassment is such a serious thing, I think it’s best to know as much about what to do as possible. I would actually suggest springing for a course for your employees, or at least Cheryl as a manager, on sexual harassment and what to do when or if it happens.”

“This is why I hate doing this,” she says. “I’m no good at it and I just come off like an idiot. Meanwhile, the meathead steals the show and comes off like he should be running things instead of me.”

“Meathead?” I ask. “Seriously? I get that you’re upset, but I don’t see how insulting my intelligence is going to make anything better.”

“Never mind,” she says. “I’ll just take you home.”

This—whatever this is between Jessica and me—is going to be more difficult to navigate than I thought.

“I thought we were all going to go to lunch,” I tell her.

“Well, Cheryl’s already gone and I’m pissed at you. I don’t really see the point right now,” she answers.

I know better than to put the words “calm” and “down” anywhere near each other right now, but given this particular situation, I’m finding it extremely difficult.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds, and I certainly wasn’t trying to undercut you in any way. I really do apologize for the way I acted at the beginning of that role play and during the whole currency thing,” I tell her. “If it’ll help at all—”

“The currency thing?” she asks. “What are you talking about?”

“The currency thing,” I tell her. “You know, when you went on for five minutes about how to tell a Canadian dollar from an Australian dollar.”

“What about it?” she asks.

Danger! Danger!

“Never mind,” I tell her. “It was nothing.”

“Tell me,” she says.

“Well, do you accept foreign currency?” I ask.

“Not as a general rule, no,” she answers.

“Couldn’t you have just told her that?” I ask.

She sighs. “I know. As soon as I started going into that, I realized it was a mistake, but I felt like I had to keep going with it until I reached a believable stopping place. I just get so nervous with this sort of thing. I really have no experience training managers.”

“I know,” I tell her, “and I really am proud of you for what you’re doing. It’s not easy to start doing things differently than you’re used to. I’d just say try to relax a bit and it’ll come.”

She starts the car and glances over at me.

“You do have a nice dick, by the way,” she says, smiling.

I chuckle, saying, “Why thank you, it’s always nice to be appreciated.”

“Do you still want to go to lunch?” she asks.

“Yeah, I could eat,” I tell her. “What are you in the mood for?”

“I don’t know,” she says and starts to pull out of the parking spot.

Her phone rings.

“Would you mind answering that for me?” she asks. “I really don’t like to talk and drive if it’s at all avoidable.”

“Sure thing,” I tell her and pull the phone from her purse. I answer the phone with a “hello?”

“Who’s this?” a woman asks.

“This is Eric,” I answer. “Jessica asked me to answer the phone.”

“Oh,” the woman says, “this is Kristin, Jessica’s sister. Can you just tell her that Mom’s in the hospital and she needs to get up there?”

I cover the phone and tell Jessica to park the car.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

I hand her the phone and answer, “I think I should drive.”

When we get to the hospital we walk through the doors and Jessica finds a nurse, asking her where to find room 235. She points us in the right direction, and we just go.

Kristin didn’t have a lot of details for Jessica, but she said that there mom had fallen and that the doctors were concerned that her cancer had spread farther than they had thought.

I hold her hand as we get on the elevator, but when the doors open, she runs out ahead of me.

Kristin’s coming down the hall, a look of terror on her eyes. As I approach, she says, “They took her in for surgery. They’re going to try to remove all of the cancer, but Jessica, it’s spread.”

“What are they saying? Is she going to be all right?” I hear Jessica ask.

“I don’t know,” Kristin says, tears forming and falling from her eyes. “It’s really bad, Jessica. She’s had it for a long time, and they don’t know if they’re going to be able to get it all or if they’re going to be able to treat it. The doctor says he’s still…”

Jessica hugs Kristin close, allowing both of them the security to break down. I want to help, but I don’t want to be in their way, either.

I don’t know what to do here.

“Where’s Dad?” Jessica asks.

“He’s in Mom’s room watching a World War II documentary,” Kristin laughs, breaking some of the tension. “I think they’re up to the Battle of the Bulge.”

There’s no sign from Jessica that she wants me to follow them, so, not wanting to invade a very solemn family moment, I let Jessica know that I’ll be right out here in the waiting room if she needs anything.

She turns her head and says, “Thank you,” before walking off with her sister.

After about an hour, I walk up to the room and ask if I can get anything for anyone.

The father, startled by my presence, stands up and walks over to me, saying, “I’m Harold, Jessica and Kristin’s father. You must be Eric.”

“I am,” I answer and shake his hand. “I’m sorry to meet you under such difficult circumstances.”

“Well, we don’t pick the situations, the situations pick us,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I didn’t know if anyone was hungry or thirsty or if you guys needed anything,” I start.

Jessica shakes her head and Kristin ignores me entirely. Harold thanks me for the offer, but tells me that none of them are likely to eat anything until the surgery’s completed.

“All right,” I say. “Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right out here.”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Jessica asks.

“Sure,” I answer and we walk outside.

“I appreciate what you’re doing,” she says when we’re clear of the doorway, “but you really don’t have to stick around here. It’s probably going to be a while before we hear anything, and I think it might be best if you head home and get some sleep. I know I got you up really early and it’s already been a pretty long day for you.”

“I really don’t mind staying,” I tell her, “but if you’d feel more comfortable if I were to go, then I’ll do that. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll call you later, all right?”

“All right,” I tell her. “Please do let me know if you need anything or if you want to talk—”

“No, that’s fine,” she snaps, then softens her tone. “I’ll let you know if we need anything. You can take my car if you need,” she adds.

“I couldn’t do that,” I start, but she doesn’t let me finish.

“Kristin drove,” she says, “so she can drop me off on her way home.”

“All right,” I tell her again. “Just call if you need anything.”

“I will,” she says and smiles. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I tell her. “Let me know if you need to talk—”

“That’s all right,” she says interrupting me. “I’d better get back in there.”

It’s not until I’m down the hall, down the elevator, out the door of the hospital, across the parking lot and starting up her car that I realize why she reacted the way she did when I told her we could talk: My mother died of cancer.

*                    *                    *

I’m home for a few hours before I convince myself that it’s all right to get some sleep. I don’t dream, or if I do, I don’t remember any of it.

When I wake, it’s to the sound of my phone chiming.

With blurry eyes, I look at the screen.

It’s a message from Jessica.

The message reads, “If I were to stop by, is there any way that we could not talk about my mother or your mother or anything to do with the word cancer?”

I call her number, but she quickly rejects it.

A message comes in a few seconds later, saying, “Is that a yes or a no?”

“What happened?” I write back. “Is everything okay?”

My eyes are dry, so I close them, but I’m wide awake now.

The phone chimes again and I read, “Never mind.”

I quickly write back, “Yeah, we don’t have to talk about any of that.”

Wearing nothing but an old pair of sweatpants, I get out of bed and head to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.

My phone chimes.

The message reads, “Open your door.”

The drink of water can wait.

I head over to my door and look out the peephole. Sure enough, Jessica’s standing just outside, her hands on her hips.

I open the door and she walks in without a word.

“Hey,” I tell her. “I didn’t know you had my address.”

“I got it from Irene,” she says. “That’s the problem with having mutual friends: it’s harder to escape one another.”

“Ah, got ya,” I answer. “What’s up?”

“Can we maybe just not talk about anything?” she asks.

“That might be a little difficult,” I start, but as she turns to walk back out the door, I add, “but I’m willing to try.”

“Good enough,” she says. “Got anything to drink?”

“No,” I tell her. “I don’t usually keep alcohol in the house. I don’t really drink that often unless I’m out playing pool with…”

The impatience coming from Jessica is pervasive.

“What do you want to do?” I ask.

“This,” she says, and in two long, but quick steps, she’s right in front of me, pulling my head down toward her and pressing her lips into mine.

I kiss her back and put my arms around her, the desire inside me going from zero to a hundred miles per hour in nothing flat.

I pull back after a few seconds and start, “Are you sure you’re—”

“Shut the fuck up or I’m out the door,” she says.

If those are my options, the choice is simple enough.

Despite her seeming penchant for drinking when she’s stressed, I don’t taste any alcohol as our lips meet and part and rejoin time and again.

She’s pulling her shirt off and our mouths are hardly apart for a second as she lifts the fabric over her head, unhooking and dropping her bra as a simple flourish at the end of the motion.

“Tonight,” she says, “I don’t want for us to have sex, I don’t want for you to make love to me. Tonight, I want to fuck. Do you think you can handle that?”

A lot inside of me is saying that this is wrong, but I remember what it was like seeing my mom go in for treatment after treatment, surgery after surgery. If our roles were reversed, I’d probably be looking for the exact same thing.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I can handle that.”

“Good,” she says and pulls my pants down, my cock already hard.

She slips her long skirt up and around her hips and she takes my hand, leading me over to my own kitchen counter. Leaning forward, Jessica rests her arms on the counter and her head on her arms.

I position myself behind her and run my fingers over her slit.

She’s already wet, so I slide myself inside.

The next fifteen to twenty minutes—I don’t watch the clock—feel great physically, but in every other way, it’s just detached, almost lonely.

Every time I start to kiss her skin, she repositions herself and the only word she ever says to me is, “Harder.”

When I get close, I ask her where she wants me to come.

“Anywhere but inside of me,” she says. “I’m not on birth control.”

When I’m done, I grab a towel and go to clean her up, but she grabs the towel from me and cleans herself. She turns around to face me, and she’s crying.

I take her into my arms and her fingers curling into the skin of my back as she sobs against my chest.

What I want is to ask her what happened, but I don’t want her to up and leave, not when she’s feeling like this.

At this moment, I don’t know anything more than the fact that she’s still crying.

I hook one strap of her shirt with my big toe, the shirt falls out of my grasp and I grab it again.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I don’t want you to get cold,” I tell her and bring the shirt up to my hand and give it to her.

“Thanks,” she sniffs. “Do you have any tissues? I’m sorry I’m like this right now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I respond, still nervous to push for more information. “There are tissues on the counter in the bathroom.”

“Would you mind if I sleep here tonight?” she asks.

“Not at all,” I tell her. “I’ll tell you what,” I smile, “you can even have the bed.”

“You mean it?” she asks. “I mean, it’s your bed. I’m not just going to kick you out of it.”

“Whatever would make you most comfortable,” I tell her.

Regardless of anything else, I know what this feels like. Maybe what I felt isn’t exactly what she’s feeling now, maybe it is. Either way, I know that gutted feeling.

“Thanks,” she says and walks to the bathroom to grab a tissue for her nose and another for her eyes.

I give her some space while remaining close enough that she doesn’t even feel a hint of alone right now.

She comes back out of the bathroom with a blank expression on her face and she doesn’t say anything as she walks past me toward the bedroom and shuts the door behind her.

So, this will be two nights on the couch. I could be irritated, but tonight’s not the night for that.

In the morning, though, I’m going to try to talk to her and hopefully find out what happened. If I don’t know what’s going on, I can hardly do anything to help.

Not that there’s a whole lot I can do to help anyway.

*                    *                    *

When I wake up, it’s morning or early afternoon. All I know right now is the sun is bright coming through my window.

I rub my eyes and sit up on the couch. It takes a few seconds to remember why I’m here and not in bed, but when my brain comes back to me, I get up and walk to my bedroom.

The door’s open, the bed is empty.

“Jessica?” I call, but there’s no answer.

I’m having a hell of a time remembering whether it’s Sunday or Monday. Until I land another contract, it doesn’t really matter so much, but that might tell me where Jessica went.

I call her name again, but she’s not here.

My phone is on the coffee table, but there’s no message from her.

Apparently, though, it’s Sunday.

I type a message, “Hey. Sorry I wasn’t up when you left. How’d you sleep?” but I don’t bother waiting for a response.

The hot water hasn’t run out, so if she took a shower this morning, it’s been at least an hour.

I clean myself and take a quick look through the help wanted section, not expecting to find much. This isn’t usually how I get my jobs anyway, but it’s always worth a look. My phone starts ringing, though, so I quickly fold the paper and answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey Eric,” it’s Jessica, “are you still planning on coming in to help finish up training with Cheryl?”

“I didn’t know we were doing a second day,” I tell her, “but yeah, I can come in. Are you already at the store?”

“We’re not at the store,” she says. “We’re at the bar. I think you should join us.”

I laugh. “What kind of training are you doing in the bar?”

“Mostly which liquors go best with which chasers,” she says. “Are you coming or not?”

“Sure,” I tell her. “Where are you?”

She gives me the name of the bar and I catch a cab. I’m not sure if I’m going to end up drinking anything or not, but it’s clear enough that they’re already drinking.

I didn’t bother to don anything fancy, just a clean white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. When I walk into the bar, though, I realize that I might be a little overdressed.

Calling this place a bar is misleading, as it’s more of a dungeon with people drinking in it. It’s not a sex or fetish club by any means, but I’m certainly wearing the most clothing out of anybody in here.

I find Jessica sitting at the far end of the bar. She’s chatting with some woman I don’t know: certainly not Cheryl. As I approach, she just looks up at me, gives me the slightest nod and goes back to her conversation.

“What’s up?” I ask when there’s a break in the conversation.

“Oh, aren’t you a handsome one?” the woman asks. “My name is Delilah.”

“I’m Eric,” I tell her. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Jessica here was just telling me about you,” Delilah says, “something about a nice dick?”

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” Jessica asks me and, before I can say yes, she’s on her feet, stumbling into me.

“You all right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “I just need a bit of fresh air.”

“Where’s Cheryl?” I ask. “I thought you were out with her.”