“You’re seriously going to work now?” my best friend Claire asks.
I shove my bag into the passenger seat and cradle the phone between my face and shoulder as I flip on the ignition.
My old car, a POS I affectionally call Sally, sputters.
“Come on! Don’t do this to me, Sal.” I bang my palm on the top of the steering wheel.
“You still haven’t gotten your car checked out?” Claire’s voice is incredulous and I close my eyes.
Take a deep breath. Everything is fine.
I turn the ignition again, tears of relief springing to the corners of my eyes when ol’ Sally revs up.
“Claire, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. It’s just that—”
“Douchebag Stu called. Ri, why are you still working for this guy? He’s been promising you a promotion for months and still, nada nada enchilada. You’re running yourself ragged trying to meet all of his crazy deadlines and demands. It’s Friday night! I’ve seen you once in the past two weeks.”
Misery clamps down on my heart. Claire’s right. For the past ten months, since I graduated college, I’ve busted my ass at Hendrix Marketing to prove that I’m worthy of my position. I’m in the office by 6 a.m. most mornings and always stay late.
Stu keeps telling me to hang in there just a little longer and the rewards will come. The promotion that he’s been dangling under my nose for the past six months keeps me grinding even when the exhaustion settles in.
I don’t need a reward in terms of recognition. I just need the fat paycheck for my student loans. But over the past few months, my patience has been waning and Stu’s hands have become grabbier.
Last month, he rubbed the backs of his fingers over my ass and tried to pass it off as an accident. Twice. Three days ago, he referred to me as sexy.
He’s repulsive but if I’m being honest, the person I’m most disappointed in is myself. I know I should quit. If I told Claire the truth about Stu, she would make me quit. But I need this job, in a way Claire doesn’t understand. Mainly, because I’ve never told her. I am drowning in debt.
“Let me just run to the office really quick and see what he needs. I’ll message you. There’s still a good chance I can make it to Jolene’s in time.”
“Okay,” Claire agrees, drawing out the word. “I really hope you can come, Ri. And that’s not me trying to guilt you either. I just miss you. And Indy’s not as much fun to drink with since a ginger ale is as wild as she gets.”
I snort. “She’s pregnant, Claire.”
“I know, I know. But still…”
“I’m going to try to make it,” I promise. “I’m going to the office right now.” I pull my seat belt across my chest. “I’ll message you as soon as I know what’s going on.”
“All right. You know, you can always accidentally drop a coffee on Stu’s crotch...”
I laugh. “You have no idea how many times I’ve considered it.”
“See you soon.”
I disconnect the call and point my car in the direction of my office.
Stu Sanders has been running, and ruining, my life for nearly a year now. He better be summoning me for something good because my patience is on thin ice.
I’m not going to drop this scalding hot coffee on Stu Sanders’ crotch because that would be immature.
He’s my boss. I’m supposed to respect him. I’m supposed to learn from him.
Even though right now he’s leering at me like a fucking perv.
Deep breath. I need this job. I need the money. I have bills. Loans.
Stu’s eyes drink in my hips and linger on my breasts in the most unprofessional and repulsive manner.
I place down the mug near his elbow, which is casually resting on his desk. It makes a thud and a few droplets of coffee splatter his desk blotter.
The noise catches his attention and he lifts his beady eyes to mine.
My lips are pressed tightly together so I don’t actually say the thoughts screaming in my head. “What do we need to go over that is so urgent?”
Stu licks his lips and lets his eyes linger on mine for a beat too long. “Why? You got plans tonight?”
“Yeah, Stu. I do and I’m already late.” I shuffle back and cross my arms over my chest. I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting for him to get to the point where he explains why he summoned me here.
He clears his throat and tilts his head. “A date?”
I mash my lips together and don’t respond.
“Have you ever been with an older, more mature man, Rielle? Someone who would know what to do with a woman like you in bed?”
I gasp. Is he fucking kidding me? My skin crawls when I note the hunger in his eyes, as if he’s imagining me, right now, laid out beneath him. Vomit in my mouth. My flash of anger is quickly doused with a healthy dose of fear. I need to get the hell out of here.
I begin to turn away, when Stu’s hand wraps around the back of my thigh. The moment his fleshy fingers hold my leg, I startle and stumble back, my heel catching on the carpet.
He lunges for me, his other arm wrapping around my waist to keep me from falling.
“No need to fall at my feet, honey.” His breath, stale cigarettes, washes over my face. He’s too close, practically panting, and panic rises in my chest.
I step backwards, trying to put space between us but he tightens his hold.
“Nowhere to go now, Rielle. We’re the only ones here and I know you want this.” His hand slides to my ass.
What the fuck? I lay both hands on his chest and push. “Get away from me, Stu. I’m not interested.” My voice is clear but it wavers at the end, giving away just how nervous I am.
His hands clamp down in retaliation. “Don’t be like this, Rielle. I know you need this job. Need me.”
Fear snakes through my stomach as I struggle against his grip. He’s holding my arms so tightly that his fingertips will leave bruises. “I don’t fucking need you. Get your hands off me.” I snarl, thrashing. My knee connects with his groin and he wheezes out, folding over.
I slip from his hold and back away slowly. I know I should run. I need to get the hell out of here. But… “Stu, this isn’t going—”
“You’re fired, Rielle,” Stu bellows, righting himself. “For ten fucking months, you teased me with those sexy skirts and high heels. And now, you don’t want to play?” He shakes his head. “I’m not paying for this shit when I can have an assistant who’s willing to do the work I need.”
My mouth drops open. I’m more shocked than I’ve ever been before. Even more so than the night my father informed me I would major in pre-med or he was cutting me off financially. “Are you kidding me right now?” My anger flares and it feels good to release it. To let my resentment toward Stu seep out instead of keeping it bottled at the back of my throat, like a gag. “I’m not your assistant, Stu. I’m a marketing associate.”
He waves a hand dismissively, his eyes narrowed into slits.
“And I don’t need to put up with this shit.” I throw my hand out at him, feeling bolder now that the office space is between us. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on Earth and Homo sapiens were going extinct.” I turn sharply on my heel and stride from his office.
The moment I clear the threshold, it dawns on me that we may be the only two people in the entire building. My hands begin to tremble and my anger recedes as fear skates down my spine. I swipe my coat and purse from my desk and book it to the elevators, jabbing at the down arrow.
It isn’t until I’m in my car with the doors locked, that reality sinks in. Oh, God. Bile crawls up my throat and my hands shake. I feel jittery, off-balanced, and nauseous. What am I going to do? I need this job. I need the money.
My second—or maybe third?—eviction notice, a flimsy pink slip of paper I ripped off my apartment door and clenched in my fist just six weeks ago when hockey heartthrob Torsten Hansen escorted me home blinks in my mind. I was drunk. And rambling. I was starting to crack.
But now, I’m shattered. Because there was another slip on my door this morning. This time, I left it. I’m going to default on my loan payment. I’m going to miss rent again.
I’m going to be evicted, with nowhere to live but an alleyway.
Tears collect in my eyes. The urge to cry, to sob and wail and hit something, rises in my throat but at the last second, I swallow it down. I may have left the Carter household but at my core, I’m still a Carter. And Carters keep things close to the chest. We figure out our own problems and never air anything in public. Not our thoughts, not our feelings, and most certainly not our shortcomings.
Deep breath. I’ll be okay. I’ll sort this out.
The shrill ringing of my cell causes me to jump and I answer it. “Claire.”
“Ri-Ri! I’m so sorry to be the one to bail but Indy’s got heartburn and East just got home from an AA meeting and seems overwhelmed so—”
A trickle of relief rolls through me. The last thing I want to do is sit in a noisy bar and shout to Claire and Indy that I was fired, assaulted, and will soon be homeless. God, I wish I could tell them the truth. About my family, my finances, my lack of options. But if I did, they’d help me, no questions asked. I’d ruin the only true friendships I have by altering the dynamic beyond repair. I’ve witnessed firsthand how money ruins families, friendships, and it’s not something I’m willing to risk with Claire or Indy. I clear my throat. “No worries, babe. Honestly, I’m exhausted anyway.”
“Well, I’ll still make it up to you.”
“We’ll reschedule soon.” I don’t mention that my calendar is now wide open. “Go be with your man.”
Claire giggles and I can’t help the pang that hits me in the chest. Of course I’m happy for her and Easton. They’ve worked hard at their relationship and have overcome a lot of obstacles. I understand that Claire needs to be there for him. I want her to be there for East.
But sometimes, in moments like this, when I realize how soul-crushingly alone I am, I wish that she would notice I’m starting to drown. I wish someone would realize that I’m about to be pulled under entirely.
“Call you tomorrow, Ri.”
“Good night, Claire.” I disconnect and take a shaky breath. Then, I ease out of the parking lot.
Part of me is desperate to go home, shower, and crawl into bed. The other part of me hates the thought of being on my own right now, with all the silence, all the mistakes, closing in on me.
I drive past the turn to my apartment. What the hell am I doing? I can’t just drive aimlessly and waste Sally’s gas. I stop at a red light and grip the steering wheel. I bang my head back against the headrest. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes. What am I going to do? Jerry Jensen is expecting a loan payment on Monday and I’m still over $200 short.
I could always sell Sally. My stomach twists at the thought. But then what? It will only buy me a few months. I need a plan. For the first time in my life, I come up blank.
You want to study marketing? Dad’s laughter rings in my head. What useless life are you going to have with that? You’ll make no money. The contempt in his gaze was obvious.
But I was rebellious. So certain that I could carve my own path and blaze my own trail. I was taking my future in my hands and doing it my way. My choice of university, my choice of degree, my choice of who I lived with.
A sob escapes my throat as I recall those four magical years. Living with Claire. Feeling inspired and passionate about my courses. Interning in Paris. Dabbling in photography. It was like another life.
The one that came before reality crashed around me and I realized I owed nearly half a million dollars to one of my childhood friend’s families for bankrolling my educational pursuits against my father’s wishes.
Was Dad right?
The thought cuts deep because if so, I’ve made a hell of a lot more mistakes than just staying in a thankless position under Stu Sanders for ten months.
The sign for Taps, a neighborhood pub that has gained notoriety over the years since the Boston Hawks Hockey team usually grab drinks here, flickers in the distance. I’ve spent a lot of time at this pub with Claire since her brother Austin is the team captain and Easton is the left wing.
Sighing, I pull into the parking lot. Clearly, I shouldn’t spend any money on a glass of wine. And I shouldn’t stay out this late because my apartment is in a less than desirable area and the last thing I need is to fight off a second man with grabby hands tonight.
But the feel of Stu’s hands still ripples over my skin. I shiver, knowing I’ll go crazy if I’m alone right now.
I step out of the car, tie the sash on my coat, shoulder my bag, and scurry into Taps. The atmosphere is warm. The bartender, Pete, is a familiar face. And no one looks at me, a girl with tears in her eyes, twice.
I take a seat at the end of the bar and shrug out of my coat. Exhaling slowly, I tuck my hair behind my ears and wave to Pete. As soon as I have a glass of merlot in hand, my body relaxes slightly. I take a deep sip and let the bold taste roll down my throat.
I’m going to be okay. I’ll figure something out.
But what?
Not for the first time, I wish Mom were still alive. Although, if she were, there’s no way things would have fallen apart between Dad and me. Not like this, anyway. I close my eyes for a beat and envision her calm voice, the feel of her fingers running through my hair. Every time I ran to her, angry over some argument I had with Dad, she would laugh that we were too similar, both of us hardheaded and passionate. But I never agreed. I wanted to be my mother’s daughter through and through, even after she was taken from me when I was fourteen.
I bite the corner of my mouth and force my eyes open. I take another sip of my wine.
The adrenaline that’s been buzzing through my limbs since Stu touched me begins to recede. Exhaustion sweeps through me. The door to Taps opens and a few of the guys sitting near me whisper excitedly. When I turn my head, I realize why.
Torsten Hansen, a defenseman for the Hawks and sex on a stick, just walked in.
Jesus. My cheeks flame. Could this night get any worse?
Six weeks ago, I went out and got stupidly drunk with Claire. When Claire bounced early, I stayed behind, drinking my body weight in tequila and vodka shots. Torsten Hansen, chivalrous guy that he is, made sure I got home okay.
He didn’t even make a face when he flipped on the lights to my small apartment. I’m the girl who lives in Southie. He’s the guy who owns the apartment buildings a handful of streets over on the Waterfront. In that moment, the disparity between us, between me and my own family, was glaringly obvious. And it hurt. It scraped at my soul to know that my own pride was responsible for my current living conditions. For my lack of options.
And Torsten Hansen, with his broad shoulders and ridiculous six-pack, witnessed it firsthand. I dip my head and take another gulp of wine. I’ve got to get out of here. I need to go home, throw myself in the shower, sleep for a million years, and regroup.
But when I look back up, my eyes slam into two pools of icy blue. Surprise ripples across Torsten’s expression as recognition flares in his eyes. At the kindness in his face, a wave of emotion swells in my throat. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. God, what is wrong with me?
I try to shake it off but I can’t. I feel unbalanced, like gravity is giving up on me along with the rest of the universe. Old inadequacies and insecurities wrap around me. My failures are on full display for anyone to pick apart.
It must show in my expression because Torsten’s mouth twists and he moves to slide off his barstool.
Oh, no. I shake my head and gesture I’ll come to him. There’s an empty seat beside him and even though he’s definitely not someone I’d want to see me unravel, at least he’s not Claire.
I take a deep breath, pick up my wine glass and coat, and hope I don’t make myself look like even more of a fool.
Although, at this point, is that even possible?