Trickiest Job Read online

  But I can’t bring myself to push open the door.

  My shoulders, apparently exhausted from the effort of merely existing, sag. The phone sits in my lap, and I find myself thinking of my former bosses, which leads to flipping through my address book until I find Romeo.

  I wouldn’t have to explain much, really. Just the sound of his voice would help, would give me strength. I think of the platonic night I spent in his bed… how badly I wanted to tell him everything. If only he’d asked then.

  My finger hovers over the icon for his cell phone. One little tap, and his deep, reassuring voice will fill my ears.

  But when I finally do tap the screen, it’s to dial the number below his cell phone’s.

  “Good afternoon. Romeo Wood Bison’s office,” Tamara says, and it’s nice to hear her voice.

  “Hi,” I say. “It’s Lindsay.” And I brace myself for her to ask what the hell I want, or where I disappeared to.

  “Oh, hi,” she says. “He’s in a meeting right now. Do you want to leave a message?”

  “No… I was just curious to know how everything’s going with the employee reassignments at Food4Life. Are there any problems?”

  “I have no idea,” she says with a little laugh. I can tell she’s distracted, likely busy doing one of the millions of tasks necessary to keep order in the life of a man like Romeo. “Mr. Tarraget is roaming around the office,” she says. “Why don’t I—”

  Hawthorne. “No! I mean, it’s not necessary. I don’t want to bother anyone. I figured you would know if things weren’t going smoothly.” I should get off the phone, but hearing her voice reminds me of better times, and it’s also nice to have a conversation with someone who can answer.

  No offense to Bandit, of course. And as much as I enjoy my online courses, they’re no substitute for an actual life.

  “There certainly haven’t been any panicked meetings or extra memos, if that’s what you mean.” She lowers her voice. “But the partners have been rather grumpy as of late.”

  “With Hawthorne, how can you tell?” I ask reflexively.

  “He’s not so bad,” she says. “The two of you make an Olympic sport of pushing each other’s buttons. If this were a movie, you’d be married by the end. Speak of the devil… I think I hear him now. Let me grab him. He’ll be able to answer your questions.”

  “I have to run.” Horrified by how far I let the conversation go, I hang up.

  The moment I put down the phone, I’m overcome by an aching sense of loss. To my left is my former home. To my right, the disconnected phone.

  I reach up to refasten my seatbelt and realize I never unbuckled it.

  It seems that deep down I had no intention of leaving the safety of my car.

  Chapter 3

  Back in the room, I stuff the mini-fridge full of groceries, feed Bandit, then go to the gym.

  The gym is one of the hotel’s best features. Having access to it has kept me sane, relatively speaking.

  It takes up a corner of the top floor, and even though four stories isn’t high up enough to see much, there’s a little meadow on the other side of the parking lot and plenty of open sky to lose myself in.

  Best of all, I seem to be the only person who ever uses it.

  I hop onto the closest of the three treadmills and pick up a steady jog. I’m not trying to set any speed records, but as mile after mile rolls under my pounding sneakers, I feel the tension of the afternoon begin to fall away.

  By the time I’ve finished my cool-down, I’m feeling pretty optimistic. Tomorrow, I can stop by to see my sister, and this time I’ll do it.

  Of that, I’m certain. If nothing else, the fact that it’s my last chance will force the cowardice out of me.

  I roll out one of the yoga mats. It was in the same slightly crooked position I left it in yesterday—and I do congratulate myself for that bit of ingenuity; it’s hard to find opportunities to innovate while spending twenty-three hours a day in a hotel room—so I don’t bother wiping it with disinfectant before sitting and beginning my stretches.

  What was I so afraid of earlier? Not my grandfather; he would never be home before 6:00.

  Not my sister, either; even though I’ve been horrible about emailing regularly, Layla never takes it as a personal affront. But why would she? Our grandfather has the world convinced that I’ve got deep psychological issues.

  I lie on my back and tuck in my knees. But instead of doing my crunches, I just stare at the bland, white ceiling, at the recessed lights that I didn’t bother flipping on because it’s still bright outside.

  And I become aware of what kept me from buzzing the gate.

  What if Layla believes our grandfather’s lies? If she pities me… or worse, what if she were to call our grandfather and tell him I’m there, to hurry back and get me? She knew what a monster he was, but I’ve been gone seven years. She was a kid when I left.

  Even if none of that is true, she surely has a million questions, and I’ve got no answers worth sharing. Her questions are easy enough to ignore when our communication is spotty, but face to face…

  It won’t be easy to see the hurt in her eyes and say nothing. I can never tell her the truth, and I don’t have a good excuse.

  It takes me ten minutes to do twenty crunches, and I eventually admit defeat and return to the room.

  After my shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and mentally prepare for the herculean task of blow-drying my long hair. I open the door to let the steam out before picking up the dryer.

  Usually Bandit runs in and leaps at the cord as it jerks around, which is either cute or irritating—sometimes he accidentally scratches my leg.

  “You’re missing your chance to make me crazy,” I call out. He’s probably asleep in the chair next to the window.

  Just as I’m hanging the dryer back on the wall, I hear my phone ringing.

  Excitement jolts through me. And hope—though I don’t know what I’m hoping for. A break from the solitude and drudgery? I go out and look at my phone.

  It’s Hawthorne. Of course it is.

  In a million years, I’m sure I’ll never be able to rationalize why I answer, but I do.

  “Hello,” I say, and I make sure to sound happy, like I’m enjoying life and not holed up in a hotel room.

  There’s no response, and I realize I took too long to answer—he’s about to hang up.

  “Hello!” I yell.

  A moment later, he says, “I assumed I’d gotten your voicemail.” The timbre of his voice sends a slow shiver tiptoeing down my spine.

  “How can I help you?” I ask as I sit on the edge of the bed.

  “How can I help you?” he asks, so self-satisfied that I want to smack him. “You had some questions about the work reassignments?”

  It’s impossible to tell if he’s being sincere or if the smug quality of his words signifies skepticism. This is Hawthorne Tarraget, after all; probably the only time he’s not being condescending or arrogant is when he’s asleep.

  But I take him at face value. Beggars, choosers, and all that.

  “I did,” I say brightly. “There were a few I had concerns about. Kempden. Varese.”

  “Allow me to alleviate your concerns,” he says, and I know I’m being humored. “Kempden has been sick almost every day this week. He’s either going on interviews or he’s got an offer elsewhere and doesn’t want to lose his personal days.”

  “A regrettable turn of events,” I say, trying to match Hawthorne’s snooty tone. I’m surprised by how disappointed I feel; I tried hard to make Kempden happy.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Hawthorne says. “I’m sure his plan was in motion weeks or even months ago. As for Varese, she’s working a lot of late nights.”

  “Good. I suspected she was ambitious. There’s a lot more room for her to grow now.” I really don’t want to get off the phone. “And the others? How is it overall?”

  “Well, it’s only been a week,” he says, and I brace myself for
a lecture. In fact, I can already see his ice-blue eyes glowing maliciously at the opportunity to criticize me.

  “But you did a phenomenal job, Lindsay. I anticipate our retention rate will exceed the industry average.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised by his kind words.

  As he elaborates, his voice falls even deeper. He’s speaking more slowly, and I find myself having a difficult time paying attention to the meaning of his words.

  Hawthorne has a sexy voice.

  He’s refined and articulate, and he always says exactly what he means. Even though his blinding certainty that he’s always right infuriates me, there’s something to be said for a decisive man who knows what he wants and goes after it.

  Occasionally I ask Hawthorne questions to keep him talking. The damp towel wrapped around my torso is a bit chilly, so I let it fall to the floor, then wiggle my naked body under the covers.

  They’re nothing special, the sheets, but they slide sensually against my skin.

  Hawthorne is telling me about a group-building retreat one of the managers proposed. He’s speaking very slowly now, and when he laughs, the rough, deep sound builds heat between my legs.

  My hand cups my breast, and I close my eyes. I wish he were here. He’s got calluses on his fingers and palms from lifting weights, and I love how rough his skin feels against my nipples when he pinches them.

  And the way his hands feel on my ass… That sparks a visceral memory, too. He loves to spank me, and sometimes he rubs my inflamed, tingling skin afterward.

  “What are you doing?” he asks abruptly, interrupting himself mid-sentence.

  My fingers, which are caressing my pussy, freeze. “Nothing,” I say. “Listening.”

  A long pause.

  “Are you in bed?” He sounds mildly curious, like he already knows the answer and he’s interested to see if I’ll tell the truth.

  “In bed?” I ask with a laugh. “It’s only 6:30.”

  “Yes,” he says very solemnly. “And are you in bed?”

  “I’m… lying down,” I admit.

  “Are you naked?”

  “I’m not going to answer that.”

  “If your hand isn’t between your legs, it should be,” he says, and my pussy clenches. I feel it inside, of course, but I also notice the light flutter under my fingertips.

  “Are you wet?” he asks.

  Drenched. “How should I know? Are you?”

  “No, but I’m hard,” he says in that stern, deep voice of his. “I’m not ashamed of it. The sound of your voice turns me on, Lindsay. It reminds me of your moans, of your wet little mouth desperately sucking my cock after I spank you. Are you wet now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You are. I often thought we should keep a bottle of water nearby to rehydrate you because you get so wet,” he says. “Goddamn, I miss the scent of your pussy.” It comes out in a growl, like he’s angry, but I don’t know if it’s the lack of me or the fact that he misses fucking me that annoys him. Or something else entirely. Hawthorne is a complicated man when it comes to matters of the ego.

  I gather slippery moisture on my index finger and draw it up toward my clit. A shuddering, electrifying thrill almost makes me gasp.

  “You know how I knew you were touching yourself?” Hawthorne asks.

  “No,” I whisper, too horny, in the end, to keep pretending I’m not masturbating.

  “The way you breathe,” he says. “It alters how you speak.”

  My sigh of exasperation sounds a little unconvincing. “Impossible.”

  “How many orgasms have you had with the three of us? I know all the markers along the way, no matter how small. You can lie to yourself, hide from yourself, but that doesn’t change reality.”

  His claim, that he knows me—or my body, at least—that well, strikes me in my emotional core. The silence from my bosses after I left made me think they didn’t care, that they didn’t see me as anything but a plaything.

  Why would they?

  But now I know that at least one of them was paying attention. Hawthorne was always the coolest of the group, so I wonder if the others miss me as well.

  My pussy begins to spasm rhythmically, but I don’t want this to be over, not yet. I stretch out a second finger and slide both over my clit, then down to my channel. Thrusting them inside my silky slit, I arch my back. I can feel the sheets dampening under my calves, under my buttocks, my back.

  “Are you touching yourself?” I manage to ask.

  “If I weren’t at the office, I would be,” he says. “But I’m hard. If you were here, I’d bend you over my desk and fuck you. You would scream for mercy, but as hard as I am, I don’t think I’d be in the mood to stop.”

  “Don’t stop…”

  “Come for me,” he says.

  And I do. I bite my lip, but it’s not enough to keep my whimpers from filling the room. The phone falls away from my ear as my body shakes and spasms. Under my legs, the damp sheet clings to my skin.

  Then it passes.

  And the humiliation hits me like a truck. Not because of the phone sex, or the orgasm; I have no regrets about those.

  But my choice of partner…

  “Lindsay,” Hawthorne says, his voice muffled because the phone slipped between two pillows. “That was lovely. Please pick up the phone.”

  Reluctantly, I pick it up, but I don’t say anything.

  Really, what can I say? Hawthorne already knows more of my secrets than the others do. He saved me from Kidnapper Joe, and he gave me $300,000.

  He’s not someone I ever wanted to be beholden to, and the debt I owe him is piling up.

  “Thank you,” he says. I think he’s saying it to me until he clarifies, “Say ‘thank you.’”

  Yeah. That’s the problem with Hawthorne.

  “For what?” I ask as I sit up a bit. “Last time I checked, men are the ones who pay for phone sex.”

  “But I didn’t get any,” he points out.

  “Not my fault if you don’t know how to jerk that thing,” I say, and I suddenly have a very clear image of his large, thick, veiny cock, so swollen it’s almost purple.

  He’s laughing. “Do you really think a man should orgasm just from hearing you breathe heavily?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Let’s just say that you’re right, ok? Whatever you want to charge, add it to my debt.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.” His seductive voice has turned harsh.

  “I have things to do.”

  “Well, I don’t want to keep you,” he says formally, frostily. “But why did you really call? Did you change your mind about running away?”

  “Running away? I’m an adult.”

  There’s an amused exhalation of air that suggests he would disagree with my statement. “Do you want to come back?”

  “No,” I snap.

  “In that case, don’t call again, Lindsay. You said you wanted a clean break, and I gave you that. You want to do it on your own? Have fun.” He hangs up.

  “Fucking bastard,” I say loudly. Hawthorne has taught me that there are so many nuances and different ways to hate another person.

  Why couldn’t it have been Slade calling? Slade, with his soft hair, and his large hands that hold me up even when he fucks me roughly. Slade, who makes me laugh.

  “Slade would have given me a better orgasm,” I say, and I wish to god I’d thought of it earlier. That would have been fun to throw in Hawthorne’s face.

  What about phone sex with Romeo? I wonder. But he’s so serious, so scary, that I can’t imagine letting him talk dirty to me. I’d be too self-conscious.

  Well, unless he orders me to play with myself, in which case… Yeah, that would be extremely effective.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, nothing goes according to plan.

  The dry cleaner tells me his wife already sent out my clothes.

  “But she was gone ten minutes later,” I argue.

  “Doesn’t change the fact that th
ey’re gone,” he says.

  “When will they be back?”

  “Tomorrow at noon. It should be on your claim check along with our hours. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” He doesn’t sound like he really cares, though. I guess he’s used to desperate people demanding to get their clothes faster.

  Then it starts raining, and that turns my hotel room dark and depressing.

  I play games with Bandit, who doesn’t seem too interested, then I watch television—I’m not in the mood to do the next chapter in my Intro to Philosophy MOOC—and eat too much of my food.

  My mood is so sour that I don’t even try to make myself contact my sister.

  I go down to the hotel restaurant for lunch, and when I come back Bandit doesn’t greet me at the door, which is strange.

  When I call him, he does come, but he’s clearly not himself. I try the feather on the string, and he barely looks at it.

  Maybe, I think, he’s bored with it already. I offer him one of the kitty treats, and he sniffs it before turning away. He seemed to like them before. When I look at his food bowl, it’s clear something is very wrong.

  He barely touched it since I refilled it last night.

  Panic tightens around me like a noose. “Bandit,” I whisper.

  He raises his head upon hearing his name, then his eyes close to half slits.

  Already I’ve grabbed my phone and am opening a browser. Hawthorne’s sister is a vet, and she’s the one who nursed Bandit to health when he was just a scrawny kitten with matted fur.

  But I can’t find any vets with the last name of Tarraget, and I don’t know her first name.

  So I text Hawthorne—no choice in the matter. What’s your sister’s name?

  I figure I’ll give him five minutes to reply, but after one minute, I text again. It’s important.

  Almost instantly he replies. Olivia Casagrande. He includes a phone number, which I dial immediately.

  “Tri-County Animal Hospital. How can we help you?”

  “I need to speak to Dr. Casagrande,” I say. “It’s a friend of her brother’s.” The second the words leave my mouth I realize it sounds like I have bad news to deliver.